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Forget how smooth the curls were on his head.
Mother,” I cried, “ has Jo got well again?”.
“Yes, dear,” she whispered, "well and out of pain." And then I went and stood by mother's chair,
She looked as different, most, as little Jo;
Too pale and sick, it seemed to me, to sew. And there was such a sadness in the air!
But mother stitched away with all her might,
A little narrow gown made all of white. Jo has a pretty grave: it stands alone,
Near other poor folks' graves close by the wall.
The most of them are large, a few are small. Jo's hasn't yet, of course, got any stone;
But summer grasses grow there just as sweet,
And winter snows,--they drape it like a sheet. I often wondered how it came that we
Should bave the right to lay our dear boy there,
In that sweet spot, with none to blame or care; I didn't understand how it could be,
For not a blade of grass grows near our door;
We haven't any yard, we are so poor. So I asked mother when we stood beside
His grave one day. “The dear Lord, long ago,
Gave graves like this,” she said, “to such as Jo,"
I wonder why? It is a pretty grave, I'm sure,
SABLE SERMON.-I. EDGAR JONES. Deah frens, l'se glad ter see yo' heah, I knows yo'll think it
funny, But I is gwine ter preach dis day bout ways ob makin'
money. Dar's mighty few rich folks in heaben, an'many a monstrous
steeple Am nearah to de angel's home dan those high flyin' people What rustle sisks an' muttah prayers jess by its stately
shaddah; Dey'll make less fuss on judgment day, likewise be sufferin' But when I sees yo' settin' heah wiv darned an' tattahed
breeches, I knows eff yo’ is lost at all it wont be by yo' riches; Yo' may find 'ligion 'thout a cent an' sing an' preach an'
hollah, But 'ligion now like odder things lean sumflin' on de dol.
lah: Yo' can't git tickets inter heaben fo' dimes, nor yet by
stealin', But dollah bills all turn de wheels as well as faith an' feelin'. Few dollahs salted down in bank ell gib yo' spectful neighbahs;
1 Dey'll gib yo' influence an' grease yo' missyunary labahs; Make ob yo' house a pleasant home-no musk-rat habita
shun, An' boost yo'up above de reach ob hungah an' temptashun; Moreobah, yo' kin pay yo' tax, keep off de jedge's docket, An' laff at sheriff's wiv a lump of greenbacks in yo' pocket. Be honest, but don't shet yo’eyes; be generous, but keerful; An' when de white man talk yo' slick be quite perlite an'
cheerful, But mind he don't git all yo'got while yo’ is grandly grinnin', He's allus smilin' when he sets his patent trap fo' skinnin’; It's werry well ter credit folks wiv right-smart good inten
tions, But understan' de whole machine an’ study dar inventions. Don't spend yo'time in making plans, in jawin’an' debatin'; Some feller grab yo'chances while you's talkin'an’a-waitin'; Don't wait fur sumthin' ter turn up, but quit yo’idle dreamin', An' turn things up ter suit yo’self while silly owls am
screamin'; Don't trade in Sampson's clubs an' sich, tied up in holdbacks
fettahGood luck is jess persimmon-nice but pluck is sumflin' bet
tah. So many niggahs spend dar all, sometimes befo' dey earn it; Might jess as well git none at all, or when dey gits it burn it. Dar pocket-books am lank an' lean, inside der heads am
leanah, Dar houses look like swines' abodes, sometimes a little
meanah. Yo'll find em always at a dance rigged up in rings an' laces, A-struttin' round like dusky swans a-goin' fro dar paces. Dar heads am empty as a gourd, dar hearts am jess as holler, Likewise dar pocket-books; andey am allus tryin' ter
Few dollahs from dar clebah frens, a-scrapin' an'a-pawin', Jess like a mustard plastah, too, a-clingin'an'a-drawin’; Don't be sech trouble-trash as dat, sech puddin’-headed
creachahs. Dem dunces boun' ter bust darselbs in spite ob books an'
preachahs. Best imitate de 'dustrious bees, save up fo’ hungry weathah, An' when some strangah 'tack the hive see how dey stick
togethah; Be true to all yo' honest friens, gib tothers de cold shouldah, An' maybe dey will learn respec' fo' wisdom when dey's
oldah. Bime by, when yo' is perched way up on top de social lad
dah, Dey'll be moah sensible, or else dey'll be a good deal mad
dah. In fact der way ter git along is allus find a reason Fo' eberything' yo' say or do, an' do it jess in season; Be shuah ter make expenses less dan what you's daily
gainin', Fix umberillas when it's fine an' not when it's a-rainin'. Don't be meah buttahflys or gnats, so frolicky an' flighty, Jess help yo’selves den ask moah help an' grace ob God Al
mighty. When tempted ter buy useless frills, be keerful, don't yo' do
it; No pocket fills if like a sieve mos' ebery thing runs through Den shall yo' hab a monument as high as yondah steeple, An’smoked Amerikins shall he a great an' mighty people.
RETRIBUTION. It is not the waters of a mighty river bursting its banks and sweeping swiftly and mercilessly over the lowlands; not the vengeful advance of a prairie fire reaching out its thousands of red tongues for new victims; not the mighty hurricane destroying and devastating. It is a body of men moving along a highway in the darkness, more menacing in its silence than the hurricane in its roaring. Not a voice is raised above a whisper; no face looks backwards. On-over the hillsalong the levels --across the bridges--tramp! tramp! tramp! They reach the outskirts of a town, but there is no halt. Up the broad street, turn to the right, turn to the left-a thousand people sleeping undisturbed by the measured footsteps.
A sleeping jailer is aroused by a thunderous rapping on the heavy door. He opens it and looks out upon a hundred men whose silence—whose very attitudes—tell him everything at a single glance. Two words are whispered in his ear: “The keys !” Duty warns him to resist. Prudence cautions him to obey. A score of men. push past him without a look or a word, and one of them holds up a light while the others peer through the barred doors. One-two-three-they halt at the fourth. The occupant has been aroused. With face as white as snow, with eyes which speak of the terror in his heart, with every nerve suddenly unstrung by the menace, he cowers like some conquered wild beast.
“Bring out the murderer!”
A key turns in the lock, strong arms pull him into the corridor and out into the summer's midnight. He would fight fire or food; he would brave bullet or knife, but here is a menace more terrible. He has no more courage than a child. He tries to speak--to beg--to plead, but the words choke him. With a grim and speechless guardian on either side, with grim and speechless men marching before and behind, he is led away. He groans in his agony of mind, but the hands grip tighter. He staggers in his weakness, but the arms which support him grow more rigid.
The branches of a tree shut out the sight of heaven as the victim looks up. There is a reaction now. He denies his guilt; he pleads for his life. His voice reaches the ear of every man, but no one heeds it. It is hardly a minute before a noose is thrown over his head, and swift fingers tie his arms and legs. He is still speaking, he is desperately hoping that one heart in that crowd may be melted, when the leader gives a sign.
Next instant there is a body swinging from the limb swinging-writhing--twisting----a horrible sight even in the merciful darkness. Scarcely a hand is nioved as the minutes go by. Not an eye is turned away until the horrible pendulum hangs still and dead. Then a low command is given, and the crowd breaks into fragments, and the fragments are swallowed up in the darkness.
Retribution takes her place at the foot of the tree to watch the night out alone.
THAT AUTOGRAPH SALE.-Elmer Ruan COATES.
The papers blew a perfect gale,