And how does himsilf stand the confliction? Faies lonesome, does he? Faix and he'll not be lonesome long, let me tell you. He'll foind another woife before many days have passed the merigin. And you moight be willin' to forgive him for that, if it weren't for the chil der. Me heart blades for the little innercent darlin's. Think av it, Mrs. Jones,-six wee motherless childer wid a stip-woman batin thim!

And for the matter av that, she moight be the bist intintioned famale benath the sun, but she couldn't have a mother's tinder falin's for her little wans. (See here, Patsy Reilly, if you lay wan finger on that chiny dish agin, I'll break ivery bone in your body.) As I wus a-sayin', Mrs. Jones, a person what isn't a mother can't have a mother's tinder love for the little wans. It aint no way natural. There was Kate Jice what married Kagen tin months afther his woife doied. She'd bate thim childer wid the fust thing she could lay her hands on. It aint-(Mary Ann, what are you up to now? If you middle wid thim bricy brics any more, I'll knock you spachless.)

You see, Mrs. Jones, paple as aint had any childer can't affectionate thim loike we that have. They don't same to be Howly Moses! if there aint that Tommy of mine wid both fate in the dinner pot, and his father's peraties ferninst his dirty shoes! (Luk here, you young spalpeen, I'll knock your head agin the wall tell you can't spake, if you bother me any more.)

It aint that some of thim stip-mothers don't mane well, Mrs. Jones; but they don't onderstand how to rare the dilicate little things. It aint in thim. They moight be will-intintioned, but it's my dacided opinion that a mother should be a born wan,-wan growin' up wid the childer, so to spake, for how can a stip-mother faie-arrah me! what's thim rascals up to now? Jist howld on a minute, Mrs. Jones, tell I go in and bate ivery wan of thim into obegence. pace tell I do.

I wont injy a siconda

THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST.*-S. W. Foss.

The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' uv silk,

An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk; Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys an' stovepipe hats were there,

An' doods 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer.

The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz: "Our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz,

An' as we hev no substitoot, as Brother Moore aint here, Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?"

An' then a red-nosed, drunken tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style,

Give an interductory hiccup, an' then staggered up the aisle. Then through thet holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin, An' through thet air of sanctity the odor uv old gin.

Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge: "This man purfanes the house er God! W'y this is sacrilege!"

The tramp didn' hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet,

An' sprawled an' staggered up the steps, an' gained the organ

seat.

He then went pawin' through the keys, an' soon there rose a strain

Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart an' 'lectrify the

brain;

An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees,

He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys.

The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry;
It swelled into the rafters an' bulged out into the sky,
The ol' church shook an' staggered an' seemed to reel an'
sway,

An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!"

An' then he tried a tender strain thet melted in our ears, Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down

'ith tears;

An' we dreamed uv ol'time kitchens 'ith Tabby on the mat, Uv home an' luv an' baby-days an' mother an' all that!

From "The Yaukee Blade," by permission of the Author.

An' then he struck a streak uv hope-a song from souls for given

Thet burst from prison-bars uv sin an' stormed the gates uv heaven;

The morning stars they sung together, no soul wuz left alone,

We felt the universe wuz safe an' God wuz on his throne!

An' then a wail uv deep despair an' darkness come again, An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men;

No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, An' then the tramp, he staggered down an' reeled into the

night!

But we knew he'd tol' his story, though he never spoke a word,

An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard; He hed tol' his own life history an' no eye was dry thet day, W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let us pray."

A CHALLENGE.*-JAMES CLARENCE Harvey.

"Good-night," he said, and he held her hand,
In a hesitating way,

And hoped that her eyes would understand
What his tongue refused to say.

He held her hand, and he murmured low:
"I'm sorry to go like this.

It seems so frigidly cool, you know,

This 'Mister' of ours, and 'Miss.'

"I thought-perchance-" and he paused to note
If she seemed inclined to frown,

But the light in her eyes his heartstrings smote,
As she blushingly looked down.

She spoke no word, but she picked a speck
Of dust from his coat lapel;

So small, such a wee, little, tiny fleck,
"Twas a wonder she saw so well;

But it brought her face so very near,

In that dim uncertain light,

That the thought, unspoken, was made quite clear,

And I know 'twas a sweet, "Good-night."

