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A. No, no! We only thought he was.
Q. Oh, I see! He came to life again?
A. I bet he didn't .

Q. Well, I never heard any thing like this. Sometxxt$ was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was tht mystery?

A. Ah, that's just it! That's it exactly! You see we were twins,—defunct and I; and we got mixed in the bathtub when we were only two weeks old, and one of us was drowned. But we didn't know which. Some think it was Bill; some think it was me.

Q. Well, that is remarkable. What do you think? A. Goodness knows I I would give whole worlds to know. This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life. But I will tell you a secret now, which I never have revealed to any creature before. One of us had a peculiar mark, a large mole on the back of his left hand; that was me. That child was the one that was drowned.

Q. Very well, then, I don't see that there is any mystery about it, after all.

A. You don't; Well, J do. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But, 'sh! don't mention it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heartbreaking troubles enough without adding this.

Q. Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present; and I am very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken. But I was a good deal interested in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral. Would you mind telling me what particular circumstance it was that made you think Burr was such a remarkable man?

A. Oh, it was a mere trifle! Xot one man in fifty would have noticed it at all. When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to start for the cemetery, and the body ail arranged nice in the hearse, he said he wanted to take a last look at the scenery; and so he got up, and rode with the drieer.


Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was very pleasant company; and I was sorry to see him go.


Kind o' chirk—it's been a fortnit
Sence yer eyes has been so bright.

Better t Well, I'm glad to hear it!
Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe.

Smellin' of em's made you happy t

Well, I thought it would, you know!

Never see the country, did you?

Flowers growin' everywhere!
Some time when you're better, Joey,

Mebbe I kin take you there.
Flowers in heaven t M—I s'pose so;

Dunno much about it, though;
Ain't as fly as wot I might be

Ou them topics, little Joe.

But I've heard it hinted somewherea

That in heaven's golden gates
Things is everlastin cheerful—

B'lieve that's wot the Bible states.
Likewise, there folks don't git hungry;

So good people, when they dies,
Finds themselves well fixed forever—

Joe, my boy, wot ails yer eyes?

Thought they looked a little sing'ler.

Oh, no! Don't you have no fear;
Heaven was made fur such as you is—

Joe, wot makes you look so queer?
Here—wake up! Oh, don't look that way I

Joe! My boy! Hold up yer head!
Here's yer flowers—you dropped 'em Joey!

Oh, my God, can Joe be dead t


She once was a lady of honor and wealth,
Bright glowed on her features the roses of health;
Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold,
And her motion shook perfume from every fold:
Joy reveled around her—love shone at her side,
And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride;
And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall,
When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul.
She felt in her spirit the summons of grace,
That called her to live for the suffering race;
And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home,
Rose quickly like Mary, and answered, "I come."


And passed from her home, with the joy of a bride,
Nor wept at the threshold, as onward she moved,—
For her heart was on tire in the cause it approved.

Lost ever to fashion—to vanity lost,
That beauty that once was the song and the toast—
No more in the ball-room that figure we meet,
But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat.
Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name,
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame;
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth,
For she barters for heaven the glory of earth.

Those feet that to music could gracefully move,

Now bear her alone on the mission of love;

Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem

Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them;

That voice that once echoed the song of the vain,

Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain;

And the hair that was shining with diamond and pea*\,

Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl.

Her down-bed—a pallet; her trinkets—a bead;
Her luster—one taper that serves her to read;
Her sculpture—the crucifix nailed by her bed;
Her paintings—one print of the thorn-crowned head;
Her cushion—the pavement, that wearies her knees;
Her music—the psalm, or the sigh of disease;
The delicate lady lives mortified there,
And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.

Yet not to the service of heart and of mind,

Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgm confined,

Like him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief

She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief.

She strengthens the weary—she comforts the weak,

And soft is her voice in tec s:,r of Cue sick;

Where want and affliction on mortals attend,

The Sister of Charity there is a IrienA

Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath,
Like an angel she moves, 'mid the vaIx>r of death;
Where rings the loud mueiicL. ami fi.iivca the sword,
Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord.
How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face
With looks that are lighted with holL-st grace;

She put from her


the trappings of pride,

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