came to Arkansas years ago, and year after year, by the will of the voters,
he held his place as magistrate. The lawyers who practiced in his court
never joked with him, because every one soon learned that the old man never
engaged in levity. Every morning, no matter how bad the weather might be,
the old man took his place behind the bar which, with his own hands, he had
made, and every evening, just at a certain time, he closed his books and
went home. No one ever engaged him in private conversation, because he
would talk to no one. No one ever went to his home, a little cottage among
the trees in the city's outskirts, because he had never shown a disposition
to make welcome the visits of those who even lived in the immediate
vicinity. His office was not given him through the influence of
"electioneering," because he never asked any man for his vote. He was first
elected because, having been once summoned in a case of arbitration, he
exhibited the executive side of such a legal mind that the people nominated
and elected him. He soon gained the name of the "hard justice," and every
lawyer in Arkansas referred to his decision. His rulings were never
reversed by the higher courts. He showed no sentiment in decision. He stood
upon the platform of a law which he made a study, and no one disputed him.
One day, a woman, charged with misdemeanor, was arraigned before him. "The
old man seems more than ever unsteady," remarked a lawyer as the magistrate
took his seat. "I don't see how a man so old can stand the vexation of a
court much longer."
"I am not well to-day," said the Judge, turning to the lawyers, "and any
cases that you may have you will please dispatch them to the best, and let
me add, quickest of your ability."
Every one saw that the old man was unusually feeble, and no one thought of
a scheme to prolong a discussion, for all the lawyers had learned to
reverence him.
"Is this the woman?" asked the Judge. "Who is defending her?"
"I have no defence, your Honor," the woman replied. "In fact, I do not
think I need any, for I am here to confess my guilt. No man can defend me,"
and she looked at the magistrate with a curious gaze. "I have been arrested
on a charge of disturbing the peace, and I am willing to submit my case. I
am dying of consumption, Judge, and I know that any ruling made by the law
can have but little effect on me;" and she coughed a hollow, hacking cough,
and drew around her an old black shawl that she wore. The expression on the
face of the magistrate remained unchanged, but his eyelids dropped and he
did not raise them when the woman continued:
"As I say, no man can defend me. I am too near that awful separation of
soul and body. Years ago I was a child of brightest promise. I lived with
my parents in Kentucky. Wayward and light-hearted, I was admired by all the
gay society known in the neighborhood. A man came and professed his love
for me. I don't say this, Judge, to excite your sympathy. I have many and
many a time been drawn before courts, but I never before spoke of my past
life."
She coughed again and caught a flow of blood on a handkerchief which she
pressed to her lips. "I speak of it now because I know that this is the
last court on earth before which I will be arraigned. I was fifteen years
old when I fell in love with the man. My father said he was bad, but I
loved him. He came again and again, and when my father said that he should
come no more I ran away and married him. My father said I should never come
home again. I had always been his pride and had loved him dearly, but he
said that I must never again come to his home,--my home, the home of my
youth and happiness. How I longed to see him. How I yearned to put my head
on his breast. My husband became addicted to drink. He abused me. I wrote
to my father, asking him to let me come home, but the answer that came was
'I don't know you!' My husband died--yes, cursed God and died! Homeless and
wretched, and with my little boy I went out into the world. My child died,
and I bowed down and wept over a pauper's grave. I wrote to my father
again, but he answered: 'I know not those who disobey my commandments!' I
turned away from that letter, hardened. I spurned my teachings. Now I am
here."
Several lawyers rushed forward. A crimson stream flowed from her lips. They
leaned her lifeless head back against the chair. The old magistrate had not
raised his eyes; "Great God!" said a lawyer, "he is dead!"
The woman was his daughter.
THE DEAD DOLL.
BY MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.
You needn't be trying to comfort me--I tell you my dolly is dead!
There's no use in saying she isn't with a crack like that in her head;
It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out,
that day,
And then, when the man 'most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word to say.
And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it
with glue,
As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you?
You might make her look all mended--but what do I care for looks?
Why glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books!
My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it's the awfullest crack!
