To keep my small eyes at their keenest
On Nye as he dealt the first hand.
And the way that he dealt,

There could nothing be finer;
But somehow I felt,

"Mr. Ah Sin, from China,

Because your smile is so child-like,

These fellows play you for a minor!"

But no slouch is Ah Sin,

And from the word "Go!"

I did play for to win,

And Nye-rather so;

And I played the new game as I learned him, Which showed level head, don't you know? On my nails there was wax,

But that nothing proves, When I state the real facts;

I was 'prenticed on shoes,

And the wax that was found on my fingers
Was the kind that our shoemakers use.

And the packs up my sleeve,

My oath I will take,

Were not there to deceive,

But got there by mistake;

I bought them for Ah Sin, the younger,
Who likes some card houses to make.

In my pockets they were

When I sat down that day;

But what with the stir

And excitement of play,

They worked up my sleeve from my pocket, And strange it was, too, I must say.

Was it right in Bill Nye

When the trump knave I led,

To blacken my eye,

And on me put a head?

Had I known James held the right bower

I'd have played something else in its stead.

But I don't play no more,

For my lot now is cast

On a euchreless shore,

So I "stick" to my "last,"

And my smile, at North Adams, is pensive

At my heathenish days that are past.

MY WELCOME BEYOND.-ALLIE WELLINGTON.

Who will greet me first in heaven,

When that blissful realm I gain,

When the hands have ceased from toiling
And the heart hath ceased from pain;
When the last farewell is spoken,

Severed the last tender tie,

And I know how sweet, how solemn,
And how blest it is to die?

As my barque glides o'er the waters
Of that cold and silent stream,
And I see the domes of temples
In the distance brightly gleam,—
Temples of that beauteous city

From all blight and sorrow free;
Who adown its golden portals

First will haste to welcome me?

Ah, whose eyes will watch my coming
From that fair and beauteous shore?
Whose the voice I first shall listen

That shall teach me heavenly lore?
When my feet shall press the mystic
Borders of that better land,

Whose face greet my wondering vision,
Who shall clasp the spirit hand?

Who will greet me first in heaven?
Oft the earnest thought will rise,
Musing on the unknown glories

Of that home beyond the skies.
Who will be my heavenly mentor?
Will it be some seraph bright,-
Or an angel from the countless

Myriads of that world of light?

No, not these, for they have never
Dawned upon my mortal view;
But the dear ones gone before us,—
They the loved, the tried, the true;
They who walked with us life's pathway,
To its joys and griefs were given,
They who loved us best in earth-land
Be the first to greet in heaven.

KEEPING HIS WORD.

"Only a penny a box," he said;

But the gentleman turned away his head,
As if he shrank from the squalid sight

Of the boy who stood in the failing light.

"Oh, sir!" he stammered, "you cannot know,"

(And he brushed from his matches the flakes of snow
That the sudden tear might have chance to fall)
"Or I think-I think you would take them all.

"Hungry and cold at our garret-pane,
Ruby will watch till I come again
Bringing the loaf. The sun has set,
And he hasn't a crumb of breakfast yet.

"One penny, and then I can buy the bread!"
The gentleman stopped. “And you?” he said;
"I-I can put up with them, hunger and cold,
But Ruby is only five years old.

"I promised our mother before she went,-
She knew I would do it, and died content,-
I promised her, sir, through best, through worst,
I always would think of Ruby first."

The gentleman paused at his open door,
Such tales he had often heard before;

But he fumbled his purse in the twilight drear,
"I have nothing less than a shilling here."

"Oh, sir, if you'll only take the pack

I'll bring you the change in a moment back.
Indeed you may trust me!" "Trust you?-no!
But here is the shilling; take it and go."

The gentleman lolled in his cozy chair,
And watched his cigar-wreath melt in air,
And smiled on his children, and rose to see
The baby asleep on its mother's knee.

"And now it is nine by the clock,” he said,
"Time that my darlings were all abed;

Kiss me 'good-night,' and each be sure,

When you're saying your prayers, remember the poor."

Just then came a message—“ A boy at the door—”
But ere it was uttered he stood on the floor

Half breathless, bewildered, and ragged and strange;

I'm Ruby-Mike's brother-I've brought you the change.

"Mike's hurt, sir; 'twas dark; the snow made him blind,
And he didn't take notice the train was behind
Till he slipped on the track; and then it whizzed by—
And he's home in the garret; I think he will die.

"Yet nothing would do him, sir-nothing would do
But out through the snow I must hurry to you;
Of his hurt he was certain you wouldn't have heard,
And so you might think he had broken his word.”

When the garret they hastily entered, they saw

Two arms mangled, shapeless, outstretched from the straw. "You did it-dear Ruby-God bless you!" he said,

And the boy, gladly smiling, sank back-and was dead.

THE SEVENTH PLAGUE OF EGYPT.-GEORGE CROLY.

'Twas morn-the rising splendor rolled

On marble towers and roofs of gold;
Hall, court and gallery, below,
Were crowded with a living flow;
Egyptian, Arab, Nubian, there,
The bearers of the bow and spear,
The hoary priest, the Chaldee sage,

The slave, the gemmed and glittering page;
Helm, turban and tiara, shone

A dazzling ring round Pharaoh's throne.

There came a man-the human tide

Shrank backward from his stately stride;
His cheek with storm and time was tanned;
A shepherd's staff was in his hand;

A shudder of instinctive fear

Told the dark king what step was near;
On through the host the stranger came,
It parted round his form like flame.
He stooped not at the footstool stone,
He clasped not sandal, kissed not throne;

Erect he stood amid the ring,

His only words—“ Be just, O king!”

On Pharaoh's cheek the blood flushed high,
A fire was in his sullen eye;

Yet on the chief of Israel

No arrow of his thousands fell;

All mute and moveless as the grave
Stood chilled the satrap and the slave.
"Thou'rt come," at length the monarch spoke,
Haughty and high the words outbroke:
"Is Israel weary of its lair,

The forehead peeled, the shoulder bare?
Take back the answer to your band:
Go, reap the wind; go, plough the sand!
Go, vilest of the living vile,

To build the never-ending pile,
Till, darkest of the nameless dead,
The vulture on their flesh is fed!
What better asks the howling slave
Than the base life our bounty gave?"
Shouted in pride the turbaned peers,
Upclashed to heaven the golden spears.

"King! thou and thine are doomed!-Behold!"
The prophet spoke-the thunder rolled!
Along the pathway of the sun.

Sailed vapory mountains, wild and dun.
"Yet there is time," the prophet said.
He raised his staff-the storm was stayed;
King! be the word of freedom given.
What art thou, man, to war with Heaven?"
There came no word-the thunder broke!
Like a huge city's final smoke,

Thick, lurid, stifling, mixed with flame,
Through court and hall the vapors came.
Loose as the stubble in the field,

Wide flew the men of spear and shield;
Scattered like foam along the wave,
Flew the proud pageant, prince and slave;
Or, in the chains of terror bound,

Lay, corpse-like, on the smouldering ground.
"Speak, king!-the wrath is but begun!--
Still dumb?-then, Heaven, thy will be done!"
Echoed from earth a hollow roar
Like ocean on the midnight shore!
A sheet of lightning o'er them wheeled,
The solid ground beneath them reeled;