Musa prisoned by the Arab dog

For guarding me from slavery in the mart

Where my fair looks should bring a pretty price.
"The Desert, to the Desert!" O my love!
Die of God's drouth, die not of man's surfeit-
Thy body burn away, but not thy soul.
If I can follow, that I surely will,—
Will find the shining track across the sand,
After I slay my jailors. Take, O love,
My camel and the goat-skin filled with sweet
Nile water, and the dates and almonds which
I treasured for our marriage feast, O love!"
And then they led him far. And I obeyed-
Ran hither, thither, found his camel and
The goat-skin and the dates. And that is all!
The dates I lost, the camel dying rolled
Upon its side and crushed the filled goat-skin.
And I am here, and, Musa, where art thou!
I dreamed last night thou cam'st to me and laid
Cool sherbet on my tongue and lumps of ice
And manna; and I woke to find thee not,
And only bleaching camel-bones were here
And the soft tinkling of the sliding sands
And that wild tumult in the under world!
As rivers of water in a dry, dry place,
Art thou, O Musa, to me; as shadow thou
Of a great rock in a most weary land,
A barren thirsty land where no water is!
O Musa, O my love in prison chains,
Ah, could I find my way back unto thee,
And die beside the walls that keep thee from
This lonely death with me!

Ah me-a drop,

A tiny drop of water, O my God,

Who led Israel's children through this howling waste When three days toiled they and no water found!

A little dew to soothe my swollen lips,

That burst apart, peeling upon the dry

Hot pebbles that no moisture bringeth forth

From the scorched cavern underneath the tongue!

Musa! Musa! Ah, I crave the shade,

The little shade the camel dead may give:
I sink beside it, bathe my hands within

The dimness of the shadow cast by it,

And scorched and burning am I, and the air
Shakes with the heat like any solid thing,
And-Musa! Musa! See the water there,
The palms, the mottled bird, and-Musa, love,
Thou too art there, dipping a golden gourd
Within the water cool and trickling from
Thy fingers! Musa, Musa, lo, I come!
Ah, God! 'tis but the mirage once again,
And I am burning in the burning sand,
In the eternal silence hot and dry!

A TEETOTALER'S STORY.*-DELIA A. HAYWOOD,
"Well, Aifred, you're welcome, old fellow!
Step in-take this big easy chair,

I remember your fondness for lounging,
You see. Old boy, I declare,
Time hasn't dealt with you harshly-

Albeit your bonny brown hair

Is silvered a little, and crow's feet

Line cheeks that were ruddy and fair.

"It's twenty odd years since we parted,
You say, Alf? Why-yes, it must be,
For I have a boy now at college-

And you, Alf? Not married? Let's see,-
Where's Stephen St Clair? I remember

We thought he was partial to Grace,
Your sister; no wonder, that girl had
A beautiful, flower-like face.

"Both dead? Sad indeed are Time's changes-
But here, take a glass of champagne.
You look tired and pale, pray excuse me,

Your coming has set my brain

In a whirl-and it may be

I'm forgetting my duty as host.

What, nothing! Why Alfred, you're joking,
I remember you used to boast

That liquor could never upset you.

You aren't in earnest, Alf, you—

•Written expressly for this Collection.

No offence at your comments. If after
I tell you, old friend, what led

"Me into the ranks of the 'ranters'
You ask me to drink this champagne,
For once, I will stifle my scruples.
I promise to cheerfully drain
This glass to its dregs-but my story:
You spoke, Fred, of Stephen St Clair,
You remember him, handsome, great hearted,
Big brained and yet sunny and debonair?
"Well, Stephen and Grace were married,

And never a happier bride

E'er went from the home-nest and never
Was one on whom love and fond pride
Were lavished more freely, nor ever
A lovelier home. And when
The babe came, the dear, dimpled Eva,
I almost envied them then.

"The rosebud beauty of childhood
Is ever most fair to see;

But Gracie's babe had a dream face
That filled me with mystery,―

The face of a pictured angel.
Her hair was of dusky gold,

Her eyes, they were deep soft azure.
Not strange that love should enfold

"That babe in the rose-lined cradle,
Nor strange that her mother should fail
To see in her Eden a shadow,

Or mark of the serpent's trail,—

The serpent that lurks in the wineglass;
The monster who under the guise
Of fairest seeming doth enter

Too often in paradise.

"Yes, friend, I remember how often
I echoed my boyish boast

That wine could not harm me, and truly
I think I am stronger than most,

For I'm of tough stock, men of iron
With nerves like the beaten steel,
But Stephen was finer of fibre,
Hot blooded and quick to feel

"Life's jarring notes, and its discords
Would tell on his sensitive frame.
He drank less than I-but I fancied

Sometimes, that a borrowed flame
Lit up his dark eyes, that his sallies
Of wit were not all his own.
Yet never until that evening,
That fateful night, had I known

"His step to become unsteady;
Nor ever before had I heard

From lips that seemed pure as a woman's
One coarse or unmanly word.

We both had been drinking and Stephen,
For Congress a candidate,

Of course must be feted and toasted;
And though we were both elate

"And I had a dizzy feeling,

A slight confusion of brain,
My brother had lost his manhood;
And I saw with a feeling of pain
My sister shrink as we entered-

Poor girl! 'twas a terrible shock
To learn of the worse than weakness
Of one whose strength was the rock

"On which her womanhood rested.
'Old woman, you're poky to-night!
Sh'd think you'd be proud, pon honor;
A senator's wife—well, all right.
Wont kiss me? well, here's baby Eva,
She'll kiss her old papa, I know.'
Grace stood with lips parted but speechless,
Her face like the drifted snow,

"Till Stephen reeled toward the cradle,
Then she sprang to his side, with a cry:
'Oh, husband! don't take her, she's sleeping.'
A mad gleam shot from his eye,

He swore a great oath at the woman
He loved-and oh, Heaven! the child

Was hurled from his arms to the hearthstone!
That shriek of my sister's so wild

"Rings yet in my ears! The poor baby-
With only a quiver and moan—
Lay limp in my arms, and the father,
Half sobered, knew what he had done.
A gleam of swift steel in the gaslight,
A heavy, quick fall on the floor;
And Stephen St Clair lay writhing
Before me, and covered with gore.
"Two dead and one living, but never
Shone reason's clear light again
In those azure eyes of my sister;
A mercy, perhaps, that her brain
Was clouded,-that the horror

Of that one night had effaced
All traces of mem'ry. Fantastic
Creations of mind had displaced

"All anguish. I loved her, but wept not
That fair spring morn when she died.
And now, old friend, if you wish it,
I'll lay these weak scruples aside-
You do not? I thank you, but tell me,
If weak ones are vanquished by rum,
Have we who count ourselves stronger
The right to be passive and dumb?
"Shall I judge my brother? Poor Stephen!
Was I then less guilty than he?
I dallied as well with the serpent
Whose fangs were less deadly to me;
I rant of these things and I tell you
The curse on the brow of a Cain
Is his by whose word or example

The weakest of brothers is slain."

AT THE TOMB OF NAPOLEON.
ROBERT J. INGERSOLL.

A little while ago I stood by the grave of the old Nopoleon-a magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a deity dead-and gazed upon the sarcophagus of