You’ve heard a portion of my tale Before? From whom? Oh, tell[23] me quick! From my lost love? You both set sail In the same ship? My heart[24] grows sick―― What? Still alive?[25] Oh, God be praised! Oh, joy![26] Oh, joy! And I will write? Now that my dead to life is raised―― Will I? Yes, now――this very night.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

GESTURES. [1] Locate person spoken to, slightly to left of front [2] Left H. O. [3] P. H. F. [4] H. B. [5] H. F. [6] V. H. O. [7] H. B. [8] H. Sweep. [9] B. Par. V. H. O. [10] B. D. O. [11] P. H. F. [12] H. L. [13] B. A. O. [14] B. D. O. [15] H. O. [16] Hands over eyes. [17] H. O. [18] B. P. H. O. [19] Hand to head. [20] H. F. [21] D. F. [22] Left H. F. [23] B. H. F. [24] Hand to heart [25] Clasp hands. [26] B. A. O.

PA.

I’ve got one of the best Pa’s in this world. Pa is very fond of me, too; in fact, no one ever comes to our house when Pa’s home that he don’t commence to praise me before he even asks the guest to be seated. Pa’s not rich, so we often have to make both ends meet by resorting to novel expedients; and even then, the ends don’t stay together worth speaking of. Pa’s memory is none of the best; poor, dear man, I’ve known him to eat two soft-boiled eggs while trying to determine whether or not he had seasoned them. The other day Pa brought young Judson, the lawyer, home to dinner; we had codfish and potatoes with warmed-up coffee from breakfast. Ma almost fainted. Judson said he doted on cod-fish――but then he is a lawyer――Ma trod on my foot――said she in a whisper, “Tell your father not to ask him to have more coffee.” Pa caught the word coffee. “Why, yes,” yelled out Pa, “Judson, my boy, pass over your cup!” I never felt so mortified in my life; there wasn’t a single drop in the pot!

“You must pardon us,” stammered Ma. “Never mind excuses,” interrupted Pa, “Pour out the nectar, Matilda――why――why――”

“Yes, why,”――mother’s face was scarlet――“it is why――why have you not had the hole in the bottom of this pot mended? the coffee’s all leaked out.” Poor ma! how I pitied her.

Last night the Higgins girls called to know if we liked the style of their new silk dresses――such stuck-up mortals I never saw――their father used to mend Pa’s boots――owes his fortune to a judicious use of chalk and an old pump――and styles himself a retired milk dealer. Pa happened to be in the parlor when the Higgins girls floated in. “Hannah,” said Pa, “go upstairs and get the silk dress you’ve just finished.” “Why Pa, how you do talk,” said I, my heart almost ceasing to beat. “Don’t be so modest, Hannah,” he continued, “show the young ladies how handy you are.” “Oh, Pa!” I cried, trying to get his mind off the dress, “did you ever see such beautiful bonnets?” The fates were against me. “Ladies,” said Pa, “that girl is worth her weight in gold; she’s just finished trimming over a last season’s hat, and has just made the handsomest dress out of her Ma’s old silk frock that ever a human eye rested on!” The Higgins girls giggled, and I――I could have sunk through the floor.

One day Pa said he would take us to a matinee. It was on a Monday, but Ma said she’d put off the washing, although the washerwoman declared she’d never put up with such tomfoolery again. Pa came home later than usual, and almost hurried us to death. At last we arrived at the theatre, streaming with perspiration. A grand opera was to be given, and the entrance was crowded. Pa began searching for his tickets. He first dove into one pocket, then into another; meantime we were elbowed and jostled by the throng. “Strange,” groaned Pa, “I put them in my vest pocket.” Just at that moment Judson and his two sisters alighted from a hack. Pa turned white as chalk, then red as a canned lobster. “Come, quick,” he gasped, “this way.” We followed him to the corner. “What’s the matter, dearie?” asked Ma. “Why,” groaned Pa, “Judson’s got my tickets. I gave them to him last night, but forgot all about it until he just now jumped out of the hack.” So we lost that opera and a good washerwoman, too. Still, Pa’s awful nice.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

Dying to Win.

Fierce blows the gale and cold, Loudly the windows[27] rattle; Why, the stars seemed never half so bright. Hark![28] ’Twas a bell that tolled―― There, again! must I battle Through another dreadful winter night?

Better by far to die. Who[29] in this mighty city Wastes a thought on such a wretched life? Who heeds my weary sigh? Who sheds a tear in pity? All alone I wage[30] the bitter strife.

