Good night, here's the end of my paper;
Good night-if the longitude please,-
For maybe while wasting my taper,

Your sun's climbing over the trees.
But know if you haven't got riches,

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,

That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,
And you've struck it-on Poverty Flat.

BRET HARTE.

THE FIRST SNOWFALL.

The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night

Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fur and hemlock

Wore ermine too dear for an earl;
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new roofed with Carrara
Came chanticleer's muffled crow;
The stiff rails were softened to swan's down
And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snowbirds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn,
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"

And I told of the good Allfather,

Who cares for us here below,

Again I looked at the snowfall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high

I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloudlike snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I whispered,
"The snow that husheth all,-
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall."

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.

Yes, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew.
Just listen to this:

When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through,
And I with it, helpless, there, full in my view,
What do you think my eyes saw through the fire,
That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher,
But Robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see

The shining! He must have come there after me
Toddled alone from the cottage without
Any one's missing him. Then, what a shout-
Oh! how I shouted, "For Heaven's sake, men,
Save little Robin! Again and again

They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall
I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call,
"Never mind, baby, sit still like a man,
We're coming to get you as fast as we can.'

They could not see him, but I could; he sat
Still on a beam, his little straw hat
Carefully placed by his side, and his eyes
Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise,
Calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept.
The roar of the fire up above must have kept
The sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name
From reaching the child. But I heard it.
It came
Again and again-O God, what a cry!
The axes went faster, I saw the sparks fly
Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat
That scorched them—when, suddenly, there at their feet
The great beams leaned in-they saw him-then, crash,
Down came the wall! The men made a dash-
Jumped to get out of the way-and I thought
"All's up with poor little Robin," and brought
Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide

The sight of the child there, when swift, at my side,
Some one rushed by, and went right through the flame
Straight as a dart-caught the child-and then came
Back with him-choking and crying, but saved!
Saved safe and sound!

Oh, how the men raved,

Shouted, and cried, and hurrahed! Then they all
Rushed at the work again, lest the back wall

Where I was lying, away from the fire,

Should fall in and bury me.

Oh! you'd admire

To see Robin now, he's as bright as a dime,
Deep in some mischief, too, most of the time.
Tom, it was, saved him. Now isn't it true,
Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew?
There's Robin now-see, he's strong as a log-
And there comes Tom, too-

Yes, Tom was our dog.

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.

8

OUR COARTIN'.

I shall never forgit our coartin'. Lor' bless me, wot a gay yung feller I wos wen I fust knoo Betsi. My 'air was kurled every blessid mornin' vith bakky pipe, an' I thought o' nothin' but fashun an' vanitis. I'd four rows o' hobnales in my best boots and wore a wesket every blessid day in the week, let alone Sundays. If ever there wos a sho' of dawgs my puppis carried orff the prize; an' thay wos puppis! You kood a put 'em in a 'arf quarten glarse, an' thay luv'd me like a farthur. If ever there wos a friendly lead, Joe open'd with the fust song. If there wos a raffle, Joe put his name atop of the list an' 'ad the fust throw. Ven 'e fed his rabbits, the

gals used to look over the railings and visper" pretty bunny," meanin' "pretty Joe." When 'e went out burd-ketchin' tha use to bother 'im fur pressints, an' made pets o' the burds; an' wen he tuk vun on 'em to the play thare wos no stint o' gingur-beer an' mutton-pies, fur eels 'adn't kum up. But I nevur used to think o' marryin'; an' at larst thay hall got to callin' me "Batchilur Jo," for, as the feller sez in the book, "My 'art wos adermint agin the distrakshuns o' the fair."

66

But it warn't to last for ever; fur wun day I wos goin' 'ome promiskus-like, in the evenin' at nite, wen I kum plump on a Jak-in-the-Grene in a by-street, an' I wos standin' as yoo might be, lookin' at the green workin' up an' down, more like a barril o' beer fomentin' than anythin' else, wen up cum the Queen o' Buty with the ladle, an' begun to darnse.

Yer mite 'ave knock'd me down vith a sledge 'ammer, for of all the luvly things I ever see, she wos one. She koodn't have weighed less than 'leven stun, an' she 'ad a arm an' fist as could a floored a coaly, an' wos kuvvered vith muslin an' red boots like the beins of anuther vurld. The gentle excitement o' the 'op 'ad given a glo' of warmth to 'er cheeks an' nose, and d'rekly I se' 'er I felt a sumthink krackin' hinside, an' I knoo my 'art wos touched.

"Give us a copper," sez she.

"A copper," I sez, "annythink, everythink; here's tuppense.

"Is that all?" sez she, smilin.'

"I have no more,"

smoke?"

"She do," sez she.

sez I; "stop, does yer mothur

"Then take my baccy-box," I sez, an' I give her half-anounce of burd's-eye an' a kullered pipe.

Thay vent off, an' I followed an' see 'er dansin' agin and agin vith the Lord in the cock'd 'at an' green sash, an' makin' beleev to kiss 'er hand an' offer' er luv to 'im till I felt the fires of jellursy cussin' thro' my branes, tho' I might 'ave 'ad the sense to see as it wos only a purfeshunal detachment.

I follered 'er to 'er fathur's door, as wos a koke merchunt ov the name of Chigley. I see 'em put the green to bed. I found out 'er name was Betsi. I waived a last adoo to 'er as I went 'ome.

she stood neer the coke skales.

But not to sleep. I fed the rabbits an' the pijjins, an' giv the pups a hapurth o' milk an' put 'em to bed. All nite long I wos tossin' about. I got up an' wacked the puppies for a change. I tried to teach my starlin' to vissel "Elizurbuth Chigley," but it wos only the nite before as I teeched 'im to larn “Ratketchur Joe," out o' komplerment to a friend, and 'e mixt the two together, an' did nothin' but vissel "Ratketchur Chigley" till I felt as if I could ha' pisened 'im.

It vent on for sum days, an' every 'our I got worse an' worse. I tuk no pride in dres, the peck of my cap wos pretty nigh as often on my forehead as it vos over my left ear. I 'ad to take two drinks to finish a pot of 'evvy, my 'air got out o' kurl, I kouldn't vissel, I kouldn't shy a skittel-ball. I 'adn't the strength to skin a rabbit, I wos off my oakky, I was late on markit days, I spekkilated in koke an' lost, I skwandered my kapital, I 'ated the rat-pit, I didn't 'ave a fite for three weeks. The pups groo up without 'avin' thare tales kut, the kat fought the chikkings, the rabbits got 'uffy, an' one on 'em 'ung hisself through the bars of his 'utch; an' in the midst of it all the vite mouse vos konfined, and the fathur seemed to ask me 'ow 'e wos to git sop for 'his childrun.

This brought me too.

"I must do suthin' or die," sez I. "I owe a dooty to this 'ere family o' innersents," an', as luck it would have it, I hit upon a idea.

There wos a haredressur in the street as had a assistant named Alfonser de Makasser, a puffect swell, as wore Wellintun boots, an' could spell “satisfakshun" like a dixonery, likewise 'e kould rite ornimentle, an' did all the cards fur the vindy, so I vent to him.

I told him wot wos the mattur, an' sez 'e, "You have my