De day fell an' de shadders war like a niggah-day;
C'lumbus got his supper,-'twas good fat po'k, dey say.
Orgustus hedn't any, an' he watched C'lumbus eat.

"Dat's de bes' po'k eber squeeled," says C'lumbus, “on fơ feet."

De night fell an' de darkness war bracker dan de soul
Er Judas when de thi'ty bits er silver war de toll.

An' dar sot C'lumbus whistlin', an' dar Orgustus sot,

An' midnight comes an' C'lumbus says, " Ise hongry; t'inks

Ise got

Dat watermillion dat I foun' last night." At dat he got
A gret big green-eyed million, all rosy heart wid lot
Er frosty silver in hit. “Now," says he a-cuttin' hit,
"'Ll you tell dat gal what I says ter you?" "No!" says
Orgustus yit.

Ciumbus eat dat million, an' Orgustus kinder drooped,
His mouf was wo'kin' sorter queer; ef he could he would
a-stooped

An' hed a fit when C'lumbus made boats out er de rind,
A-eatin' all de time ez ef he didn't sorter mind.

'Bout fo' er clock dey sot dar. Suddint C'lumbus blowed
De candle out; but fus' he shet de stove up, den he stowed
De cha'rs away, an' den he fotch in somepin f'om de yard
An' poked hit in de oven; 'twas ily-'twasn t lard.
Dey sot dar an' dey sot dar; arter awhile de fire
Got hot; dar was a-sizzlin'; Orgustus sniffed, an' higher
De flames riz, an' de sizzlin' got like a catarack;

Orgustus riz his bones up, but de rope hit pulled him back. "What you got dar, C'lumbus?” he calls; C'lumbus hummed Jes' like de stove war sizzlin', an' den he up an' drummed On de cha'r An' frough de room dar war a smell-go 'way! I can't a-bear ter speak on hit! Orgustus hed free play Wid his tongue an' licked de air. Air's pore stuff when vitals gin

To be dat hongry dat you'd eat your granddad widout sin. "C'lumbus," says Orgustus, "open de oven do'!"

An' so C'lumbus done hit. Orgustus gev a roar:

"Hit's 'possum!" yells he, " possum!" "Hit am," C'lumbus

says,

An' lights de candle an' shows de pan. Orgustus ups an'

lays

Down on de rope dat hild him back. Jes' den outside de do' C'lumbus heered a-breathin'-he knowed hit-M'liss fer

shore;

She'd done come hyar ter spy an' see what war a-gwine on. Says C'lumbus loud, “Orgustus, frien', de 'possum's well nigh

done;

Would you hev a leg wid a leetle fat?" Orgustus kinder died!
An' dar outside war M'lissy a-listenin'. C'lumbus tried
De knife-aidge on his finger. He tuk dat 'possum out;
He cut him an' he gouged him. Orgustus gev a shout.
"Fetch on your tacks!" says he, an' busts de rope; "I'd
radder set

Tell doomsday on a million tacks before I'd up an' let
M'lissy File done kiss me, de simple yaller t'ing.

Gimme de leg wid a leetle fat!" But jes' den wid a swing De do' flied open; M'liss war dar wid a bundle, de pu'ple frock

She done buyed ter git married in; hit felt hard, like a rock When hit come down on Orgustus; he drapped flat on de flo', An' den M'liss cotch up de pan wid de 'possum in an' tore Arter Orgustus Meed. "Take dat!" says she, "an' dat! an' dat!"

An' Orgustus he rained pu'ple silk an' smokin' 'possum fat. "You's sot on tacks dis time," says she, an' jes' turned up

de pan

Ober de head er de pore young man. An' den she ups an'

ran

Ter Clumbus. "O C'lumbus, boy," says she, "Ise feelin' aurful queer;

Dat man he's made me narvous; Ise faintin', C'lumbus, dear."

Well, she's ben a faithful wife ter C'lumbus gwine on twenty

year,

An' when, like oder woman-folks, she feels like gittin' queer,
All dat C'lumbus hes ter do, is ter look ez saft ez wax,
An' kinder mou'nful whisper loud, "M'lissy, honey, tacks!"

OUR LIVES.

Our lives are songs; God writes the words,
And we set them to music at pleasure,
And the song grows glad, or sweet, or sad,
As we choose to fashion the measure;
We must write the music, whatever the song,
Whatever its rhyme or metre,

And if it is glad, we may make it sad,
Or if sweet, we may make it sweeter.

