Then the teacher walked half-way down the room with a Bowie knife in his hand, and threw it with so true a hand that it stuck, quivering, in the centre of the card. He left it there, and quietly put two more of the same kind in his belt and reloaded his yet smoking pistol. "Ring the bell; I am about to open school."

He spoke to the cross-eyed boy, the bully of the crowd, and the boy rang the bell.

"The scholars will take their seats. I open school with prayer," he said sternly, five minutes later.

The scholars sat down silently, almost breathless. After the prayer the teacher cocked a revolver and walked down on the floor.

"We will arrange the classes," he said. "All who can read, write, and spell will rise. Of them we will form the first class."

Only six got up. He escorted them to upper seats, and then he began to examine the rest. A whisper was heard behind him. In a second he wheeled, revolver in hand:

"No whispering allowed here!" he thundered, and for an instant his revolver lay on a level with the crosseyed boy's head.

"I'll not do so any more," gasped the bully.

"See you do not. I never give a second warning," said the teacher, and the revolver fell.

It took two hours to organize the classes, but when done they were all organized.

Then came recess. The teacher went out, too, for the room was crowded and hot. A hawk was circling overhead, high in the air. The teacher drew his revolver, and the next second the hawk came tumbling down among the wondering scholars.

From that day on Harry kept school for two years in Cranberry Gulch; his salary was doubled after the first quarter, and his pupils learned to love as well as respect him, and the revolvers were out of sight within a month. They had found a man at last who could teach school.

DER COMING MAN.-CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.

I vant some invormashun, shust so qvickly vot I can,
How I shall pring mine Yawcob oup to been der coming

man,

For efery day id seem to me der brosbect look der harder
To make dot coming man imbrove ubon dot going fader.
'Twas beddher he vos more like me, a Deutscher blain und
rude,

As to been abofe hees peesnis und grown oup to be a dude.
I don'd oxshbect dot poy off mine a Vashington to be,
Und schop mit hadchets all aroundt upon mine abble dree,
So he can let der coundtry know he schmardter vas as I,
Und got scheap adverdising dot he don'd could dell a lie :
Mine Yawcob lets der drees alone undil der fruit dhey bear,
Und dhen dot feller he looks oudt und gets der lion's share.
Some say 'tvas beddher dot you teach der young ideas to
shoot;

Vell, I dink dis aboudt id: dot advice id vas no goot!
Dot boy vonce dook hees broder oudt und dhey blay Villiam

Tell,

Budt Yawcob vas no shooter-he don'd do id pooty vell; Dot arrow don'd go droo der core, budt it vent pooty nearShust near enough to miss id und go droo hees broder's ear.

He dravels mit his buysickle in effery kind off vedder, Und dough he vas a demperance poy, somedimes he dakes a "header;"

I don't know shust oxactly vot dot vas,-'tis vorse as bier,Shust like he shtrike a cyglone und valk righdt off on his ear! I ask von time aboudt id, budt dot poy he only grumble, Und say I beddher try id vonce, dhen maybe I vould tumble."

Dot Yawcob say dot ve vas boor, und he vants to be richer, Und dot der coming man must been a virsd-glass pase-pall pitcher;

He says he must be "shtriking oudt," und try und "make a hit,"

Und dells me I vas "off mine pase" vhen I makes fun of it: Vhen I say he soon must baddle hees canoe "oudt on der schwim,"

He say dot von off Hanlan's shells vas goot enough for him.

Dot Shakesbeer say aboudt der son dot's brofligate und vild'How sharper as a serpent's thanks vas been der toothless shild!"

(I got dot leedle dwisted; I mean dot thankless youth He cuts his poor oldt fader more as a serpent's tooth.) Und dhen der broverb dells us dot der shild he must obey Und dot eef you should shpare der rod you shpoil him righdt avay.

Vell, Yawcob, he vas pooty good-I guess I don'd gomblain. Í somedimes vish, mineself, dot I vas peen a poy again.

1 lets him blay mit pase-pall, und dake headers vhile he can, I prings him oup mit kindness, und I risk der coming man. Let neighbor Pfeiffer use der shtick, vhile Otto howls und dances;

I'll shpoil der rod und shpare der shild, I dink, und dake der shances.

