We were both, sor, depindent on Mickey,

The darlin' brave b’y that he was. Av coorse ye'll not ’av any trouble,

So go on wid yez now, sor, an' fill
Out a lot of thim blank affidavits,

An' i'll swear to thim all, so I will.
It's swate, yis, to die for wan's counthry;

But, bedad! I can't help but abhor
Thim battles where people got hurted,

Since Mickey got kilt in the war.

AFTER THE BATTLE.–V. STUART MOBBY. It was after the din of the battle

Had ceased, in the silence and gloom, When hushed was the musketry's rattle,

And quiet the cannon's deep boom. The smoke of the conflict had lifted,

And drifted away from the sun, While the soft crimson light, slowly fading from sight,

Flashed back from each motionless gun.
The tremulous notes of a bugle

Rang out on the clear autumn air,
And the echoes caught back from the mountains

Faint whispers, like breathings of prayer.
The arrows of sunlight that slanted

Through the trees, touched a brow white as snow, On the bloody sod lying, mid the dead and the dying,

And it Aushed in the last parting glow.
The dark, crimson tide slowly ebbing

Stained red the light jacket of gray;
But another in blue sadly knelt by his side

And watched the life passing away.
Said the jacket in gray, “ I've a brother-

Joe Turner-he lives up in Maine.
Give him these-and say my last message

Was forgiveness." Here a low moan of pain Checked his voice. Then-“You'll do me this favor,

For you shot me”-and his whisper sank low. Said the jacket in blue, “ Brother Charlie,

There's no need-I'm your brother-I'm Joe.”

THE REASON WHY.-KATHARINE H, TERRY.
It isn't that I've got a thing agin' you, Parson Peak,
Nor agin' the many “tried and true” I've met there every

week,
It's not for this I've stayed away so many Sabba' days
From the cherished little meetin'-house where oft I've joined

in praise.
But listen-if you care to know-and I will tell you all.
I think 'twas 'bout two year ago–or was it three, last fall?—
The wealthy members voted that they'd have the seats made

free,
And most of us was willin' with the notion to agree.
Perhaps the meanin' o' the word I didn't quite understand;
For the Sunday after, walkin’’long with Elsie, hand in hand,
(You know the little blue-eyed girl-her mother now is dead,
And I am Elsie's grandpa; but let me go ahead.)
Well, thinkin' o'the Master and how homelike it would be
To take a seat just anywhere, now that the seats was free,
I walked in at the open door and up the centre aisle,
And sat down tired, but happy in the light of Elsie's smile.
I listened to your preachin' with an “amen" in my heart,
And when the hymns was given out I tried to do my part;
And my love seemed newly kindled for the one great power

above
And something seemed to answer back: "For love I give

thee love." But when the benediction came and we was passin' out, A whispered sentence, with my name, caused me to turn

about. 'Twas not exactly words like this, but words that meant it all, " It's strange that paupers never know their place is by the

wall.” It wasn't 'bout myself I cared for what the speaker said, But the little blossom at my side, with pretty upturned

head; And lookin' down at Elsie, there, I thought of Elsie's

mother, And thoughts my better naturscorned I tried in vain to

smother. I've been to meetin'twice since then and set down by the wall, But kept a-thinkin'--thinkin'-till my thoughts was turned

to gall; And when the old familiar hymns was given out to sing, One look at Elsie's shinin' curls would choke my utterin'.

And so I thought it best awhile to stay at home and praise, Or take a walk in field or wood and there trace out His ways “It's better so," my old heart said, “than gather with tho

throng And let your feelin's rankle with a real or fancied wrong." But I'm prayin', parson, all the time (and wish you'd help

me pray), When one and all are gathered home in the great comin' day; When men are weighed by honest deeds and love to fellow

men, I wont be thought a pauper in the light I'm seen in then.

THEN AND NOW.- MARY M'GUIRE.

I was so small they lifted me to see
Her still, white face, lying mid folds of lace,
In that hard bed.
They told me she was dead, -
The little friend whom I
Had loved so much.
I shivered at the touch
Of the pale hand—I could not understand,
Not then.

