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Mace, sword, and axe rang on his mail,
Yet he moved not where he stood,

Though each gaping joint of armor ran
A stream of purple blood.

As, pierced with countless wounds, he fell.

The standard caught his eye, And he smiled, like an infant hushed asleep,

To hear the battle-cry.

Now one by one the wearied knights

Have fallen, or basely flown; And on the mound where his post was fixed

Olea stood alone.

"Yield up thy banner, gallant knight!

Thy lord lies on the plain; Thy duty has been nobly done;

1 would not see thee slain."

"Spare pity, King of Aragon!

I would not hear thee lie:
My lord is looking down from heaven

To see his standard fly."

"Yield, madman, yield! thy horse is down, Thou hast nor lance nor shield;

Fly!—I will grant thee time." "This flag
Can neither fly nor yield!"

They girt the standard round about,

A wall of flashing steel;
But still they heard the battle-cry,

"Olea for Castile!"

And there, against all Aragon,
Full-armed with lance and brand,

Olea fought until the sword
Snapped in his sturdy hand.

Among the foo with that high scorn

Which laughs at earthly fears,
He hurled the broken hilt, and drew

His dagger on the spears.

They hewed the hauberk from his breast,

The hemlet from his head;
They hewed the hands from off his limbs:

From every vein he bled.

Clasping the standard to his heart,

He raised one dying peal,
That rang as if a trumpet blew,—

"Olea for Castile!"

MY FRIEND'S SECRET.—B. P. Shillarer.

I found my friend in his easy chair,

With his heart and his head undisturbed by a care;

The smoke of a Cuba outpoured from hie lips,

His face like the moon in a semi-eclipse;

His feet, in slippers, as high as his nose,

And his chair tilted back to a classical pose.

I marveled much such contentment to see—
The secret whereof I begged he'd give me.
He puffed away with re-animate zest,
As though with an added jollity blest;—
"I'll tell you my friend," said he in a pause,
"What is the very ' identical' cause.

"Don't fret!—Let this be the first rule of your life;— Don't fret with your children, don't fret with your wife)

Be cool as a cucumber every day;
If favorite of fortune or a thing of its spite,
Keep calm, and believe that all is just right.

"If you're blown up abroad or scolded at home,
Just make up y6ur mind to let it all come;
If people revile you or pile on offence,
Twill not make any odds a century hence;
For all the reviling that malice can fling,
A little philosophy softens the sting.

"Run never in debt, but pay as you go;

A man free from debt feels a heaven below;

He rests in a sunshine undimmed by a dun,

And ranks 'mid the favored as A No. 1.

It needs a great effort the spirit to brace

'Gainst the terror that dwells in a creditor's face.

"And this one resolve you should cherish like gold,
—It has ever my life and endeavor controlled,—
If fortune assail, and worst comes to worst,
And business proves bad, its bubbles all burst,
Be resolved, if disaster your plans circumvent,
That you will, if you fail, owe no man a cent."

There was Bunsby's deep wisdom revealed in his ton*,

Though its depth was hard to fathom I own;

"For how can I fail," I said to myself,

"If to pay all my debts I have enough pelf?"

Then I scratched my sinciput, battling for light,

But gave up the effort, supposing 'twas right;

And herein give out, as my earnest intent,

Whenever I fail to owe no man a cent.


SNYDER'S NOSE.—"our Fat Contrirutor."

Snyder kept a beer-saloon some years ago "over the Rhine." Snyder was a ponderous Teuton of very irascible temper,— "sudden and quick in quarrel,"—get mad in a minute. Nevertheless his saloon was a great resort for " the boys,"—partly because of the excellence of his beer, and partly because they liked to chafe "old Snyder" as they called him; for, although his bark was terrific, experience had taught them that he wouldn't bite.

One day Snyder was missing; and it was explained by his "frau," who "jerked "the beer that day that he had "gone out fishing mit der poys." The next day one of the boys, who was particularly fond of" roasting" old Snyder, dropped in to get a glass of beer, and discovered Snyder's nose, which was a big one at any time, swollen and blistered by the sun, until it looked like a dead-ripe tomato.

"Why, Snyder, what's the matter with your nose?" said the caller.

