Till checked by a sudden exhaustion;

Then-slowly her way she pursued.

Weak and fainting at heart she crept onward,
Holding on by the wall as she went;
A strange blinding mist o'er her eyesight,
And fear in her heart, weak and spent,

Till, reaching the pawn-shop's dark threshold,
The strong door was slammed in her face,
With a "Come back to-morrow, young slow-coach;
We don't 'low five minutes of grace!"
So Lotty, struck dumb with chill terror,
Crept back to her father's abode,
Sinking down in his presence, exhausted,
As if crushed by a terrible load.

"Where's the money, the money? oh, curse you!
These boots! you have hung back till late!"
"Nay, father, I ran without stopping,

Till my breath felt crushed under a weight; My boots, I'd have pledged them to serve you. But just as I reached the 'Pawn' door, "Twas shut in my face- "You lie, Lotty!

Take that!"-and she swooned on the floor.

Yes, he lifted his clenched fist and struck her,-
Struck down the sweet child of his love!
For he loved her-but loved the gin better!
And the angels wept sorrow above;
Remorse in his heart, he bent downwards,
And tenderly lifted the child;

Then placed her upon her straw pallet,
And well-nigh with anguish went wild.

"Oh, you wont die, sweet Lotty!--speak!--say so!"
And he wiped the warm blood from her face,
"I was mad, worse than mad, when I struck you,
A wretch undeserving of grace.

Oh, speak, Lotty!-speak! I'm your father!
Sin-bruised both without and within:
It wasn't your father who struck you,
'Twas the demon that's born of gin!

"Don't die! for my sake, dearest Lotty,

Live to see me reclaimed from this curse Which binds me in fetters of madness

Than slave-chains a thousand times worse;

I'll struggle to break them forever,
With God's help, as far as I can,
If you'll only stay with me a little,

To see me become a new man!"

As beauty and peace are prefigured,
When God's love has rainbowed the sky,
A smile lighted up Lotty's features,
An Iris let down from on high:

"No, father, 'twas not you that struck me,
I know it; 'twas just the bad drink;
God will take these, your tears, as repentance,
And strike off your chains, link by link.

"To be with you, and comfort you, father,
I fain for a lifetime would stay;

But, just now, do you know, I saw mother,
And I feel that I'm going away.

Have you not one sweet word for her, father?
I should like so to speak of you fair;
Just one dear word of grace from your own lips,
A message of love to take there?"

"Lotty, tell her I've signed it!—yes, signed it!—
The 'Pledge' she oft spoke of while here;
With my heart's anguished blood it is written,
Though the trace of it mayn't appear.
Tell her, Lotty, I'll join her in heaven,
God-willing-for yours and her sake;
That's my one word of love to your mother,
The message of peace you will take."

A smile lit the wan face of Lotty,

A smile that was not of this earth,
For long ere the break of the morning,
She passed to her heavenly birth.
And Jack, poor dear fellow, he lives yet,
Though sober and sad-like of face;
And he hopes a re-union in heaven,

Where he sent Lotty's message of grace.

A SERMON ON LIFE.-ROBERT J. BURDETTE. Man born of woman is of few days and no teeth, and indeed it would be money in his pocket sometimes if he had less of either. As for his teeth he had convulsions when he cut them, and as the last one comes through, lo!

the dentist is twisting the first one out, and the last end of that man's jaw is worse than the first, being full of porcelain and a roof-plate built to hold blackberry seeds.

Stone-bruises line his pathway to manhood; his father boxes his ears at home, the big boys cuff him in the playground and the teacher whips him in the school-room. He buyeth Northwestern at 1.10, when he hath sold short at ninety-six, and his neighbors unloadeth upon him Iron Mountain at sixty-three and five-eighths, and it straightway breaketh down to fifty-two and one-fourth. He riseth early and sitteth up late that he may fill his barns and storehouses, and lo! his children's lawyers. divide the spoils among themselves and say: "Ha! ha! He groaneth and is sore distressed because it raineth, and he beateth upon his breast and sayeth "My crop is lost!" because it raineth not. The late rains blight his wheat and the frost biteth his peaches. If it be so that the sun shineth, even among the nineties, he sayeth, "Woe is me, for I perish!" and if the northwest wind sigheth down in forty-two below, he crieth, "Would I were dead!" If he wears sackcloth and blue jean, men say "He is a tramp," and if he goeth forth shaven and clad in purple and fine linen, all the people cry: "Shoot the dude!" He carrieth insurance for twenty-five years, until he hath paid thrice over for all his goods, and then he letteth his policy lapse one day, and that same night fire destroyeth his store. He buildeth him a house in Jersey, and his first-born is devoured by mosquitos. He pitcheth his tents in New York, and tramps devour his substance. He moveth to Kansas, and a cyclone carryeth his house away over into Missouri, while a prairie fire and tenmillion acres of grasshoppers fight for his crop. He settleth himself in Kentucky, and is shot the next day by a gentleman, a colonel and a statesman-because, sah, he resembles, sah, a man, sah, he did not like, sah.

