For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,—
Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art freedom's now, and fame's, -
One of the few, the immortal names

That were not born to die.

Which I wish to remark ·
And my language is plain –
That for ways that are dark

And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar:

Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name;

And I shall not deny

In regard to the same

What that name might imply;

But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third,

And quite soft was the skies, Which it might be inferred

That Ah Sin was likewise;

Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game,
And Ah Sin took a hand:

It was euchre. The same

He did not understand,

But he smiled, as he sat by the table,

With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked

In a way that I grieve,

And my feelings were shocked

At the state of Nye's sleeve,

Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,
And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played

By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made,

Were quite frightful to see,

Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

And said, "Can this be?

We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,"
And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued

I did not take a hand,
But the floor it was strewed,

Like the leaves on the strand,

With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding "he did not understand."

In the game

In his sleeves, which were long,
He had twenty-four jacks,
Which was coming it strong,

Yet I state but the facts.

And we found on his nails, which were taper, —

What is frequent in tapers,

Which is why I remark,

And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark,

And for tricks that are vain,

The heathen Chinee is peculiar,

that's wax.

Which the same I am free to maintain.

MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG WITH HER ELDER SISTER'S BEAU

BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE

"My sister'll be down in a minute, and says for you to wait if you please.

And says I might stay till she came, if I'd promise

never to tease,

Nor speak till you spoke to me first.

nonsense; for how would you know

But that's

What she told me to say if I didn't? Don't you really and truly think so?

"And then you'd feel strange here alone. And you wouldn't know where to sit,

For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit.

We keep it to match with the sofa; but Jack says it would be like you

To flop yourself right down on it and knock out the very last screw.

Suppose you try? I won't tell. You're afraid to! Oh! you're afraid they would think it was mean. Well, then, there's the album; that's pretty, if you're sure that your fingers are clean,

For sister says, sometimes I daub it; but she only says that when she's cross.

There's her picture, you know it? It's like her; but she ain't as good looking, of course.

"This is ME. It's the best of 'em all. Now, tell me you'd never have thought

That once I was little as that. It's the only one that could be bought;

For that was the message to pa from the photograph man where I sat

That he wouldn't print off any more till he first got the money for that.

"What? Maybe you're tired of waiting. Why, often she's longer than this.

There's all her back hair to do up, and all her front curls to friz.

But it's nice to be sitting here and talking like grown people, just you and me!

Do you think you'll be coming here often? Oh, do! But don't come like Tom Lee.

"Tom Lee's her last beau. Why, my gracious he used to be here day and night,

Till the folks thought he'd be her husband; and Jack says that gave him a fright.

You won't run away then as he did; for you're not a rich man they say.

Pa says you're poor as a church mouse. Now are you? And how poor are they?

"Ain't you glad that you met me? Well, I am, for I know now your hair isn't red.

But what there is left of it's mousy, and not what that naughty Jack said.