It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack
Against that horrible brass thing that holds up that little shelf.
Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself?
I think you must be crazy--you'll get her another head!
What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead!
And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant new Spring hat!
And I took a sweet ribbon of her's last night to tie on that horrid cat!
When my mamma gave me that ribbon--I was playing out in the yard--
She said to me most expressly, "Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde."
And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it;
But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it!"
But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe I do,
That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too.
Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit!
For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit.
But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of course;
We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse;
And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her in this, you see--
This dear little box--and we'll bury her there out under the maple tree.
And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird;
And he'll put what I tell him on it--yes, every single word!
I shall say, "Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead;
She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head."
AT THE STAMP WINDOW.
Just before twelve o'clock yesterday fore-noon there were thirteen men and
one woman at the stamp window of the post-office. Most of the men had
letters to post for the out-going trains. The woman had something tied up
in a blue match-box. She got there first, and she held the position with
her head in the window and both elbows on the shelf.
"Is there such a place in this country as Cleveland?" she began.
"Oh, yes."
"Do you send mail there?"
"Yes."
"Well, a woman living next door asked me to mail this box for her. I guess
it's directed all right. She said it ought to go for a cent."
"Takes two cents," said the clerk, after weighing it. "If there is writing
inside it will be twelve cents."
"Mercy on me, but how you do charge!"
Here the thirteen men began to push up and hustle around and talk about one
old match-box delaying two dozen business letters, but the woman had lots
of time.
"Then it will be two cents, eh?"
"If there is no writing inside."
"Well, there may be. I know she is a great hand to write. She's sending
some flower seeds to her sister, and I presume she has told her how to
plant 'm."
"Two threes!" called out one of the crowd, as he tried to get to the
window.
"Hurry up!" cried another.
"There ought to be a separate window here for women," growled a third.
"Then it will take twelve cents?" she calmly queried, as she fumbled around
for her purse.
"Yes."
"Well, I'd better pay it, I guess."
From one pocket she took two coppers. From her reticule she took a three
cent piece. From her purse she fished out a nickel; and it was only after a
hunt of eighty seconds that she got the twelve cents together. She then
consumed four minutes in licking on the stamps, asking where to post the
box, and wondering if there really was any writing inside,--but woman
proposes and man disposes. Twenty thousand dollars' worth of business was
being detained by a twelve-cent woman, and a tidal wave suddenly took her
away from the window. In sixty seconds the thirteen men had been waited on
and gone their ways, and the woman returned to the window, handed in the
box, and said:
"Them stamps are licked on kind o' crooked, but it won't make any
difference, will it?"
THE NAMELESS GUEST.
BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.
I wonder if ever the Angel of Death
Comes down from the great Unknown,
And soars away, on the wings of night,
Unburdened and alone!
I wonder if ever the angels' eyes,
Are filled with pitying tears,
As they grant to the souls, unfit for flight,
A few more weary years!
For it seems, at times, when the world is still,
And the soft night winds are whist,
As though some spirit were hovering near,
In folds of dream-like mist,
And I feel, though mortals are nowhere near,
That I am not quite alone,
And, with dreary thoughts of dying and death,
My heart grows cold as stone.
But whether 'tis death that hovers near,
And knocks at the door of my heart,
Or whether 'tis some bright angel, come
To be of my life a part,
I cannot tell, and I long in vain,
The secret strange to know,
While the moments of mirth and grief and pain,
Move on in their ceaseless flow.
And at night, when I kneel to a Higher Power
And ask His tender care,
One yearning cry of a wayward life
Is the burden of my prayer,
That I may bend, with willing lips,
To kiss the chastening rod,
And learn the way, through the golden gate,
To the great white throne of God.
OUR HEROES SHALL LIVE.
BY HENRY WARD BEECHER.
This brief extract from a splendid oration should be spoken in clear,
defined tones, rather high pitch, the utterance slow, with a rather long
pause after each question:
Oh, tell me not that they are dead--that generous host, that airy army of
invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are
they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal
language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon
society, and inspire the people with nobler motives, and more heroic
patriotism?
Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. It _was_ your son, but
now he is the nation's. He made your household bright: now his example
inspires a thousand households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now
brother to every generous youth in the land. Before, he was narrowed,
appropriated, shut up to you. Now he is augmented, set free, and given to
all. Before he was yours: he _is_ ours. He has died from the family, that
he might live to the nation. Not one name shall be forgotten or neglected:
and it shall by and by be confessed of our modern heroes, as it is of an
ancient hero, that he did more for his country by his death than by his
whole life.
LULLABY.
"Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green;
Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen."
Rockaby, lullaby, all the day long,
Down to the land of the lullaby song.
Babyland never again will be thine,
Land of all mystery, holy, divine,
Motherland, otherland,
Wonderland, underland,
Land of a time ne'er again to be seen;
Flowerland, bowerland,
Airyland, fairyland,
Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green.
Rockaby, baby, thy mother will keep
Gentle watch over thine azure-eyed sleep;
Baby can't feel what the mother-heart knows,
Throbbing its fear o'er your quiet repose.
Mother-heart knows how baby must fight
Wearily on through the fast coming night;
Battle unending,
Honor defending,
Baby must wage with the power unseen.
Sleep now, O baby, dear!
God and thy mother near;
Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green.
Rockaby, baby, the days will grow long;
Silent the voice of the mother-love song,
Bowed with sore burdens the man-life must own,
Sorrows that baby must bear all alone.
Wonderland never can come back again;
Thought will come soon--and with reason comes pain,
Sorrowland, motherland,
Drearyland, wearyland,
Baby and heavenland lying between.
Smile, then, in motherland,
Dream in the otherland,
Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green.
PENNING A PIG.
JAMES M. BAILEY.
Two families in Slawson had a somewhat singular experience several weeks
ago. These families live in a double house, and each had a pen with two
pigs. Last Friday the woman in one part discovered that her two pigs were
free from their pen, and looking after geological specimens at the foot of
the yard. She also discovered at the same time that the gate to a cabbage
yard adjoining was open, and that the pigs might at any moment become
ravished by a view of the glories within.
Her husband being away she hurriedly secured the gate, and then set about
to return the truants by the following ingenious plan: Taking a shovelful
of corn, she approached as close to the animals as possible, and, holding
the tempting morsel near enough for them to learn its inviting character,
she screwed her face into an expression of winning sweetness, and backed
slowly toward the pen.
It was a beautiful illustration of woman's faith, and we regret to write
that it did not work. The pigs took one snuff at the contents of the
shovel, just to show that they took some interest in the matter, and, being
convinced thereby that there was nothing injurious in the experiment, fell
to rooting about again with renewed fervor.
The nearer the woman came to the pen the straighter her face grew, and
presently lost every vestige of solicitude, and assumed instead an
expression of medium ferocity. What she may have done will never be known,
as at this juncture her husband made his appearance on the back stoop, and,
her eye resting upon him, she commenced to apostrophize him in the language
married people alone are adepts at.
After requesting somebody to show him the idiot who had left those hogs out
that he might punch his head, he drove straight at the truants, and missed
them, of course. Then he drove at them again with a clothes pole, and
missed them again, although he made another pole by hitting that on a
stone. Any one who has helped to drive one or two pigs will readily
understand the number of articles that passed through the air, and the
style of conversation the man kept up during the chase.
Finally, he got one of the animals in a corner, and, being by this time
utterly regardless of personal appearance or consequences, threw himself
upon the brute, neatly scraping the fence with the top of his head, and
falling upon the pig in such a way as to hold in abeyance every one of its
muscles except those in the throat. These were at once put into active
operation, and the man for a moment thought he had captured a planing-mill.
Then he raised slowly, keeping a tight hold of the animal, and getting on
his feet with a pig in his arms, struck out for the pen, preceded by his
wife and the other woman, and closely and anxiously observed by all the
neighbors for a half-mile around.
