surpliced choirs. Then the remorseless performer planted his final stab in every heart with "Home, Sweet Home."

When the player ceased, the crowd slunk away from him. There was no more revelry and devilment left in his audience. Each man wanted to sneak off to his cabin and write the old folks a letter. The day was breaking as the last man left the place, and the player, laying his head down on the piano, fell asleep.

"I say, pard," said Goskin, "don't you want a little rest?" "I feel tired," the old man said. "Perhaps you'll let me rest here for the matter of a day or so."

He walked behind the bar, where some old blankets were lying, and stretched himself upon them.

I've got a He don't know

"I feel pretty sick. I guess I won't last long. brother down in the ravine-his name's Driscoll.

I'm here. Can you get him before morning. I'd like to see his face once before I die."

Goskin started up at the mention of the name. He knew Driscoll well.

"He your brother? I'll have him here in half an hour."

As he dashed out into the storm the musician pressed his hand to his side and groaned. Goskin heard the word “Hurry!" and sped down the ravine to Driscoll's cabin. It was quite light in the room when the two men returned. Driscoll was pale as death. "My God! I hope he's alive! I wronged him when we lived in England, twenty years ago."

They saw the old man had drawn the blankets over his face, The two stood a moment, awed by the thought that he might be Goskin lifted the blanket, and pulled it down astonished. There was no one there!

"Gone!" cried Driscoll, wildly.

"Ten

"Gone!" echoed Goskin, pulling out his cash-drawer. thousand dollars in the sack, and the Lord knows how much loose change in the drawer!"

The next day the boys got out, followed a horse's tracks through the snow, and lost them in the trail leading towards Pioche.

There was a man missing from the camp. It was the threecard monte man, who used to deny point-blank that he could play the scale. One day they found a wig of white hair, and called to mind when the "stranger" had pushed those locks back when he looked toward the ceiling for inspiration, on the night of December 24, 1858.

J.

DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING MACHINE.

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

T. TROWBRIDGE, best known, perhaps, by his stories for boys, but eminent as a poet, novelist, and dramatist, was born at Ogden, N. Y., in 1827, and began to write for the New York press while still in his teens. At twenty he went to Boston, in and near which city he has ever since lived.

If ever there lived a Yankee lad,
Wise or otherwise, good or bad,

Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump
With flapping arms from stake or stump,

Or, spreading the tail

Of his coat for a sail,

Take a soaring leap from post or rail,

And wonder why

He couldn't fly,

And flap and flutter, and wish and try—
If ever you knew a country dunce
Who didn't try that as often as once,

All I can say is, that's a sign

He never would do for a hero of mine.

An aspiring genius was D. Green:
The son of a farmer-age fourteen;
His body was long and lank and lean-
Just right for flying, as will be seen;
He had two eyes as bright as a bean,
And a freckled nose that grew between,
A little awry-for I must mention

That he had riveted his attention

Upon his wonderful invention,

Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings
And working his face as he worked the wings,
And with every turn of gimlet and screw
Turning and screwing his mouth round too,
Till his nose seemed bent

To catch the scent,

Around some corner, of new-baked pies,

And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyes,
Grew puckered into a queer grimace,

That made him look very droll in the face,
And also very wise.

And wise he must have been, to do more

Than ever a genius did before,
Excepting Dædalus of yore

And his son Icarus, who wore
Upon their backs

Those wings of wax

He had read of in the old almanacks.
Darius was clearly of the opinion,
That the air was also man's dominion,
And that, with paddle or fin or pinion,
We soon or late

Should navigate

The azure as now we sail the sea.
The thing looks simple enough to me;
And if you doubt it,

Hear how Darius reasoned about it.

"The birds can fly,

An' why can't I?

Must we give in,"

Says he with a grin,

"'T the bluebird an' phobe

Are smarter'n we be?

Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller
An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler?
Doos the leetle chatterin', sassy wren,

No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men ?
Jest show me that!

Er prove't the bat

Hez got more brains than's in my hat,
An' I'll back down, an' not till then!"

He argued further: "Ner I can't see
What's th' use o' wings to a bumble-bee,
Fer to git a livin' with, more'n to me—
Ain't my business
Importanter'n his'n is?

"That Icarus

Was a silly cuss—

Him an' his daddy Dædalus.

They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax

Wouldn't stan' sun-heat an' hard whacks.

I'll make mine o' luther,

Er suthin' er other."

And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned,
"But I ain't goin' to show my hand

To nummies that never can understand
The fust idee that's big an' grand.
They'd 'a' laft an' made fun

O' Creation itself afore't was done!"
So he kept his secret from all the rest,
Safely buttoned within his vest;
And in the loft above the shed

Himself he locks, with thimble and thread
And wax and hammer and buckles and screws,
And all such things as geniuses use—
Two bats for patterns, curious fellows!
A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows;
An old hoop-skirt or two, as well as
Some wire, and several old umbrellas ;
A carriage-cover, for tail and wings;
A piece of harness; and straps and strings;
And a big strong box,

In which he locks

These and a hundred other things.

His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke
And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk
Around the corner to see him work-
Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk,
Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk,
And boring the holes with a comical quirk
Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk.
But vainly they mounted each other's backs,
And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks
With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks

He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks;
And a bucket of water, which one would think
He had brought up into the loft to drink

When he chanced to be dry,

Stood always nigh,

For Darius was sly!

And whenever at work he happened to spy
At chink or crevice a blinking eye,

He let a dipper of water fly.

"Take that! an' ef ever ye git a peep,

Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!"

And he sings as he locks

His big strong box:—

SONG.

"The weasel's head is small an' trim,
An' he is leetle an' long an' slim,

An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb,
An' ef yeou'll be

Advised by me,

Keep wide awake when ye're ketchin' him!"

So day after day

He stitched and tinkered and hammered away,

Till at last 't was done

The greatest invention under the sun!

"An' now," says Darius, "hooray fer some fun!"

'T was the Fourth of July,
And the weather was dry,

And not a cloud was on all the sky,

Save a few light fleeces, which here and there,

Half mist, half air,

Like foam on the ocean went floating by:
Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen
For a nice little trip in a flying machine.

Thought cunning Darius: "Now I sha'n't go
Along 'ith the fellows to see the show.