fic; but it did'nt make no difference about that when it came down to what a man's rights was-and so, when some roughs jumped the Catholic boneyard and started to stake out town lots in it, he went for 'em, and he cleaned 'em too! I was there, pard, and I seen it myself." "That was very well, indeed—at least the impulse was— whether the act was entirely defeasible or not. Had deceased any religious convictions? That is to say, did he feel a dependence upon, or acknowledge allegiance to a higher power?" More reflection. "I reckon you've stumped me again, pard. Could you say it over once more, and say it slow?" "Well, to simplify it somewhat, was he, or rather, had he ever been connected with any organization sequestered from secular concerns and devoted to self-sacrifice in the interests of morality?" "All down but nine-set 'em up on the other alley, pard." "What did I understand you to say?” "Why, you're most too many for me, you know. When you get in with your left, I hunt grass every time. Every time you draw, you fill; but I don't seem to have any luck. Let's have a new deal." "How? Begin again?" "That's it." "Very well. Was he a good man, and-" “There—I see that; don't put up another chip till I look Pard, it ain't no name ever-pard, you would at my hand. A good man says you? for it. He was the best man that have doted on that man. He could lam any galoot of his inches in America. It was him that put down the riot last election before it got a start; and everybody said that he was the only man that could have done it. He waltzed in with a trumpet in one hand and a spanner in the other, and sent fourteen men home on a shutter in less than three minutes. He had that riot all broke up and prevented nice befo:3 anybody had a chance to strike a blow. He was always fo peace, and he would have peace—he could not stand disturb ances. Pard, he was a great loss to this town. It would please the boys if you could chip in something like that anò BBB* do him justice. Here once when the Micks got to throwing stones through the Methodist Sunday-school windows, Buck Fanshaw, all of his own notion, shut up his saloon, and took a couple of six-shooters and mounted guard over the Sundayschool. Says he, 'No Irish need apply.' And they did'nt. He was the bulliest man in the mountains, pard; he could run faster, jump higher, hit harder, and hold more tanglefoot whiskey without spilling it than any man in seventeen counties. Put that in, pard; it'll please the boys more than anything you could say. And you can say, pard, that he never shook his mother." "Never shook his mother?" "That's it-any of the boys will tell you so." "Well, but why should he shake her?" "That's what I say-but some people does." "Not people of any repute?" "Well, some that averages pretty so-so." "In my opinion, a man that would offer personal violence to his mother, ought to-" "Cheese it, pard; you've banked your ball clean outside the string. What I was a-drivin' at was that he never throwed off on his mother-don't you see? No indeedy! He give her a house to live in, and town lots, and plenty of money; and he looked after her and took care of her all the time; and when she was down with the small-pox, I'm cuss'd if he did'nt set up nights and nuss her himself! Beg your pardon for saying it, but it hopped out too quick for yours truly. You've treated me like a gentleman, and I ain't the man to hurt your feelings intentional. I think you're white. I think you're a square man, pard. I like you, and I'll lick any man that don't. I'll lick him till he can't tell himself from a last year's corpse! Put it there!" [Another fraternal handshake—and exit.] The obsequies were all that "the boys" could desire. Such funeral pomp had never been seen in Virginia. The plumed hearse, the dirge-breathing brass bands, the closed marts of business, the flags drooping at half-mast, the long plodding procession of uniformed secret societies, military battalions and fire companies, draped engines, carriages of ofGcials and citizens in vehicles and on foot, attracted mul titudes of spectators to the sidewalks, roofs and windows; and for years afterward, the degree of grandeur attained by any civic display was determined by comparison with Buck Fanshaw's funeral. From "Roughing It." ONLY SIXTEEN. "When last seen, he was considerably intoxicated, in the highway." Only sixteen so the papers say, Yet the rum fiend conquered him—so he died. Oh! it were sad he must die all alone; Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought! Ye free-holders who signed the petition to grant When the elements, melting with fervent heat, Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right, To action and duty; into the light Come with your banners, inscribed "Death to rum!" Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come; Strike killing blows; hew to the line; Make it a felony even to sign A petition to license; you would do it I ween, THE YEAR THAT IS TO COME. FRANCES DAna Gage. What are we going to do,dear friends, To baffle that fearful fiend of death Shall we fold our hands and bid him pass, As he has passed heretofore, Leaving his deadly-poisoned draught At every unbarred door? What are we going to do,dear friends? Then bind the bruises, and heal the wound, Let the fiend still torture the weary wife, Still poison the coming child, Still break the suffering mother's heart, Still drive the sister wild? Still bring to the grave the gray-haired sire, Still martyr the brave young sou!, Till the waters of death, like a burning stream, And poverty take the place of wealth, And sin and crime and shame Drag down to the very depths of hell The highest and proudest name? Is this our mission on earth, dear friends, There is not a soul so poor and weak, But against this evil a word may speak, And lift a warning hand, dear friends, And the weak and wavering shall hear, And the true, and good, and great, and wise Till a barrier of bold and loving hearts, So deep and broad, is found, That no spirit of rum can overleap, Then the spirit of rum shall surely die; And only on hourly sacrifice The demon lives and thrives. And can we not do this, dear friends, Let each one work to save and keep Then the ransomed soul shall send to heaven A song without alloy, And "the morning stars together sing, And God's sons shout for joy." THE REFORM WILL GO ON. Intemperance is not a mere local affair, but strikes at the very vitals of the nation. The liquor traffic is the fruitful source of woe, crime, misery, taxation, pauperism, and death. Bear me witness if I exaggerate when I say that the country is rapidly becoming one vast grog-shop, to which half a million of its youth are yearly introduced, and over whose thresh |