THE STRANGE REQUEST.-ANNIE R. JOHNSON.

In a queer old Irish village,
Some one hundred years ago,
Lived a nobleman's fair daughter;
And 'tis said that to and fro
Through the whole land spread a rumor
Of the beauty of her face,
Of her high-born, gentle manners,
And her matchless wit and grace.

Well, there was, in this same village,
A poor little chimney-sweep

Who, by what his broom earned daily,
Could but just contrive to keep

A blind mother from starvation-
For the famine pressed them sore.
Dear, brave boy! Some days he fasted,
So that she could have the more.

Now it happened, one fine morning,
He had swept a chimney down,
And to rest climbed on a store-box,
By the largest store in town;
Where, close by, a band of loungers
Smoked and jested,--just the sort
Of young men who thought it manly,
O'er the black-faced "sweep" to sport.
So their jokes flew back and forward,

Till the boy could "just have cried;"
When, as his good luck would have it,

They stopped short, for one had spied
Lady Norah-the town beauty—
Coming down the long, broad street.
Ah, she was so tall and queenly!
With a face so proud, yet sweet.

Then a gay young lord among them
Frowned-and to the child, said he,

"I will give you fifty guineas

If you'll kiss that girl for me!"
For he thought to so insult her,
Pay her for a private slight,—
He was not received with favor
When he called on her one night.

For awhile the boy looked doubtful,
As the lady nearer drew;
Then stood out upon the sidewalk,
With his figure in full view,

Till she came up close beside him,

When he stammered cut: "Please, Miss,
Would you make a poor sweep happy,
By just giving him a kiss?"

Well, she stopped and looked so puzzled,
Gazing at him where he stood.

"It will not harm you, fair lady,

And I'm sure 'twill do me good."

"Bless your heart, I will!" she answered.

66

Wipe your lips with this, my child: "
And she tossed her dainty 'kerchief

Toward him, while she sweetly smiled.
Then she stooped down there and kissed him,
With "God bless you," and passed on.
And the young men laughed and jested
At "Lord Guy," when she had gone.
"Now produce those fifty guineas!

We are bound to see fair play!"
They all cried. And so "his Honor"
Had the kiss-debt there to pay.

HEAVENWARD.-I. E. DICKENGA.

Not from the grave our journey home begins,
But from the cradle. Our first feeble breath
And tottering steps start us upon a way
That leads beyond. We need not idly wait
For morn to come; the morning dawn is here,
And we may stand between the open gates
And see the beautiful celestial hills
Toward which our feet are pressing.
Death but gives
A clearer vision and a nearer view,
Ending the journey which is here begun.
Then wise is he and in his wisdom blest,
Who will not turn from righteousness aside,
But lives and walks as if he trod indeed
The outer court of the immortal land.

GET ACQUAINTED WITH YOURSELF.
R. J. BURDETTE.

Telemachus, it will do you ever so much good if every once in a while you will go away by yourself for an hour or two and get real well acquainted with yourself. As a man thinketh, so he is. And you will never "know thyself" thoroughly unless now and then you get alone and sit down and talk to yourself, cross-examine yourself; learn what you know; what are your ambitions, your aims, your hopes,-what is your real character; because, my dear boy, your reputation may be one thing and your character quite another. Sometimes it does happen, in this faulty old world, that a really good man, a man whose character is above reproach, may bear the reputation of a rascal; and once in a while-two or three times in a while, in fact-a rascal wears the stolen reputation of an honest man. Go away now and then, my boy, and sit down all by yourself and think. Think of nothing under the sun only yourself. Yes, I know, my son, there are men who never think of anything else, and God never made more useless men; but that is because they do all their thinking about themselves publicly and loud. They never think alone.

You will be honest with yourself when you are alone, my boy. A man is apt to be honest with himself in the dark. He does not pose in heroic postures when he has no audience. When he stands face to face with himself, with no human eye to watch him, and no human ear to listen to his confession, and only his Maker, who knows every secret motive and thought of his life to see and to listen, a man has to be honest. How could he be a hypocrite then?

Get away from the crowd a little while every day, my boy. Stand one side and let the world run by, while you get acquainted with yourself, and see what kind of a fellow you are. Ask yourself hard questions about yourself. find out all you can about yourself. Ascertain

from original sources if you are really the manner of man people say you are. Find out if you are always honest; if you always tell the square, perfect truth in business deals; if your life is as good and upright at eleven o'clock at night as it is at noon; if you are as sound a temperance man on a fishing expedition as you are at a Sabbath-school pic-nic; if you are as good a boy when you go to Chicago as you are at home; if, in short, you really are the manner of young man your father hopes you are, your mother says you are, and your sweetheart believes you are. Get on intimate terms with yourself, my boy, and, believe me, every time you come out from one of those private interviews you will be a better, stronger, purer man. Don't forget this, Telemachus, and it will do you good.

THE LOW-BACKED CAR.-SAMUEL LOVER.

When first I saw sweet Peggy,
'Twas on a market-day;

A low-backed car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay;

But when that hay was blooming grass,
And decked with flowers of spring,
No flower was there that could compare
With the blooming girl I sing.

As she sat in the low-backed car.
The man at the turnpike bar
Never asked for the toll,

But just rubbed his owld poll,
And looked after the low-backed car.

In battle's wild commotion,

The proud and mighty Mars

With hostile scythes demands his tithes
Of death-in warlike cars;

While Peggy, peaceful goddess,

Has darts in her bright eye

That knock men down in the market-town,
As right and left they fly,

While she sits in her low-backed car;
Than battle more dangerous far,-
For the doctor's art

Cannot cure the heart

That is hit from that low-backed car.

Sweet Peggy round her car,

sir,

Has strings of ducks and geese,

But the scores of hearts she slaughters

By far outnumber these;

While she among her poultry sits,
Just like a turtle-dove,

Well worth the cage, I do engage,

Of the blooming god of love;
While she sits in her low-backed car,
The lovers come near and far,

And envy the chicken

That Peggy is pickin'

As she sits in her low-backed car.

Oh, I'd rather own that car, sir,

With Peggy by my side,

Than a coach and four, and gold galore,
And a lady for my bride;

For the lady would sit forninst me,

On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would sit beside me,

With my arm around her waist,

While we drove in the low-backed car
To be married by Father Maher;

Oh, my heart would beat high
At her glance and her sigh,
Though it beat in a low-backed car.

THE MILLER'S MAID*.-FRED EMERSON BROOKS

Nature, ever fickle jade

Squandered treasure on the Maid
Of the Mill;

Gave her eyes of such rare blue
That her soul kept peeping through

By permission.

"Will-he-Nill."

A very humorous and effective dialect recitation, written and recited by Mr. Brooks, entitled, "Foreign views of the Statue," will be found in No. 27 of this series.