And when again, companionless, I strayed
Through sunshine bright, and saw the yellow light
Like billows pass
Across wild fields of grass
Where we had played;
I turned aside and covered up my face-
Remembering that dark space-
And wondered why God made her die
And let me live.
It rests me now,—the memory I keep
Of that hushed face; no bloom in life's dark place
Seems fair to me
As death's white mystery,-
That slumber deep.
O little playmate of life's margin years
(Alas! these tears),
I wonder why God let you die,
And made me live!

JOE STRIKER AND THE SHERIFF. Our sheriff is a man of rather high intelligence, but tie also has a singular capacity for perpetrating dreadful blunders. Over in the town of Nockamixon one of the churches last year called a clergyman named Rev. Joseph Striker. In the same place, by a most unfortunate coincidence, resides also a prize-fighter named Joseph Striker, and rumors were afloat a few weeks ago that the latter Joseph was about to engage in a contest with a Jersey pugilist for the championship. Our sheriff considered it his duty to warn Joseph against the proposed infraction of the laws, and so he determined to call

upon

the

professor of the art of self-defense. Unhappily, in inquiring the way to the pugilist's house, somebody misunderstood the sheriff, and sent him to the residence of the Rev. Joseph Striker, of whom he had never heard. When Mr. Striker entered the room in answer to the summons, the sheriff said to him familiarly,

“Hello, Joe! How are you?"

Mr. Striker was amazed at this address, but he politely said,

“Good-morning.'

“ Joe,” said the sheriff, throwing his leg lazily over the arm of the chair, “ I came round here to see you about that mill with Harry Dingus that they're all talking about. I want you to understand that it can't come off anywheres around here. You know well enough it's against the law, and I aint a-going to have it.”

“ Mill! Mill, sir ? What on earth do you mean?” asked Mr. Striker, in astonishment. “I do not own any mill, sir. Against the law! I do not understand you, sir.”

“Now, see here, Joe,” said the sheriff, biting off a piece of tobacco and looking very wise, “ that wont go down with me. It's pretty thin, you know. I know well enough that you've put up a thousand dollars on that little affair, and that you've got the whole thing fixed, with Bill Martin for referee. I know you're

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going down to Pea Patch Island to have it out, and I m not going to allow it. I'll arrest you as sure as a gun if you try it on, now mind me!”

Really, sir,” said Mr. Striker, “there must be some mistake about

“Oh no, there isn't; your name's Joe Striker, isn't it?" asked the sheriff,

“My name is Joseph Striker, certainly.”

“I knew it," said the sheriff, spitting on the carpet; "and you see I've got this thing dead to rights. It sha'n't come off; and I'm doing you a favor in blocking the game, because Harry'd curl you all up any way if I let you

meet him. I know he's the best man, and you'd just lose your money and get all bunged up besides ; 80 you take

my
advice
and quit.

You'll be sorry if

now,

you don't.”

“I do not know what you are referring to,” said Mr. Striker. “Your remarks are incomprehensible to me, but your tone is very offensive; and if you have any business with me, I'd thank you to state it at once.”

Joe,” said the sheriff, looking at him with a benign smile, “ you play it pretty well. Anybody'd think you were innocent as a lamb. But it wont work, Josephit wont work, I tell you. I've got a duty to perform, and I'm going to do it; and I pledge you my word, if you and Dingus don't knock off now, I'll arrest you and send you up for ten years as sure as death. I'm in earnest about it.”

“What do you mean, sir?” asked Mr. Striker, fiercely.

“Oh, don't you go to putting on any airs about it! Don't you try any strutting before me," said the sheriff,

or I'll put you under bail this very afternoon. Let's see: how long were you in jail the last time? Two years, wasn't it? Well, you go fighting with Dingus and you'll get ten years sure.

“You are certainly crazy!” exclaimed Mr. Striker.

“I don't see what you want to stay at that business for, anyhow," said the sheriff. “Here you are, in a