The woman blushed, stammered out something, and attempted to smooth back the boy's hair.

"One fly, two flies, three flies," said the boy, innocently, following with his eyes a basket of oranges carried by a newsboy.

"Here, you young hedgehog," said the bald-headed man, "if you don't hush, I'll have the conductor put you off the train."

The poor woman, not knowing what else to do, boxed the boy's ears, and then gave him an orange to keep him from crying.

"Ma, have I got red marks on my head?"

"I'll whip you again, if you don't hush."

"Mister," said the boy, after a short silence, " does it hurt to be bald-headed?”

"Youngster," said the man, "If you'll keep quiet, I'll give you a quarter."

The boy promised, and the money was paid over.

The man took up his paper, and resumed his reading. "This is my bald-headed money," said the boy. "When I get bald-headed, I'm goin' to give boys money. Mister, have all bald-headed men got money?"

The annoyed man threw down his paper, arose, and exclaimed: "Madam, hereafter when you travel, leave that young gorilla at home. Hitherto, I always thought that the old prophet was very cruel for calling the bears to kill the children for making sport of his head, but now I am forced to believe that he did a Christian act. If your boy had been in the crowd, he would have died first. If I can't find another seat on this train, I'll ride on the cow-catcher rather than remain here."

"The bald-headed man is gone," said the boy; and as the woman leaned back a tired sigh escaped from her lips. LITTLE ROCK GAZETTE.

HE

THE CHILD MUSICIAN.

E had played for his lordship's levee, He had played for her ladyship's whim, Till the poor little head was heavy And the poor little brain would swim.

And the face grew peaked and eerie,
And the large eyes strange and bright,
And they said-too late-" He is weary!
He shall rest for, at least, to-night!"

But at dawn, when the birds were waking, As they watched in the silent gloom, With the sound of a strained cord breaking A something snapped in the room.

'Twas a string of his violoncello

And they heard him stir in his bed :"Make room for a tired little fellow, Kind God!" was the last that he said.

AUSTIN DOBSON,

THE STATUE IN CLAY.

MAKE me a statue, said the King,

Of marble white as snow;

It must be pure enough to stand
Before my throne, at my right hand;
The niche is waiting. Go!

The sculptor heard the King's command
And went upon his way;

He had no marble, but he meant,
With willing mind and high intent,
To mould his thoughts in clay.

Day after day he wrought in clay,
But knew not what he wrought;

He sought the help of heart and brain,
But could not make the riddle plain;
It lay beyond his thought

To-day the statue seemed to grow,
To-morrow it stood still,

The third day all went well again;
Thus year by year, in joy and pain,
He served his master's will.

At last his life-long work was done;
It was a fateful day;

He took the statue to the King,
And trembled like a guilty thing,
Because it was but clay.

Where is my statue? asked the King;
Here, Lord, the Sculptor said:
But I commanded marble: true,
I had not that, what could I do
But mould in clay instead.

Thou shalt not unrewarded go
Since thou hast done thy best,
Thy statue shall acceptance win,
It shall be as it should have been,
For I will do the rest.

He touched the statue, and it changed;
The clay falls off, and lo!

The marble shape before him stands,
The perfect work of heavenly hands,
An angel, pure as snow.

66

AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE.

"YES, I liked you at first, I must confess,

And a week ago I might have been won,
But that is all over," she pensively sighed,
For I find you are only a younger son."

There was silence awhile on that Alpine height. They could hear the sound of a mountain stream; He twirled his moustache and his alpenstock, While she softly warbled, "It was a Dream."

"We leave to-morrow for France," she resumed, "I hope I shall meet you at Paris next spring; But don't say I've flirted, for culture, you know, Is hardly consistent with that sort of thing."

"If it's not a flirtation, what, under heaven,
Would your ladyship call it?" he fiercely said,
And the question, I own, is one that well
Might bother the average British head.

She turned her face to the

rosy west

Where the flush of dying day still glowed; "Tis nothing," she pouted, reflectively,

"But an international episode."

ELIZA C. HALL

SLANDER.

'Twas but a breath

And yet the fair, good name was wilted;
And friends, once fond, grew cold and stilted,
And life was worse than death.

One venomed word,

That struck its coward, poisoned blow
In craven whispers, hushed and low-
And yet the wide world heard!

'Twas but one whisper-one,

That muttered low, for very shame,
The thing the slanderer dare not name-
And yet its work was done.

A hint so slight,

And yet so mighty in its power

A human soul in one short hour

Lies crushed beneath its blight!

THE ARROW AND THE SONG.

I

SHOT an arrow into the air.

It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air.

It fell to earth, I knew not where ;
For who has sight so keen and strong
That it can follow the flight of song.