For there, dashing swift round the corner, a fire-engine tore up the street,

And the baby was left in the middle, in the track of the horses' feet.

The men saw the child, and endeavored to stop their mad horses' career,

When out in the road dashed a youngster-I couldn't help giving a cheer

And he caught up the babe in an instant, then swiftly he took to his heels,

But the engine was on him-he stumbled-and fell 'neath the wild whirling wheels.

The baby was safe, Dick had saved her, by pushing her out of the way;

He had risked his own life, little hero, I'll always remember that day.

How they picked him up, just like a dead thing, and took him directly to Guy's,

The thought of that scene makes me foolish, and brings up the tears to my eyes.

But they found that he wasn't quite killed, sir, and after a bit he got round,

Though one of his legs was quite crippled, and couldn't be put to the ground.

'Twas dreadfully hard on the youngster, he wasn't much older than six,

For instead of his running and leaping, he could only just hobble on sticks.

Well, the baby grew up, so did Dick, sir, and just like the people in plays,

They determined to love one another the rest of their natural days;

For Dick, he adored little Mary, and Mary, she worshiped

him,

And the least bit of extra devotion, made up for the loss of

his limb.

The end of this story is strange, sir, you may not believe it

is true,

But it is, I can prove it, if need be, and will just to satisfy

you;

If you'll just knock at No. 15, sir, you will see this same Dick

and his wife,

And he'll tell you he's never regretted the day he was

"crippled for life."

THE SAND-MAN.-ELMER RUAN COATES.

Twilight is here and the baby is weary,-
Weary of laughing and weary of play ;
Sleepy-by comes, and the eyes of the darling
Would close, like a veil, on the scenes of the day.
Calmly it lies in the arms of the mother,

Holy and pure, as an angel it seems,

One little smile, and a sweet little dimple,

And baby has gone to the land of the dreams.
Hush! not a word, not a footfall around her;

Turn down the clothes of the little, white nest,
Turn down the light, for the Sand-Man has found her,
And angels are guarding the baby at rest.

Now as I look on this mother's own treasure,
Idol of home and the comfort of all,

Sadly I think of the woe without measure,

Sorrows that cling, and the tears that will fall.
As I'm recalling my own without number,

Haunting my pillow, when longing for rest,

I'd keep her a baby forever, to slumber

And smile, in her dream, on her fond mother's breast. Hush! let the voices be gentle around her,

Baby, sleep on, while thy angels attend;

Sweet little darling! the Sand-Man has found her,
And when she has grown, may he still be a friend.

S'POSEN A CASE.

"Midas, I want to s'posen a case to you, an' I want you to gim me the gospel truth on your 'pinion 'bout de matter."

That's the manner in which one of Washington's dusky damsels put it to her adorer last evening.

"Now, Midas, you knows you'se tole me more times 'an you'se got fingers an' toes, as you lubbed me harder 'an a marble-top washstand, an' 'at I'se sweeter to you 'an buckwheat cakes and 'lasses foreber. Midas, dis am only s'posen a case, but I wants you to s'posen jus' as

if'n 'twas a shunuff one. "6

S'posen me an' you was goin'

on a scursion down de riber!

'Yas," broke in Midas, " down to Mount Vernon." "Anywha's 'tall, down de riber. Midas, can you

swim?"

"No, Luce, I'se sorry to 'form you dat de only d'reck. shon what I kin circumstanshiate fru de water am de bottom."

"Well, den, as I was 'latin'. S'posen we was on de boat, glidin' lubingly an' harmunly down de bussum ob de riber's stream, de moon was lookin' shiningly down 'pon de smoke-stack, an' you was sottin' rite up to me (jus' slide up here closer, an' lem me show you how), dat's de way."

"Yah, yah! but wouldn't dat be scrumptuous?" interrupted Midas.

S'posen," continued Lucy, "you had jest put yer arm roun' my waist (dat's it), der wasn't no body 'bout, you was a squeezin' me up, an' was jest gwine to gimme de lubinest kind ob a kiss, an'-an'-an' de biler would bust!"

“Oh, Luce, don' talk like dat!" said the disappointed Midas.

"Now, Midas, I is s'posen dis case, an' I wants you to mind de words what I am a speakin'. S'posen when dat biler busted we bof went up in de air, come down in de riber, an' when we arrive in de water we found de only thing lef' ob dat boat was one piece ob board dat wasn't big enuff to hole us bof, but we bof grab at it; now, Midas, wud you let go dat board, or wud you put me off an' took it all y'self? Dat's de question what I'm s'posen."

66

'Luce, can you swim?" he asked, after hesitating a few moments.

"No, Midas, ob course not. You know I can't swim." "Well den, Luce, my conchenshus 'pinion ob de whole matter am dat we wont go on no acursions."

CHICKENS COME HOME TO ROOST.

You may take the world as it comes and goes,
And you will be sure to find

That fate will square the account she owes,
Whoever comes out behind;

And all things bad that a man has done,
By whatsoever induced,

Return at last to him, one by one,

As the chickens come home to roost.

You may scrape and toil and pinch and save,
While your hoarded wealth expands,
Till the cold, dark shadow of the grave
Is nearing your life's last sands;

You will have your balance struck some night,
And you'll find your hoard reduced;

You'll view your life in another light

When the chickens come home to roost.

You can stint your soul and starve your heart
With the husks of a barren creed,

But Christ will know if you play a part,-
Will know in your hour of need;
And then as you wait for death to come
What hope can there be deduced

From creed alone? you will lie there dumb
While your chickens come home to roost.

Sow as you will, there's a time to reap,
For the good and bad as well,

And conscience, whether we wake or sleep,
Is either a heaven or hell.

And every wrong will find its place,
And every passion loosed

Drifts back and meets you face to face-
When the chickens come home to roost.

Whether you're over or under the sod
The result will be the same;

You cannot escape the hand of God,

You must bear your sin or shame.

No matter what's carved on a marble slab,
When the items are all produced

You'll find that St. Peter was keeping 'tab,"
And that chickens come home to roost.

MARCO'S DEATH.-BEVERLY R. WOOD.

Written expressly for this Collection.

Yes, boy, that night I remember well, though it was twenty years ago,

When I saw him take that fearful leap straight into the ring

below,

And even now as I think of it, it makes me hold my breath As I did that night, long years ago, when Marco met his death.

He used to leap from the top of the tent at old Bill Rankin's show,

Right into the outstretched hands of Ned, who was fifty feet below,

And then when Ned would catch him, oh! how that tent would ring

With cheer on cheer for the noble pair, who were seated above in the swing.

Did I know him? Yes! and loved him,―he was like a brother

to me,

And often now in my nightly dreams his handsome face I

see;

And it takes me back to that night of old, when, from his swing on high,

I saw him leap to the ring below, and heard Nellie's despair

ing cry.

Nellie? Oh, she was the village beauty, the sweetest of all

the girls,

She had eyes of the darkest color, and long, black shining

curls.

Why, Ned, he fairly worshiped her, 'twas his first, ay! and only love,

Deep and true as the waters blue, and as bright as the stars above.

But when Marco came, he cut Ned out and, as in days of old, Nell's love he conquered. They were wed,-'tis a story often told.

Never a word did poor Ned say, but at times o'er his face so fair,

Could be seen a strange, unnatural look, when he'd gaze on the loving pair.

'Twas the last night at the circus, and packed close around the ring

Were hundreds anxiously waiting to see Marco, the Aerial

King;