In this way the procession laboriously moved. The pig, having worked its
head within two inches of the man's ear, was pouring therein a tale of
unparalleled distress, which, if not calculated to melt the stoutest heart,
actually threatened to split open the stoutest head. The man was utterly
powerless to remedy the horror, having both hands engaged, and could only
twist his ear a little out of range, and scream at the top of his voice his
plans for the future of "them hogs."
On reaching the pen, and while in the act of dumping the howling viper over
the side, the woman next door made an unfortunate discovery. _His_ hogs
were in the pen; the truants were _hers_. The man, who was still holding
the pig, and might have, with reason, taken a prominent part in the debate,
contented himself by merely expressing a hope that he might be blessed, and
then trudged around to the other pen, where he arrived after much unlooked
for tribulation, and again hoisted the howling monster up to the top, when
the woman next door made another and still more remarkable discovery. Her
pigs were in their pen.
"What's that?" screamed the man, who was so fixed he could not very well
see into the pen, and was obliged to lift his voice to make himself heard
above the din.
"Them ain't my pigs," screamed the woman.
"Why ain't they?" he yelled.
"Cause my pigs are here," she shrieked back.
It is needless to say that the strange animals were urged out of that
garden without the use of subterfuge.
LITTLE JIM.
BY GEORGE R. SIMS.
Our little Jim
Was such a limb
His mother scarce could manage him.
His eyes were blue,
And looked you through,
And seemed to say,
"I'll have my way!"
His age was six,
His saucy tricks
But made you smile,
Though all the while
You said, "You limb,
You wicked Jim,
Be quiet, do!"
Poor little Jim!
Our eyes are dim
When soft and low we speak of him.
No clattering shoe
Goes running through
The silent room,
Now wrapped in gloom.
So still he lies,
With fast-shut eyes,
No need to say,
Alas! to-day,
"You little limb,
You baby Jim,
Be quiet, do!"
GET ACQUAINTED WITH YOURSELF.
BY R. J. BURDETTE.
Telemachus, it will do you ever so much good if every once in a while you
will go away by yourself for an hour or two and get real well acquainted
with yourself. As a man thinketh, so he is. And you will never "know
thyself" thoroughly unless now and then you get alone and sit down and talk
to yourself, cross-examine yourself; learn what you know; what are your
ambitions, your aims, your hopes,--what is your real character; because, my
dear boy, your reputation may be one thing and your character quite
another. Sometimes it does happen, in this faulty old world, that a really
good man, a man whose character is above reproach, may bear the reputation
of a rascal; and once in a while--two or three times in a while, in fact--a
rascal wears the stolen reputation of an honest man. Go away now and then,
my boy, and sit down all by yourself and think. Think of nothing under the
sun only yourself. Yes, I know, my son, there are men who never think of
anything else, and God never made more useless men; but that is because
they do all their thinking about themselves publicly and loud. They never
think alone.
You will be honest with yourself when you are alone, my boy. A man is apt
to be honest with himself in the dark. He does not pose in heroic postures
when he has no audience. When he stands face to face with himself, with no
human eye to watch him, and no human ear to listen to his confession, and
only his Maker, who knows every secret motive and thought of his life to
see and to listen, a man has to be honest. How could he be a hypocrite
then?
Get away from the crowd a little while every day, my boy. Stand one side
and let the world run by, while you get acquainted with yourself, and see
what kind of a fellow you are. Ask yourself hard questions about yourself.
Find out all you can about yourself. Ascertain from original sources if you
are really the manner of man people say you are. Find out if you are
always honest; if you always tell the square, perfect truth in business
deals; if your life is as good and upright at eleven o'clock at night as it
is at noon; if you are as sound a temperance man on a fishing expedition as
you are at a Sabbath-school picnic; if you are as good a boy when you go to
Chicago as you are at home; if, in short, you really are the manner of
young man your father hopes you are, your mother says you are, and your
sweetheart believes you are. Get on intimate terms with yourself, my boy,
and, believe me, every time you come out from one of those private
interviews you will be a better, stronger, purer man. Don't forget this,
Telemachus, and it will do you good.
THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE.
BY J. W. RILEY.
