"You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.

As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health, And but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth. >

"I was a painter-not one that daubed on bricks and wood,
But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good.
I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise,
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

"I made a picture perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of Fame,'

It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name.
And then I met a woman-now comes the funny part-
With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

"Why don't you laugh? "Tis funny that the vagabond you see
Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me;
But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given,
And when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven.

“Did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give, With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live; With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-nor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?

If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,

Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way; And Madeline admired it, and, much to my surprize,

Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

"It didn't take long to know him, and before a month had flown, My friend had stolen my darling, and I was left alone;

And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,
The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead.

That's why I took to drink, boys. Why I never saw you smile, I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while.

Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a tear-drop in your

eye,

Come, laugh like me; 'tis only babes and women that cry.

"Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, I'll be glad, And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball

score

You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor."

Another drink, and, with chalk in hand, the vagabond began
To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.
Then as he placed another look upon the shapely head,
With a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture dead.

THE FUNERAL OF THE FLOWERS

BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE

The summer is ended, and we have all been invited to attend the Funeral of the Flowers. It occurred on a long slope which at one side dipt into the warm valleys, and on the other side arose very high into the frosty air, so that on one boundary line lived cactus and orange-blossom and camellia, and on the other resided balsam-pine and Alpine strawberry, and all kinds of growths between.

Living midway that steep slope of land there was a rose, that in common parlance we called "Giant of Battle." It was red and fiery, looking as if it had stood on fields of carnage where the blood dashed to the lip. It was a hero among flowers. Many of the grasses of the field worshiped it as a god, the mignonette burning incense beneath it, the marigold throwing glittering rays of beauty before it, the mistletoe crawling at its feet. The fame

of this Giant of Battle was world-wide, and some said that its ancestors on the father's side had stood on the plains of Waterloo, and on its mother's side at Magneta, and drank themselves drunk on human gore. But children are not to blame for what their ancestors do, and this rose, called Giant of Battle, was universally adored.

But the Giant got sick. Whether it was from the poisonous breath of the Nightshade that had insolently kissed him, or from grief at the loss of a Damask-rose that had first won his heart by her blushes, and then died, we know not; but the Giant of Battle was passing rapidly away. There was great excitement up and down the slopes. A consultation of botanical physicians was called, and Doctor Eglantine came and thrust a thorn for a lancet into the Giant's veins, on the principle that he had too much blood and was apoplectic, and Doctor Balm of Gilead attempted to heal the pain by poultices; but still the Giant grew worse and worse. The Primrose called in the evening to see how the dying hero was, and the Morning-glory stopt before breakfast to see if it could do any good. Every flower or grass that called had a prescription for him that would surely cure. Neighbor Horse-sorrel suggested acids, and Honeysuckle proposed sugars, and Myrrh suggested bitters, and Ladies'-slipper, having taken off her shoes, said all the patient wanted was more quiet about the room.

But too much changing of medicine only made the Giant more and more sick, and one afternoon, while sitting up in bed with a cup of honeysuckle to his lips, and with the fan of the south wind fluttering in his face, his head dropt and he died. As the breath went out of him a Clematis that had been overlooking the sad scene, said: "What time is it?" and a cluster of Four-o'clocks answered, "A little past the middle of the afternoon."

The next morning the funeral bells all rang: the Blue-bells and the Canterbury-bells and the Fox-glove-bells and Hare-bells and all the flowerdom came to the obsequies of the Giant of Battle. He was laid out on a trellis, and on a catafalque, such as dead monarchs never had, of dahlia and phlox and magnolia and geranium and gladiola. There was a great audience of flowers. Solemnity came down upon them. Even the Cock's-comb

stopt strutting, and Larkspur ceased her fickleness, and Snapdragon looked gentle, and Snowdrop seemed to melt, and Bachelor's-button wished it had some one to express its grief to. The Passion-flower came in and threw herself on the pale cheek of the Giant with most ardent demonstration of affection. Amaranth and Hydrangea and Daffodil and Spiderwort and Spiræa having come far from the night and dew, stood around with their eyes full of tears.

The funeral services began. Rose of Sharon and Lily of the Valley took part in them. The Star of Bethlehem sang a hymn to the tune of Bonny Doon. Forget-me-not said a few words of commemoration. Then Heartsease arose for the work of comfort, and read the lesson of the day: "As a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more. And all the bells, Fox-glove-bells and Blue-bells and Canterbury-bells and Harebells, prolonged the strain through all that day, tolling, tolling out, "No more! no more!"

CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON IMMORTALITY

BY JOSEPH ADDISON

It must be so: Plato, thou reasonest well!
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?

Or, whence this secret dread and inward horror
Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself and startles at destruction?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;

'Tis Heaven itself, that points out an hereafter
And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.

OPPORTUNITY

BY JOHN J. INGALLS

Master of human destinies am I

Fame, love and fortune, on my footsteps wait.
Cities and fields I walk, I penetrate
Deserts and seas remote and passing by
Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late,
I knock unbidden once at every gate-
If sleeping, wake, if feasting, rise, before
I turn away. It is the hour of fate

And they who follow me, reach every state

Mortals desire, and conquer every foe
Save death: but those who doubt or hesitate
Condemned to failure, penury and wo,
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore;
I answer not and I return no more.

OPPORTUNITY'S REPLY

BY WALTER MALONE

They do me wrong who say I come no more,
When once I knock and fail to find you in:
For every day I stand outside your door,
And bid you wake and rise to fight and win.

Wail not for precious changes passed away;
Weep not for golden ages on the wane;
Each night I burn the records of the day;
At sunrise every soul is born again.

Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped;

To vanished joys be blind, and deaf and dumb; My judgments seat the dead past with its dead, But never bind a moment yet to come.