Then he apostrophized his limbs
In strange soliloquy :

“Alas!" said he, "one's in the earth,
The other's in the sea;

But, though I well remember them,
They can't re-member me.

"Now bring me here that looking-glass,
And I'll take out my eye;
Although I'm not a party man

A 'man of parts' am I;"
And, as he uttered this vile joke,
He laughed as if he'd die.

The waiter's hair now stood on end,
He trembled with affright;
"Surely," thought he, "no mortal eyes
Ere saw so strange a sight."
But the man of fractions only sat
And laughed with all his might.

"Now lay my fragments in that box,
Where they'll be out of sight;
Be careful not to drop the eye,

And mind the teeth don't bite.
My limbs go on my trunk by day,
And in my trunk at night."
But fear held fast the waiter:
He merely stood and stared.
To see such soul-appalling sights
He hadn't come prepared :

While the traveler only laughed the more,

To see the man so scared;

And putting on a serious look,

In solemn accents said,

"There's only one more thing to do

Before I get in bed:

Steady yourself against the wall

And just unscrew my head!”

You've met afore the metaphor
About the camel's back;
"Tis a common aphorism where
The creature's made a hack.
It says it is the final straw

That makes his spine to crack.

It is as apt as it is old,

And, in the waiter's case,
The meaning of the proverb is
Not difficult to trace,

For he could hear no more, but rushed
From out the accursed place.

And down the stairs by threes and pairs,
He fled with speed as quick
As if an angry Nemesis

Pursued him with a stick,

Or as though the man without a leg
Had given him a kick.

And heavily as falls a log,

Or loaf of bread sans leaven,

He fell upon the sanded floor,

And, pointing up towards heaven,
Shrieked out "I've seen the devil!
He's up in Number Seven!"

A DRUM.-STANLEY WAterloo.

A regiment in motion and the rattle of a drum,
With a rat, tat, tat! and rat, tat, tum!

Fear is on the face of some,

Others stepping with aplomb;

And steady is the patter and the clatter of the drum.

Sweeping lines in evolution fast the wheeling columns come And a thousand men are stepping to the tapping of the drum! There are countenances glum,

There are senses dull and numb,

But a boy is stepping proudly-there is playing on the drum.
The rage and roar of battle, and the rattle of a drum,
The shrapnel shot are flying with a zip! and a zum !
Cruel shells exploding come,

And the bullets hiss and hum!

But a drum still echoes loudly. Will the thing be never mum? Darkness on the field of battle, where the body-seekers come; The storm of death is ended, and displayed the struggle's

sum:

A pallid face, a drum,

There is blood, and both are dumb,A story of a drummer and a story of a drum.

THE SWORD.*-HELEN BOOTH.

All through the smiling, resting land
There came the cry for valiant men—
A traitorous horde was on the strand,
And threatened freedom. Then, ah, then
Uprose the country's manly forms,
Each heart with fevered throbbings for
The land it loved, whose very storms
Were sweet as peace in time of war.
A blanched woman of threescore years,
A widow with a son alone,

Pushed back gray hair and dried her tears
(A fire within her pale eyes shone),
Her boy of nineteen years she called,
Her all of love, her most of life,

Within whose heart her own was walled.
She stifled her wild bosom's strife,

She reached his grandsire's trusty blade
From off its hook above the board,
And held it to the lad, and said,
"Here is your sword!"

Oh, carnage, carnage everywhere!
The rattle and the din and smoke;
The glints of fire; the awful stare
Of blackened, sweatened men who spoke
Their will in deadly deeds; the shrieks
From writhing wounded forms; the rush
Of steeds with fiery nostrils, streaks
Of foam upon them; the awful crush
Of flesh to earth! And there was yet
A pass untaken, through which must
The victory come. Let none forget
The lad of nineteen years, who thrust
Himself before his General's gaze,
When all appalled they eyed the pass
Where Death eyed them! His fair young face
Shone with his mother's love. "Nay, lass,"

The General frowned-"or lad art thou?

What time have I to list thy word?"

"List not," said he; "bid me to do

Here is my sword!"

Written expressly for this Collection.

Full sweetly shone the sun upon
The peaceful hamlet, where the kine
Munched the white clover, where the run
Of rivulet made music; pine

And elm before a low cot reared

Their greenery, and a clucking hen

Gathered her chicks 'neath wings, when neared

A horseman leading mounted men

In all the panoply of war,
Victory in the bronzed cheeks.

It is the General (and a scar

Writes "bravery" on his brow) who speaks:
"Halt!" and the steeds become as stone.
A blanched woman of threescore years
Came from the cot and stood alone
Upon the sward, too brave for tears.
The General held a hacked, worn blade,
He pointed to the crape that scored
His sleeve, and, bowing low, he said,
"Here is his sword!"

OUT AT SEA.-J. S. FLETCHER.

I know that I am dying, mate; so fetch the Bible here,
What's laid unopen in the chest for five and twenty year;
And bring a light along of you, and read a bit to me,
Who haven't heard a word of it since first I came to sea.

It's five and twenty year, lad, since she went to her rest,
Who put that there old Bible at the bottom of my chest;
And I can well remember the words she says to me:
"Now, don't forget to read it, Tom, when you get out to sea."
And I never thought about it, mate; for it clean slipped
from my head;

But when I come from that first voyage, the dear old girl was dead.

And the neighbors told me, while I stood as still as still can

be,

That she prayed for me and blessed me as was just gone out

to sea.

And then I shipped again, mate, and forgot the Bible there,
For I never gave a thought to it-a-sailing everywhere.
But now that I am dying, you can read a bit to me
As seems to think about it, now I'm ill and down at sea.

And find a little prayer, lad, and say it up right loud,
So that the Lord can hear it if it finds him in a crowd.
I can scarce hear what you're saying, for the wind that howls
to lee;
But the Lord'll hear above it all-for He's been out at sea.

It's set in very dark, mate; and I think I'll say good-night. But stop-look there! Why, mate; why, Bill; the cabin's turning light;

And the dear old mother's standing there as give the book

to me!

All right; I'm coming! Bill, good-by! My soul's going out to sea!

UNCLE PODGER HANGS A PICTURE.

JEROME K. JEROME.

You never saw such a commotion up and down a house, in all your life, as when my Uncle Podger undertook to do a job. A picture would have come home from the frame-maker's and be standing in the diningroom, waiting to be put up; and Aunt Podger would ask what was to be done with it, and Uncle Podger would say:

66 Oh, you leave that to me. worry yourselves about that.

Don't you, any of you,

I'll do all that."

his coat and begin.

He

And then he would take off would send the girl out for a pound of nails, and then one of the boys after her to tell her what size to get; and, from that, he would gradually work down, and start the whole house.

Now you go and get me my hammer, Will," he would shout; "and you bring me the rule, Tom; and I shall want the step-ladder, and I had better have a kitchen chair, too; and, Jim! you run round to Mr. Goggles, and tell him, Pa's kind regards, and hopes his leg's better; and will he lend him his spirit-level? And don't you go, Maria, because I shall want somebody to hold me the light; and when the girl comes back, she must go out again for a bit of picture-cord; and Tom-where's