THE MASTERPIECE OF BROTHER FELIX*

RICHARD EDWARD WHITE.

Two monks were in a cell at close of day,-
A cell that, too, the artist's craft portrayed.
Dying upon a bed the younger lay,

The older one beside him knelt and prayed.
The older spoke: "Your end is very near,

To see another day you cannot live;
So banish thought of earth, my brother dear,
And to your soul alone all thought now give."
"Nay, Francis," said the other, "speak not so;
I cannot die, my life-work incomplete.
Were that but finished, I would willing go-

Then death would be a messenger most sweet."
Then Francis spoke: "The world counts the success,
But God will judge by what you have essayed;
And though you fail, He will not deem the less
The efforts and the struggles you have made.

"The painter's earthly triumph is but brief, A passion-flower is fame, that soon decays; There is a poison in the laurel leaf,

While green the wreath of heaven keeps always."
And Felix answered: "Brother Francis, so
You dream I hanker after earthly fame.
I sought for it one time-'twas long ago-
But now a holier, better meed I claim;
"And if grim Death were standing by the gate,
A messenger who brought the final call,
I tell you, brother, that he still should wait
Till I had done yon picture on the wall.

"Nay, more: were I beside the golden throne,
I would bend down at the Almighty's feet,
And beg with tears: My life-work is not done-
Let me return until it be complete.'

"Of praying, therefore, speak not now to me;
Or, if you pray, pray that I still may live

Until my painting all completed be,

That I to coming time the work may give." By permission of the Author.

"God give you grace, my brother," Francis said, "Your heart submissive to His will to keep." And then he turned away, and silent prayed; But soon, o'ercome with watching, fell asleep. Then from his bed to rise up Felix tried,

But with the effort, faint and weak, fell back; Then, clasping hands imploringly, he cried: "O God of heaven, one little hour I lack

“To work again upon my masterpiece,

Till I the face divine have painted there; 1 care not then how soon my life may cease. Kind God, one hour unto thy servant spare! "But death creeps fast; too weak is now my hand To picture true the thought that fills my brain. Send down an angel from the spirit land,

That I may not have dreamed such dream in vain!" The cell door opened as he ceased to speak;

A young man entered,-tall he was and fair; The glow of youth was mantled on his cheek, His eyes were blue, and golden was his hair.

Why come you?" Felix questioned, "and your name?" The youth made answer: "I am Angelo,

Who hearing of the Brother Felix's fame,

Have come that I his wondrous art might know."

Then Felix spoke: "I am the man you seek;
But I am dying, and have not the power
To teach you aught. My heart and hand are weak,
But you may aid me in this final hour.

Take yonder painting-set it on the stand
Here at my bedside, full within my view-
Palette and pencils all are here at hand;

Then paint, good youth, as I desire you to.
""Tis all complete except the Savior's face,
And that upon the canvas faintly lined,
But still so clear that you may plainly trace
The features fair and God-like, you will find.
"The face is somewhat of a Jewish cast,-

I sketched it from a beggar in the street.
Ah, little dreamed I then, a few weeks past,
Another hand my painting would complete!"

Then spoke the youth: "A spirit sure has brought
Me to your cell, to be, as 'twere, a hand
Acting responsive to your every thought-
Your faintest wish shall be as a command.

"Speak, and I paint!" The dying Felix spoke
A few words now and then,-no need of much;
The canvas into life and beauty woke

Beneath the magic of the artist's touch.

The youth at last his pencil laid aside,

And spoke: "O master mine, your work is done; Can I assist you more ?" The monk replied, "Go on your way and leave me here alone."

The youth departed, and then Felix prayed:

"I thank thee, God, and death is now most sweet, Since Thou its shaft a little while hast staid

Until my masterpiece is all complete."

Francis was wakened by the matin bell;
He rose, and lo! the light of early day
Upon the painting of the Savior fell

That on the easel all completed lay.

In silence Francis by the painting stood;

The features gleamed as with a love divine,

From hands and feet transpierced gushed forth the blood, 'Twas perfect and complete in every line.

"In truth," then Francis spoke, no mortal hand Has limned the rapturous beauty of that face. Heaven surely heard his supplication, and

An angel must have visited the place."

To Felix turning: "Yes, the laurel crown

Is yours, for you have reached art's proudest goal.” Then, bursting into tears, he knelt him down: "May God have mercy on the passing soul!"

THE KISS DEFERRED.

Two little cousins once there were,
Named Mary Ann and Jane.
The first one lived in Boston town,
The second down in Maine.