Verily, there is no rest for the sole of his feet, and if he had to do it over again he would not be born at all, for "the day of death is better than the day of one's birth."

PATTIN' JUBA.-FRANCES E WADLeigh.

"Pattin' juba," is the darky expression or a shuffling dance, in which the handa accompany the motion with a rhythmic patting.

Wuffaw yo' look a' me laike dat

I aint a doin' nuffin!

P'yurs laike yo' t'ink dis chile am flat
Jes' caze he's pattin' juba.

1 knows my shu't he full o' holes,
My trousiz kine o' baggy;

My laigs, mam' say, is jes' laike poles,
But lawsy, dey is danc'uhs!

Wuffaw yo' w'ite folks alluz t'inkin'
'Bout w'at yo' eat an' w'ah?
Wuffaw yo' spi'its alluz sinkin?
Yo' bettuh learn pat juba!

Brudduh Jones he say awn Sunday
Ou' Heb'nly Fahduh lubs us;
But come sun-up awn a Monday
Yo' frets 's ií yo' all's awphins.

1 knows my shu't be full o' holes,
My trousiz kine o' baggy,

My laigs, mam' say, is jes' laike poles,
But-see me pattin' juba!

• Fi' cents fuh me? Jes' caze I dance?
Oh t'anky, missis, t'anky!

Dis nigguh gwine fuh kick an' prance,
Fi' cents fuh pattin' juba!

HOW THE BEES CAME BY THEIR STING.

CARLOTTA PERRY.

The honey-bees on Mount Hymettus, long and long ago, Had made some noney from the very sweetest flowers that

grow;

It was very clear, translucent, and golden in its hue,

It tasted of the sunshine, the roses, and the dew.
And they all declared, the oldest inhabitant as well
As the youngest, that for whiteness and firmness of the cell,
For sweetness and for flavor, that there was not anywhere
A drop of honey that with this a moment could compare.

It seemed as though all gracious things had entered into it,
It seemed an offering for the king of high Olympus fit.
So thought the queen bee, and, of course, the others thought
as she did;

Therefore without dissenting, it quickly was conceded
That she should take it up to him (I quite assume that you
know

That when I speak of Jupiter, I am including Juno).

So up to Mount Olympus, to Jupiter the Great,
The queen bee of Hymettus, went flying swift and straight,
And laid her gift of honey, fresh, amber-hued, and sweet,
With many pretty compliments, low at his highness' feet,
Saying: "O gracious Jupiter! the gift I bring contains
The life of verdant valleys, and the soul of summer rains;
The freshness of the morning, the noon's effulgent glory,
The blushes of the roses as they listen to the story
That the south wind whispers to them, and the fragrant
breath that comes

From the lips of lily blossoms and the heart of clover-blooms;
Besides which, and far better, it holds a love as true

As the sweetness of the lilies or the freshness of the dew. And with humble admiration, we beg that you will let us At the feet of Mount Olympus lay the heart of Mount Hymettus."

From all of which remarks it is plainly to be seen

That she was a very eloquent, poetical bee queen.

And Jupiter, admiring, unto himself avers

That his kindness and politeness at least shall equal hers. And so, with many a winning smile and many a gracious

bow,

He accepted her fair offering, explaining to her how
Of all the gifts from any land or clan, or tribe or nation,
There could be none that he would hold in higher estima-

tion.

Besides, he gave a banquet to the gods that night, and so She could see with half an effort that her gift was apropos. He was very kind and gracious, and, at last, in reckless pleasure,

And wishing to make fit return in full and ample measure, Declared that he would deem it a very happy task

To give to her for all her kind, the gift that she might ask. "So ask ye, gentle queen," he said, "unfearing, and straight

way

Your desire shall be granted, let the same be what it may."
She mused a little moment and then she said, "O king!
I pray you give to me and mine a keen and subtle sting;