*From "Lines and Rhymes," by permission of the Author,

PUSSY WANTS A CORNER.-W. Alexander STOUT.

[COPYRIGHT, 1890.]

CHARACTERS.

DR. PAUNCEFORT, a model of constancy for his sex.

ROBERT DUCK WORTH, a young man who believes in himself.

HORACE DUCKWORTH, rather precipitate, and generally unlucky

MISS ADELINE BARKER, an elderly lady who has not outlived he reader passion. ELSIE Miss Barker's nieces, in love with the Duck worth,

GUSSIE

SCENE.-A handsomely furnished room. Closet and window back,, large chair, sofa, table and chairs. Robert discovered.

ROBERT. Well, this has been a red-letter day in my calendar. Miss Barker (Heaven bless her!) has just given her consent to my marriage with her niece. I feared she would consider my proposal adversely, but, on the contrary, she could not have been more gracious and pleasant. Without the slightest hesitation, she agreed to my suit, yet Elsie is as beautiful and good as an angel, an heiress in her own right when of age, while I haven't a cent in the world except what I earn. My friends and relatives used to say I was born to good luck; and now I believe it. (Enter Horace, dejectedly, with a black eye.) Hello, Hod! You are just the youngster I want to see. I have a piece of news for you,-good news. HORACE (disconsolately). I hope so. (Takes seat at table.) ROBERT (taking opposite chair at table). Well, you know this is the day we agreed upon, each of us, to screw up our courage and ask Miss Barker to give us Elsie and Gussie for life. HORACE. Yes, well?

ROBERT. So I came here late this afternoon, and found the old lady among her ferns in the conservatory. I marched up to her like a man, and she was just as sweet and pleasant to me as could be. Said I, "Miss Barker, I have long loved your niece, Elsie. I have her own word that she reciprocates my affection, and only your consent is needed to complete our happiness." I don't exactly remember just what more was said, but the consent was given, and so readily, I was surprised. "Take her, Robert," said she, "and my blessing. But I charge you to be good to her, for I love her dearly." Then she asked me to stay and take dinner. So the affair is fixed to come off in six months, and I am happy as a lord.

HORACE (extending his hand). My dear Bob, allow me to congratulate you,-on the dinner you have already enjoyed, and the bride you are to possess.

ROBERT (taking the proffered hand). Thank you. Why, I say, Hod, what is the matter with your eye? (Seriously.) You haven't been fighting, I hope.

HORACE. Oh, no, nothing of the sort. I met with a slight accident over in Terrington this morning,-fell over a pile of stones,-that's all. Yes, my dear fellow, I not only congratulate you, but I envy you, for this afternoon early, I attempted the same thing and ignominiously failed.

ROBERT. You don't mean to say you proposed for Gussie? HORACE. Yes, and the old lady sat down on me like a thousand of bricks, figuratively speaking, of course.

ROBERT. Well, you are an idiot if you presented yourself with that face. You know, well enough, the old lady has a prejudice against you and thinks you get into more fights and scrapes than necessary. Why didn't you meet me as you appointed? (Rises, very much irritated and walks up and down room.) You know you have never taken an important step in your life but you have first come to me and got me to set you straight. I have always had to watch you as if you were a baby. If I didn't part your hair occasionally and brush your clothes you wouldn't be tolerated in decent society. What work of art in the shape of a necktie have you got on to-day? Is it purple and green, or red and yellow? Lift up your head and and let me see. Ah! I observe it is a combination of solferino, brown and orange. (Resumes seat at table.) Forgive me, old man, I am talking like a brute, but I cannot understand your want of tact and sense. It provokes me to see you go off like a squib with such a waste of powder. Ha! Ha! Excuse me for laughing, but really, Hod, I can't help it; you look so ridiculous.

HORACE. I know I was a fool. But I thought I had a good opportunity. I was coming up the road that runs along by the kitchen-garden when I spied Miss Barker giving orders to her man about the tomato vines. Said I," Miss Barker, may I have a moment's conversation with you in private." She looked at me rather strangely, I thought, and said curtly, "Yes." Then I took her around under the shade and told her I wanted to marry Gussie. You ought