As the little white hearse went glimmering by--
The man on the coal cart jerked his lines,
And smutted the lid of either eye,
And turned and stared at the business signs;
And the street-car driver stopped and beat
His hands on his shoulders and gazed up street
Till his eye on the long track reached the sky--
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.
As the little white hearse went glimmering by--
A stranger petted a ragged child
In the crowded walk, and she knew not why,
But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled;
And a bootblack thrilled with a pleasure strange
As a customer put back his change
With a kindly hand and a grateful sigh--
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.
As the little white hearse went glimmering by--
A man looked out of a window dim,
And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry--
For a dead child even were dear to him!
And he thought of his empty life and said:
"Loveless alive and loveless dead,
Nor wife nor child in earth or sky!"--
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.
THERE'LL BE ROOM IN HEAVEN.
She was a little old woman, very plainly dressed in black bombazine that
had seen much careful wear; her bonnet was very old-fashioned, and people
stared at her tottering up the aisle of the church, evidently bent on
securing one of the best seats, for a great man preached that day. The
house was filled with splendidly dressed people who had heard of the fame
of the preacher, of his learning, his intellect and goodness, and they
wondered at the presumption of the poor old woman. She must have been in
her dotage, for she picked out the pew of the richest and proudest member
of the church and took a seat. The three ladies who were seated there
beckoned to the sexton, who bent over the intruder and whispered something,
but she was hard of hearing, and smiled a little withered smile, as she
said, gently: "Oh, I'm quite comfortable here, quite comfortable."
"But you are not wanted here," said the sexton, pompously; "there is not
room. Come with me, my good woman; I will see that you have a seat."
"Not room," said the old woman, looking at her shrunken proportions, and
then at the fine ladies. "Why, I'm not crowded a bit. I rode ten miles to
hear the sermon to-day, because--"
But here the sexton took her by the arm, shook her roughly in a polite
underhand way, and then she took the hint. Her faded old eyes filled with
tears, her chin quivered; but she rose meekly and left the pew. Turning
quietly to the ladies, who were spreading their rich dresses over the space
she left vacant, she said gently: "I hope, my dears, there'll be room in
heaven for us all." Then she followed the pompous sexton to the rear of the
church where, in the last pew, she was seated between a threadbare girl and
a shabby old man.
"She must be crazy," said one of the ladies in the pew which she had first
occupied. "What can an ignorant old woman like her want to hear Dr. ----
preach for? She would not be able to understand a word he said."
"Those people are so persistent! The idea of her forcing herself into our
pew! Isn't that voluntary lovely? There's Dr. ---- coming out of the
vestry. Is he not grand?"
"Splendid! What a stately man! You know he has promised to dine with us
while he is here."
He was a commanding looking man, and as the organ voluntary stopped, and he
looked over the great crowd of worshipers gathered in the vast church, he
seemed to scan every face. His hand was on the Bible when suddenly he
leaned over the reading desk and beckoned to the sexton, who obsequiously
mounted the steps to receive a mysterious message. And then the three
ladies in the grand pew were electrified to see him take his way the whole
length of the church to return with the old woman, when he placed her in
the front pew of all, its other occupants making willing room for her. The
great preacher looked at her with a smile of recognition, and then the
services proceeded, and he preached a sermon that struck fire from every
heart.
"Who was she?" asked the ladies who could not make room for her, as they
passed the sexton at the door.
"The preacher's mother," was the reply.
THE RETORT DIS-COURTEOUS.
BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.
Mr. Michael McGlynn, of Dublin town,
And Dinny O'Doyle, of Kildare,
Through the streets of the city, went up and down,
A remarkably guileless pair.
Said Michael to Dinny: "Me darlin' bhoy,
Since the roise o' the mornin' sun,
Niver a dhrop or a boite have Oi,
Oi think I could ate a bun."
Said Dinny to Michael: "Av coorse: av coorse!
To ate is the woise man's part;
Oi have a sinsation loike that mesilf,
Oi think Oi could touch a tart."
So the kindred souls of this guileless pair,
An eating house speedily found,
And before them a jar on the table sat,
Full of horseradish, freshly ground.