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MULLIGAN'S Gospel.—annie Herrert.

I've a rare bit of news for yon, Mary Malone,
And truth, 'tis the strangest that ever was known;
You remember I told you a twelvemonth ago
How a soul came from heaven to Poverty Row?
If an angel had troubled the waters that bore
Such little white craft to our turbulent shore,
No mortal could tell; but that innocent child,
Like a dove without wings, nestling downy and tender,
With eyes veiling pictures of Paradise splendor,
Came into the tenement crazy and wild,
And the hard life so pitiless, rough, and denied,
Over to Mulligan's.

It is strange to our eyes, but perhaps you have seen
A vine clasp its tendrils of delicate green
Round a desolate rock, or a lily grow white
With its roots in the tarn and its face in the light;
Or when night and storm wrap the sky in a shroud,
A star shaken out from the fold of a cloud:
So this little one came—but it never seemed right—
There were children enough,heaven knows! in that Babel,
Cadets for the Tombs from the bold whiskey rabble,
Choked out from the love that is heaven's own light,
Rank sons of the soil, cropping out for a fight,
Over to Mulligan's.

There was many a banquet in Mulligan Hall,
When the revelers feasted on nothing at all,
And a king at the board giving knighthood of pains,
And orders of crosses, and clanking of chains:
Tim held as a law the most perfect in life
The strong tie that bound him to Nora, his wife;
But, blinded by drink, when his passion ran high,
He beat her, of course, with a fury inhuman,—
And she such a poor, patient bit of a woman!
Well for her a soft voice answered low to her cries,
And her sun never set in the baby's blue eyes
Over to Mulligau's.

It was twelve months or more from the time she was born,
As I sat at my window one sunshiny morn,—
"Jist come over," the voice of Tim Mulligan said,
"I belave in me sowl that me baby is dead!"
He had held a wild revel late into the night,
And the wee, frightened dove plumed her pinions for flight;
This the man saw at last, with a sudden dismay;
"God forgive me!" he cried, "sure she'd niver be stayin'
Wid the cursin' an' drink when me lips shud be prayin'!"
And the priest came and went, little dreaming that day
How the priesthood of angels was winning its way
Over to Mulligan's.


Then the sweetest, the saddest, the tenderest sight,
Lay the child like a fair sculptured vision of light:
Hands closed over daisies, fringed lids over tears
That never would fall through life's sorrowful years.
"Ah, mavourneen!" moaned Tim, " it's foriver I'll think
That the saints took yez home from the divil of drink;
An' mayhap "—here he shivered decanter and bowl—
"She will see me, up there wid the mother of Jesus,
An' sind down the grace that from sin iver frees us!"
So the leaven that spread from one beautiful soul
Through that turmoil of misery, leavened the whole,
Over to Mulligan's.

Now a thing the most wonderful, Mary Malone,
And truth 'tis the strangest that ever was known,
Mr. Mulligan met me to-day on the street,
And he looks like a man, from his head to his feet;
Though his clothes are but coarse, they are comely and trim.
And no man dares to say, " Here's a health to you, Tim!"
He will soon rent a cottage, and live like the best;
And the gossips do say, with wise lifting of fingers,
It is all for sweet charity's sake that he lingers
In the row where God's peace settled down in his breast,
When a soft, weary wing fluttered home from the nest,
Over to Mulligan's.

Christian Union.


This is the season of the year when picnics are most frequent. For real solid enjoyment we, for our part, much prefer a well conducted funeral to an ordinary picnic. You generally reach the grounds about eleven o'clock, and the exercises begin with climbing a hill, up which you are compelled to carry two heavy lunch baskets. When you reach the summit you are positively certain the thermometer must be nearly six hundred and fifty in the shade. You throw yourself on the grass, and in a few moments a brigade of black ants begin to crawl down the back of your neck, while a phalanx of ticks charge up your trouser leg. And just as


ately. Then you come down again with celerity, and get over the fence as if you were in.earnest. Going home in the train all the passengers regard you, from your appearance, as an escaped convict, or a lunatic who has broken from his keepers; and when you reach your home you plunge into a shirt, cover your hands with a court-plaster, and register a solemn vow never to go on another picnic. And we are with you; we never will either.

THE STIGMA.—F. De Haes Janvier.

It Is related that, some forty years ago, John C. Calhoun, a Senator of the

United Statin, from the Suite of South Carolina, and at that time employed in perfecting the great Nullification Scheme of which he was the author, was, one night, at a late hour, seated in his room, and engaged in writing, when, falling tsletip, he had a dream, the incidents of which are here woTeu into Terse.

In a chamber, grand and gloomy, in the shadow of the night, Two wax tapers flaming faintly, burned with a sepulchral light,—

On an oval oaken table, from their silver stands they shone, Where about them in disorder, books and manuscripts were strown;

Where before them sat a statesman, silent, thoughtful and alone!

Suddenly a stranger entered—entered with a serious air, And with steady step advancing, near the table drew a chair! Folded in an ample mantle, carefully concealed from sight, There he sat, and his companion watched him, through the wavering light,

Wondering at his bold intrusion, unannounced, and in the night.

Wondering at his staid demeanor, wondering that no word he spoke,

Wondering that he veiled his visage in the volume of his cloak—

Till, as though unwilling longer, satisfaction to postpone, "Senator from Carolina," said he in a solemn tone, "What are you engaged in writing, here at midnight and alone?"

Then the statesman answered promptly, " Tis a plan which consummates,

When complete, the dissolution of the Union of the States

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