WHISPERIN' BILL.-IRVING BACHELLER.

So you're takin' the census, mister? There's three of us livin' still,

My wife, and I, an' our only son, that folks call Whisperin'

Bill;

But Bill couldn't tell ye his name, sir, an' so it's hardly worth givin',

For ye see a bullet killed his mind an' left his body livin'.

Set down fer a minute, mister. Ye see Bill was only fifteen At the time of the war, an' as likely a boy as ever this world has seen;

An' what with the news o' battles lost, the speeches an' all the noise,

I guess every farm in the neighborhood lost a part of its crop o' boys.

"Twas harvest time when Bill left home; every stalk in the fields of rye

Seemed to stand tiptoe to see him off an' wave him a fond good-bye;

His sweetheart was here with some other girls,-the sassy little miss!

An' pretendin' she wanted to whisper 'n his ear, she gave him a rousin' kiss.

Oh, he was a han'some feller, an' tender an' brave an' smart, An' tho' he was bigger than I was, the boy had a woman's heart.

I couldn't control my feelin's, but I tried with all my might. An' his mother an' me stood a-cryin' till Bill was out o' sight.

His mother she often told him when she knew he was goin'

away

That God would take care o' him, maybe, if he didn't fergit to pray;

An' on the bloodiest battle-fields, when bullets whizzed in the air,

An' Bill was a-fightin' desperate, he used to whisper a prayer.

Oh, his comrades has often told me that Bill never flinched a bit

When every second a gap in the ranks told where a ball had hit.

An' one night when the field was covered with the awful

harvest of war,

They found my boy 'mongst the martyrs o' the cause he was fightin' for.

His fingers were clutched in the dewy grass-oh, no, sir, he wasn't dead,

But he lay sort o' helpless an' crazy with a rifle ball in his head.

An' if Bill had really died that night I'd give all I've got worth givin';

For ye see the bullet had killed his mind an' left his body livin'.

An officer wrote and told us how the boy had been hurt in the fight,

But he said that the doctors reckoned they could bring him around all right.

An' then we heard from a neighbor, disabled at Malvern Hill,

That he thought in a course of a week or so he'd be comin' home with Bill.

We was that anxious t' see him we'd set up an' talk o' nights Till the break o' day had dimmed the stars an' put out the northern lights;

We waited and watched for a month or more, an' the summer was nearly past,

When a letter came one day that said they'd started fer home at last.

I'll never fergit the day Bill came,-'twas harvest time again;

An' the air blown over the yellow fields was sweet with the scent o' the grain;

The dooryard was full o' the neighbors, who had come to share our joy,

An' all of us sent up a mighty cheer at the sight o' that soldier boy.

An' all of a sudden somebody said: "My God! don't the boy

know his mother?"

An' Bill stood a-whisperin', fearful like, an' starin' from one to another;

"Don't be afraid, Bill," said he to himself, as he stood in his coat o' blue,

"Why, God'll take care o' you, Bill, God'll take care o' you."

He seemed to be loadin' an' firin' a gun, an' to act like a man who hears

The awful roar o' the battlefield a-soundin' in his ears;

I saw that the bullet had touched his brain an' somehow

made it blind,

With the picture o' war before his eyes an' the fear o' death in his mind.

I grasped his hand, an' says I to Bill, "Don't ye remember

me?

I'm yer father-don't ye know me? How frightened ye seem to be!"

But the boy kep' a-whisperin' to himself, as if 'twas all he

knew,

"God'll take care o' you, Bill, God'll take care o' you."

He's never known us since that day, nor his sweetheart, an' never will;

Father an' mother an' sweetheart are all the same to Bill. An' many's the time his mother sets up the whole night through,

An' smooths his head, and says: "Yes, Bill, God'll take care o' you."

Unfortunit? Yes, but we can't complain. It's a livin' death more sad

When the body clings to a life o' shame an' the soul has gone to the bad;

An' Bill is out o' the reach o' harm an' danger of every kind;
We only take care of his body, but God takes care o' his
mind.
-The Independent.

DEATH'S TRIUMPH.

To render this effective the speaker should appear to be addressing a prostrate figure.

Ho! ho! At last I've found you! You know not my weary years of patient watching and patient waiting. I've sat by you many a time with outstretched hands during your infancy. I've followed you during all the misfortunes and dangers of youth. I've sought you upon land, when the elements were in frenzy around you, when the thunderbolts were crashing near you. I've sought you when plague and pestilence were abroad in the land. But over and over you escaped me. I sought you on the battlefield, when leaden bullets fell like hail, and your comrades fell around you; yet again did you escape me, and my weary watch was in vain, for kind angels watched over you. Again I caught you on the ocean, when the wild waves ran mountain high. Ah! how I laughed as I saw the good ship go crashing on the hidden reef! How it gladdened my heart at sight of your

struggles, and how eagerly I stretched out my hands as the waters went over you! But a friendly spar came within your grasp, and again you were snatched from my arms. Disheartened, I left you. But at last, at the banquet, I saw you sip the sparkling wine. Then hope revived within me. You escaped war, which is my King Saul, that slew his thousands; but the wine-cup is my David that has slain his ten thousands. I was in your banquets. I mingled in your wine, and knew full well that ere long for you my weary watch was over,—that you, in your frenzy, would seek me. Ha ha! At last

I have found you!

THE MYSTERIOUS GUEST.-FOWLER BRANNOCK.

'Twas night-the clock had just struck ten,

When, with a mighty din,

The stage coach halted at the door

Of Smith's hotel in Lynn,

An inside passenger got out,

Who straight went in the inn.

His portly figure was enwrapped

In overcoat of shag;

While one hand grasped a traveling trunk,

The other held a bag;

And in the twinkle of his eye,

You recognized a wag.

"Waiter," he cried, "show me a room

I'm tired and travel-sore."

The waiter showed him to a room

Upon the second floor.

"Just stay a moment," said the man:
The waiter closed the door.

"Ye see," observed the traveler,
"Ere I can take a doze,
I'll have to ask a little help

In getting off my clothes;

For I'm a trifle crippled,

And can't pull off my hose."

"All right," replied the waiter,
Who was a generous elf;
"I pities any man," said he,
"As can't undress himself;
I'll very soon unrig you, sir,
And lay you on your shelf."
""Tis well," resumed the traveler,
Who dropped into a chair,
"First hang my wig upon yon peg,"
And he took off his hair.

"I'm like a case of glass," said he,
"And must be touched with care."

And as he spoke, he ope'd his mouth
As though it was a trap,

And thrust his fingers in the hole-
The waiter heard a snap,

And out there rolled two sets of teeth,
And fell into his lap.

"Now, waiter, just unscrew my arm,

But don't look so alarmed;

I'm helpless as a sailing ship
Upon a sea becalmed.

And when my arm you've taken off,

You'll see that I'm disarmed."

The waiter in astonishment

Upon the traveler gazed:

He thought so strange a stranger
Must certainly be crazed;

But, when he saw the arm come off,
He was still more amazed,

And seemed inclined to go away.
"A moment more, I beg,"
Cried out the waggish traveler:
"Help me unstrap my leg."
The waiter's hair began to rise
As off he pulled the peg.

"As sheep in summer," said the man,
"Rejoice to lose their fleeces,
So, when I doff my limbs at night,
My happiness increases,

Because I cannot rest in peace

Unless I rest in pieces.”