Money was scarce, an' lots of people havin' nothin' 'tall to do. Not a-knowin' how to manage for to put the winter through.

I, too, told 'em in the meetin', I had figured up, and know, "Twould be hard to git the money jist to build a church for show;

Why, sed I, for forty years I'd bin goin' to and fro,

Through the summer's heat and dust and the winter's cold and snow,

And I'd never heerd complainin', or suggestin' somethin'

new,

That the meetin' house was common, so it wouldn't longer do:

And the deacon, me and him, sed the house was good enough,

And to go and build another would jist be a waste of stuff; For the Lord was great and holy, and opposed to empty

show,

And to help 'em build another, we would vote a solid no!

Howsomever, they decided, after long and keerful search, For to go ahead and build it, an't must be a stylish church. So we saw 'twas no use talkin', and the deacon, me and him, Seein' as how we couldn't stop em, sed they needn't count us in;

For the deacon, me and him, when we see a sin about, Keep a-poundin' and a-poundin', tryin' to knock the bottom

out.

Why I never could believe it, from the cradle up to now,
That a stylish church was better, any way, or any how;
That 'twas any nearer heaven settin' in a cushioned pew,
Than upon the old pine benches in our meetin' house, do
you?

Or that carpet on the floor, or upon the meetin' stair,
Made it easier for to travel to the mansions over there.
Does a fancy winder pane, flingin' colors all around,
Or an organ with a bellows pumpin' out a roarin' sound,
Or a steeple with a bell, and a cross upon the top,
Help to git us nearer heaven, by a-liftin' of us up?
Why 'cordin' to that notion, God has made a big mistake
By not havin' padded sleepin' cars to haul 'em through the

gate;

For it seems they're really willin' for to walk the golden

street,

But in gittin' there, they study how to ease their tender

feet.

The deacon, me and him, were a-sayin' t'other day

That the people were explorin' how to find an easier way;

They would like to git to heaven if they could ride a fancy

hoss

On a level grassy road where there wasn't any cross;

For them crosses, they don't like, they would rather bear bouquets,

Somethin' smellin' sweet and nice, that would git the people's praise;

Somethin' in the style of fashion, more becomin' to a gent Than a-bearin' heavy crosses--and a-payin' more per cent. They must have their stylish churches, for to sing and preach and pray,

So that all may git to glory in their own app'inted way.
Now 'twould be a kinder nice, jist before them people died,
If the Lord would let 'em in on a smooth terboggan slide,
For it's easier goin' down than it is a-goin' up,

And it's nicer eatin' honey outer a fancy lookin' cup;
But if they can git to heaven slidin' in, in that a-way,
They may try it if they will, but they'll find it doesn't pay;
For it's not the Bible way of bein' saved, and gittin' in,
And we don't propose to risk it, that's the deacon, me and him.

PLEASE, PREACHER MAN, CAN I GO HOME? Bess went to church one sultry day:

She kept awake, I'm glad to say,

Till "fourthly" started on its way.

Then moments into hours grew;

Oh, dear! Oh, dear! what should she do?
Unseen she glided from the pew,

And up the aisle demurely went,
On some absorbing mission bent,
Her eyes filled with a look intent.

She stopped and said, in plaintive tone,
With hand uplifted toward the dome,
"Please, preacher man, can I go home?"

The treble voice, bell-like in sound,
Disturbed a sermon most profound;
A titter swelled as it went round.

A smile the pastor's face o'erspread,
He paused, and bent his stately head;
"Yes, little dear," he gently said.

HIS SWEETHEART'S SONG.-FRED C. DAYTON.

[ADAPTED.] ·

Perhaps never before in all its eventful history had Castle Garden seen such an event as this. The time was four o'clock on a Friday morning in the closing days in February. John Kirton, a Scotch immigrant, who had obtained permission to await the arrival of the Wyoming, on which he expected his parents, awoke from his uneasy slumbers on a bench in the rotunda at the hour named. He was suffering terribly, and at his request a physician was called. The man was found to be the victim of a congestive chill and beyond the aid of medical science.

"I can ease your pain, but I cannot save your life," said the doctor. "What are your wishes?"