-Harper's Magazine,

WHAT IS HOME?

Oh! what is home? That sweet companionship
Of life the better part;

The happy smile of welcome on the lip
Upspringing from the heart.

It is the eager clasp of kindly hands,
The long remembered tone,

The ready sympathy which understands
All feeling by its own.

The rosy cheek of little children pressed
To ours in loving glee;

The presence of our dearest and our best,
No matter where we be.

And, failing this, a prince may homeless live,
Though palace walls are nigh;
And, having it, a desert shore may give
The joy wealth cannot buy.

Far reaching as the earth's remotest span,
Widespread as ocean foam,

One thought is sacred in the breast of man,-
It is the thought of home.

That little word his human fate shall bind
With destinies above,

For there the home of his immortal mind
Is in God's wider love.

GOOD-BYE, OLD CHURCH.-MILLIE C. POMEROY.

Sexton, we go to-morrow. It is foolish,

But I've been thinking all this weary day,
So full of toil, and din and sad leave-taking,
I couldn't have the heart to go away

Until I came, once more, to this old chapel,
Where I have worshiped half a hundred years;
Lock me within, alone. Let Memory bring me
Its stores with luxury of unchecked tears.

Within this pew, uncarved then and uncushioned,
Sweet sister Grace and I were wont to sit;
The sermon just a weary hour of waiting,
Beguiled by feasting on a hoarded bit

Of candy, caraway, or fragrant mint leaves;
I see my father now, so stern and tall;
I see my mother's face, so pale and patient-
Her Sunday bonnet and embroidered shawl.

I do not know just when the pastor's droning
Took form of words and reached my childish thought
Winning my heart to rest on the great Helper,
Whose love, through all these years, has failed me not
'Twas here I stood, with veil and orange blossoms,
Dear John and I, and saw, through coming years,
The pleasure that the future life would bring us—
But only saw the rainbow in its tears.

And here I looked within the tiny coffin

The last, last time upon my baby's face,

I see it now among the snowy lilies,

So like, so strange,—and doubted the Lord's grace. Safe in thy arms, O Saviour! Life's long journey, Which so has bruised my feet and marked my brow, My angel child was saved. Watch o'er thy mother My precious babe! The world calls to me now.

So, dear old church, good-bye! The ghosts I've conjured
To walk your aisles to-night, from out the past,
The merry child, the bride, the grief-bowed mother,
Hush them to sleep again, until the last

When slowly up the aisle, within my coffin,
My tired hands lying clasped upon my breast,
They bear my body. Is it wrong to say so?
That picture seems to me, of all, the best.

THE STREET TUMBLERS.-GEORGE R. SIMS.* Thank the lady, Johnny, and give the money to dad; Yes, I'm his mother, lady-don't say, "Poor little lad!" For he likes the tumblin' rarely, took to it from the first. Accidents?-nothing to speak of,-a bruise or two at the worst. It's him as draws the money; he's pretty and looks so smart, He gets many a bit o' silver, with a "Bless your little heart!" Danger-because his father flings him up like a ball?

He's been at the game too long, ma'am, to let our Johnny fall.

You'd sooner your child was dead, ma'am, than leading a life like this?

Come here a minute, Johnny, and give your mammy a kiss; Look at his rosy cheeks, ma'am! look at his sturdy limbs! Look how his dark eyes glisten! there's nothin' their brightness dims.

We live in the air and sunshine, we tramp through the long green lanes,

We know where to get good shelter, and we never have aches or pains.

We're happy, we three together, as we roam from place to place,

We should die pent up in cities, for we come of a gipsy race.

The rough and the smooth together, it isn't so hard a life. Yes, I've had my troubles-the biggest, the year I was mother and wife.

"Twas a hard black frosty winter the year that our baby

came,

The master had sprained his ankle, and hobbled along dead lame.

He'd had to give up performin', for the agony made him

shriek,

And I had a month-old baby, and illness had left me weak. We couldn't do much for a livin', and we weren't the folks

to beg;

The master was fond o' baby, but, my, how he cursed his

leg!

Author of "The Life Boat," "The Old Actor's Story," "In the Harbor," "The Ticket O' Leave," and other famous Readings, to be found in previous Numbers of this Series.