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HOW MOSE COUNTED THE EGGS. Old Mose, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of a certain Southern city for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived, but he has got the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady herself came out to the gate to make the purchase.

“ Have you got any eggs this morning, Uncle Mose?” she asked.

“Yes, indeed I has! Jess got in ten dozen from de kentry.”

“Are they fresh ?”

“I gua'ntee 'em. I know dey am fresh jess de same as ef I had laid 'em myself.”

"I'll take nine dozen. You can just count them into this basket.”

"All right; mum." (He counts.) One, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten. You can rely on dem bein' fresh. How's your son coming on at de school ? He must be most grown.”

“ Yes, Uncle Mose, he is a clerk in a bank.”
"Why how old am de boy?
“He is eighteen.”

“You don't tole me so. Eighteen, and getting a salary already ? Eighteen, and (counting) nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-foah, twenty-five, and how's your gal comin' on? She was mos' growed up de las' time I seed her."

“She is married and living in Dallas.”

“ Wall, I declar'. How de time scoots away! An' yo' say she has chilluns? Why, how old am de gal? She mus' be jess about

"Thirty-three.”
"Am dat so? Firty-free, (counting) firty-foah, firty-

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five, firty-six, firty-seven, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, for ty-one, forty-two, forty-three. Hit am so sing’lar dat you has sich ole chilluns, I can't b'leve you has grandchilluns. You don't look more den forty yeahs old yerself.”

“Nonsense, old man, I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be fifty-three years old, they

are

“Fifty-free? I jess don't b'leeve hit. Fifty-free, fiftyfoah, fifty-five, fifty-six,-I want you to pay tenshun when I counts de eggs, so dar'll be no mistake-fiftynine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah -whew! Dis am a warm day. Dis am de time ob yeah when I feels I's gettin ole myself. I aint long fer dis world. You comes from an ole family. When your fodder died he was sebenty years ole.”

"Seventy-two."

“ Dat's ole, suah. Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebentyfoah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seven, sebentyeight, sebenty-nine--and your mudder? She was one ob de noblest looking ladies I ebber see. You reminds me ob her so much. She libbed to most a hundred. I b'leeves she was done past a centurion when she died.”.

“No, Uncle Mose, she was only ninety-six when she died."

" Den she warn't no chicken when she died. I know dat-ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eightdar, one hundred and eight nice, fresh eggs, jess nine dozen, and here am one moah egg, in case I has discounted myself.”

Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward, Mrs. Burton said to her husband :

“I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there and heard old Mose count them myself, and there were nine dozen."

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THE SAND-MAN.-GEORGE COOPER.
He peeps in through the key-hole,

And he bobs up at the pane,
When scarlet firelight dances

On wall and floor again.
Hush! bere he comes,-the Sand-man,

With his dream-cap he is crowned,
And grains of sleep he scatters,

Going round and round and round

While the little ones are nodding, going round.
He whispers quaintest fancies;

With a tiny silver thread
He sews up silken eyelids

That ought to be in bed.
Each wee head nods acquaintance,

He's known wherever found;
All stay-up-lates he catches,

Going round and round and round

With a pack of dreams forever going round.
I see two eyes the brightest;

But I'll not tell whose they are!
They shut up like a lily-

That Sand-man can't be far !
Somebody grows so quiet-

Who comes, without a sound?
He leads one more to dream-land,

Going round and round and round !
And a good-night to the Sand-man, going round.

- Independent.

MAD ANTHONY'S CHARGE.- ALEXANDER N. Easton.

The capture of the fort, at Stony Point, on the Hudson, forty-two miles above New York, by General Wayne, July 16, 1779, is justly considered one of the most brilliaut exploits performed during the Revolutionary War. Close beside the river Hudson stood a fortress large and

strong; But the foemen, the dread British, held that fort and held

it long; Patriots in vain might storm it, there it stood so grim and

tall; Piled behind the sullen breastwork lay the powder and the It was in a time of trouble, and our nation was pressed sore; Clothed in bloodshed, through the country, stalked the cruel

ball.

tyrant, War, Leaving many a mark of anguish, leaving many a bitter

trace, In the pain and in the sorrow seen on every anxious face. Husbands, fathers, sons and brothers; these had perished

in the fight, Battling for their God and country, for our freedom and the

right! But there still were trusty patriots, who were yet within the

field. They had shed their blood already, they would rather die

than yield. There was one among the soldiers who had longed the fort

to gain; He had never yet been vanquished, -brave, headstrong An

thony Wayne. Washington, his chieftain, questioned whether he the fort

could take, And he answered: “General, listen. I'd storm -for free

dom's sake!” 'Twas in summer, and the broiling sun was beating fiercely

down On the tents pitched in the meadow, on the breastwork

huge and brown. By the ramparts of the fortress, with his rifle at his side, Stood the watchful English picket, and the distant tents he

eyed. With his pistols in the holster and his sword clasped in his

hand, Seated on his veteran charger, Gen. Wayne rang out com

mand. From the huts and tents surrounding, with the rifle, pistol,

sword, Clustering round their dauntless leader, came the ready,

anxious horde. “ Fix your bayonets-empty rifles! Fire not a shot to-day; By the steel upon our muskets we must conquer in this

fray!” With their bayonets fixed and steady, swords and barrels

gleaming bright, Stood they waiting for the signal-eager to commence the

fight. Some were veterans of the army, they for years had followed Others were but just recruited, they had never fought before.

war;

Looking at the upturned faces, Wayne cried, “Let our motto

be: To the one who fights for freedom, God will give the victory!" Belched the cannon's fire and thunder, burst the shells to

left and right; Through the smoke and din of battle, charged the heroes in

their might; And the groans of dying comrades heard they, yet they

passed them by, Though their hearts grew faint within them, as they left

them there to die! Suddenly a rifle bullet, whistling from the British hold, Struck the General in the forehead, headlong fell the leader

bold; From the lips grown pale so quickly issued forth a feeble

moan; On the hill the deadly cannons boomed their answer to his

groan. With their faces stern and anxious, gathered round his

trusty men; He, by sturdy arms supported, staggered to his feet again. “It is nothing but a flesh wound, 'tis no time to falter nowStony Point must yet be taken, or I die to keep my vow.” Forward through the din of battle, on their shoulders bore

they him, Each man grasping tight his musket, charging still with

glorious vim! Though the cannons roared the louder, and the bullets rat

tled fast, Not one ever stopped or faltered while their life and strength

might last. Ah! what scenes of death and suffering, and of agonizing

pain; Ah! what lives to Freedom given, for they died that she

might reign. Patriots, falling from the bullets, left their life blood, warm

and red, On the soil which they had fought for, while their comrades

onward sped. British cheeks grew pale with terror, as their foemen nearer

came; They had raised a demon in them, those were wild who

once were tame. Right before the fearful cannon, in their fury charged our

men, Sprung they bravely on the ramparts- backward fell the

tyrants then.

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