"Send for Bessie," groaned Kirton. "She's at the Mission of our Lady of the Rosary. Her full name is Bessie Hewitt, and we were to have been married after the Wyoming got in."

A messenger rushed out, and meanwhile the sick man was conveyed to the wooden hospital building by a Russian Jew and an Armenian who, like Kirton, had been spending the night on the benches. Miss Hewitt soon arrived, escorted by one of the priests. She sank down beside the cot on which her almost unconscious lover lay. He revived at her touch and asked: "Is't thou, lass?" "Yes, John, dear."

"I'm goin' a lang journey, sweetheart; langer than the journey to America was, and I want to start with the music of thy sweet voice in my ears. Sing to me, Bessie, lass; sing one of the tunes we knew when we were barefooted children paddling in the burn."

"My son," interrupted the priest, "have vou made your peace with God?"

"I confess myself a sinner, and I look to Christ for mercy," gasped the sufferer. "Bessie, sing." The girl crept to his side and placed her right arm under his head. Then she began the sweet old strains of

"Annie Laurie," each strong contralto note sanctified by sorrow bravely borne.

"Maxwelton braes are bonnie---"

And the sick man settled back with a sigh and a smile upon his honest, homely features—

"Where early fa's the dew."

"Cease, my poor girl," interrupted the physician. "Your lover can hear you no more. He is dead."

The girl's voice died away in a sob, the tears streamed down her cheeks, her figure quivered with the agony of sorrow, and she fell upon the rough floor iu the utter abandonment of a great grief. The lover who had followed her from the far-off highlands of Scotland-who hand in hand with her had wandered through the gray old cathedral of Elgin and gazed upon the memorials of saints and warriors gone, while they planned out the progress of their united lives-was dead, and the future seemed utterly blank and barren.

The strange group about her stood with uncovered heads in the presence of the majesty of death and the majesty of woe until the priest stepped from their number, and, raising high a little crucifix, said to the quivering Scotch lassie :

"My daughter, look up and be comforted. Behold the symbol of Him who suffered more than you, and rely upon the promises that shall endure when all of us are dust."

A gun boomed its brazen welcome to the rising sun from the not far distant Governor's Island. It aroused the girl even more than the exhortation of the minister. She arose, wiped her eyes, and said: "John was a soldier once; he fought the Soudanese at Suakin; he always told me to be brave, and I will. Gentlemen, you have been kind to a poor, heartbroken stranger. Accept my thanks. Now, father, we will go."

The might of bereavement had raised her from the level of a peasant girl to that of a queen for a moment. She drew the cover over her dead warrior's face and

clasped the priest's arm. The others followed like vas

sals in her train. At the outer door of the Garden she paused and took the Russian Hebrew by the hand. "1 bless you," she murmured.

"Sholam alacham," replied the dark and bearded man. "And you," she continued, addressing the Armenian. "Salaam aleikam," was his response.

"And you, and you," to the doctor and the writer. A bow was all my answer, for what could I add to the lofty and oriental dignity of the salutes of the Israelite and the Syrian? "Peace be with you," and "Bow unto God," comprised a hail and farewell beyond the scope of ordinary English.

So back to the mission went the widowed maiden and the black-robed priest, and back into the Garden went the Americans and the visitors from the far East. And as they separated a mighty sound of whistling arose above the sunlit, wind-tossed waters of the bay, and the Wyoming bore down to port. John Kirton's aged parents hastened into the great rotunda to meet their son and prepare for a wedding. They found a corpse and made ready their dead for burial.

DON PEDRO AND FAIR INEZ.-ROBERT C. V. MEYERS
Written expressly for this Collection.

Don Pedro loved the Donna Inez who
The reigning beauty was of gay Madrid,
And who, 'twas currently reported, knew
The secret of perpetual youth-for hid
Away in her bright eyes, and her soft blush,
Her pearly teeth, her wealth of midnight hair,
Were forty summers odd, although the flush
Of twenty only seemed to make her fair.
Don Pedro loved her,-loved her all in all,
Thought of her, dreamed of her, by day and night;
Forsook all others, lived within her thrall,
Was blind without her, with her had new sight.
"Twas "Inez, Inez," till he was a bore,

And people laughed-especially those who knew
The natal day of the sweet maid; some swore
She fifty was, but others forty-two.