Bright gleams yon chandelier,[31] Gay sound the reckless voices; And how tempting warm the red grate glows! No![32] rather perish here―― Ah, no――my soul rejoices,[33] For I triumph spite of all my woes.

Now, that I’ve made my vow, Who[34] comes to help me keep it? Are the saints that preach asleep or dead? Ripe is the harvest now, Yet comes there none to reap it. Not a cent![35] no home; no crust of bread.

Fie,[36] upon hearts so cold! Not one will deign to aid me; And my own sex turn[37] me off with scorn; Sneer at me; call me bold; Taunt me, and then upbraid me―― O, my God,[38] how can I wait till morn?

Mother, is that you[39] there? Surely,[40] I must be dreaming―― Do not leave me, mother;[41] take me home! Oh, how keen[42] bites the air! Yonder[43] the dawn is gleaming. It is I, your child: Oh, mother,[44] come!

Sleepy, indeed, am I―― Wait till I kneel[45] down, mother―― Now[46] I lay me down to sleep――keep off――[47] Help! help! help! I shall die―― Give me some air――I smother! I am saved![48] Now let the cold world scoff.

* * * * *

Fierce blows the gale and cold, Loudly the windows[49] rattle, And the stars are paling[50] out with fright: Oh, ’tis a tale oft told: Done is the hard-fought battle―― And a weary soul has said good-night.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

GESTURES. [27] H. O. [28] Hand raised to listen. [29] H. O. [30] Clasp hands. [31] H. F. [32] B. V. H. F. [33] A. O. [34] H. O. [35] D. L. [36] P. Ind. H. O. [37] Ver. H. L. [38] Look up. [39] B. H. F. [40] Hand to brow. [41] B. H. F. [42] Shiver. [43] Ind. H. O. [44] B. H. F. [45] Kneel. [46] Clasp hands. [47] B. Par. H. O. [48] B. A. O. [49] H. O. [50] V. A. Sweep.

LITTLE BROWN EYES.

Many years ago there lived in a tiny cottage, a widow and her two children, Frank and Edith. The cottage stood by the roadside, not far from a village, and was almost hidden from view by the pretty roses and vines that clung to its sides.

One warm summer afternoon, when Frank was away to the village with his donkey and cart, and the widow was busy sewing in the back part of the cottage, little Edith, who had been weaving a wreath of flowers, lay fast asleep on the front porch, shaded from the rays of the sun by the arbor that covered the door. She lay there with her long golden hair partly hiding her pretty face, with the unfinished wreath still held in her hands, and her little straw hat filled with buds and sprays, upset at her side.

Now, the road that passed the cottage was much used by travelers, as it led in both directions to large cities; but on this particular afternoon not a human being, nor an animal, nor a vehicle of any sort could be seen on its white, gleaming surface; and save the drone of a passing bee, or an occasional chirp from a cricket under the porch, not a sound broke the deep stillness. Even the birds seemed to be dozing, so nap-inspiring was that sultry summer afternoon.

An hour later and Edith was still sleeping, when the distant rumble of wheels could be heard. They were yet a long way down the road, although from their peculiar rattle it was evident they belonged to a light wagon――perhaps some farmer returning from market. Presently a cloud of white dust rose above the trees and indicated the point reached by the wagon, but the latter could not yet be seen from the cottage on account of the intervening foliage that skirted the roadside. A few moments later an odd-looking, top-heavy vehicle, drawn by two lank horses, emerged into view. Behind the wagon, mounted on a mule, rode a dark-visaged man.

When the wagon arrived in front of the house it stopped, and the man on the mule advanced to the garden fence, dismounted, and threw his reins over the gate post. He then opened the gate, and was about to pass to the rear of the cottage when he spied little Edith. The slanting sunbeams had crept so close to her face that it was only a question of a few moments when the bright glare would end her sleep.

The man paused and glanced cautiously about him; then, taking another look at Edith, he stealthily moved on until he reached the back part of the house. The widow sat in a large arm-chair near the kitchen door, which was open. In her lap lay an old garment that she had been mending; the cool breeze that came through the door from the front of the house blew the pendant honey-suckle against her cheek, but she heeded it not, for she, too, like little Edith, had succumbed to the influence of the sleepy afternoon.

The dark-visaged man no sooner took in the situation than he quickly, but quietly, returned to the wagon and said some strange words to a big, stupid-looking fellow who was perched on the front seat of the odd-shaped vehicle, and from whose hands dangled the lines of the lank horses. The fellow stood up, and shading his eyes with his huge, brawny hand, peered toward the house: then fastening his lines to a hook in the wagon bow, he jumped lightly to the ground and followed his companion to where little Edith lay sleeping.