"I peen out fishing mit der poys," replied Snyder, laying his finger tenderly against his proboscis: " the sun it pese hot like ash never vas, und I purns my nose. Nice nose, don't it?" And Snyder viewed it with a look of comical sadness in the little mirror back of his bar. It entered at once into the head of the mischievous fellow in front of the bar to play a joke upon Snyder; so he went out and collected half a dozen of his comrades, with whom he arranged that they should drop in at the sa! ion one after another, and ask Snyder, "What's the matter with that nose ?" to see how long he would stand it. The man who put up the job went in first with a companion, and seating themselves at a table called for beer. Snyder brought it to them; and the new-comer exclaimed as he saw him," Snyder, what's the matter with your nose?"

"I yust dell your frient here I peen out fishin' mit der poys, unt de sun he purnt 'em—zwi lager—den cents—all right."

Another boy rushes in. "Halloo, boys, you're ahead of me this time: s'pose I'm in, though. Here, Snyder, bring me a glass of lager and a pret"—(appears to catch a sudden glimpse of Snyder's nose, looks wonderingly a moment, and then bursts out laughing)—"ha! ha! ha! Why, Snyder,— ha!—ha!—what's the matter with that nose?"

Snyder, of course, can't see any fun in having a burnt nose or having it laughed at; and he says, in a tone sternly emphatic,—

"I peen out fishin' mit der poys, unt de sun it yust ash hot ash blazes, unt I purnt my nose; dat ish all right."

Another tormentor comes in, and insists on "setting 'em up" for the whole house. "Snyder," says he, " fill up the

boys'glasses, and take a drink yourse ho! ho! ho! ho!

ha! ha! ha! Snyder, wha—ha! ha!—what's the matter with that nose?"

Snyder's brow darkens with wrath by this time, and his voice grows deeper and sterner,—

"I peen out fishin'mit der poys on the Leedle Miami. De sun pese hot like ash—vel, I purn my pugle. Now, that is more vot I don't got to say. Vot gind o' peseness f but ish all right; I purn my oim nose, don't it?"

"Burn your nose,—burn all the hair off your head, for what I care; you needn't get mad about it."

It was evident that Snyder wouldn't stand more than one more tweak at that nose; for he was tramping about behind his bar, and growling like an exasperated old bear in his cage. Another one of his tormentors walks in. Some one sings out to him, " Have a glass of beer, Billy?"

"Don't care about any beer," says Billy, " but Snyder, you may give me one of your best ciga— Ha-a-a! ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho! he! he! he! ah-h-h-ha,! ha! ha! ha! Why—why— Snyder—who—who—ha-ha! ha! what's the matter with that nose?"

Snyder was absolutely fearful to behold by this time ; his face was purple with rage, all except his nose, which glowed like a ball of fire. Leaning his ponderous figure far over the bar, and raising his arm aloft to emphasize his words with it, he fairly roared,—

"I peen out fishin' mit ter poys. The sun it pese hot like ash never vas. I purnt my nose. Now you no like dose nose, you yust take dose nose unt wr-wr-wr-wring your mean American finger mit em! That's the kind of man vot I am!" And Snyder was right.

A STRAY CHILD—Eliza Sproat Turner.

The chill November day was done,

The working world home faring; The wind came roaring through the street*

And set the gas-lights flaring; And hopelessly and aimlessly

The scared old leaves were flying; When, mingled with the sighing wind,

I heard a small voice crying.

And shivering on the corner stood

A child of four, or over; •
No cloak or hat her small, soft arms,

And wind blown curls to cover.
Her dimpled face was stained with tears;

Her round blue eyes ran over;
She cherished in her wee, cold hand,

A bunch of faded clover.

And one hand round her treasure whil«

She slipped in mine the other: Half scared, half confidential, said,

"Oh! please, I want my mother!" "Tell me your street and number, pet;

Don't cry, I'll take you to it." Sobbing she answered, " I forget:

The organ made me do it.

"Ho came and played at Milly's steps,

The monkey took the money;
And so I followed down the street,

The monkey was so funny.
I've walked about a hundred hours,

From one street to another:
The monkey's gone, I've spoiled my flowers^

Oh! please, I want my mother."

"But what's your mother's name? and what

The street? Now think a minute." "Mv mother's name is mamma dear—

The street—I can't begin it." "But what is strange about the house.

Or new—not like the others?" "I guess you mean my trundle bed,

Mine and my little brother's.

"Oh dear! I ought to be at home
To help him say his prayers.—

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