on the lamp-post, and then, winking slyly at the other passengers, inquired with the meekest of airs, “And yer won't take the twinty-foive cints?" No, not one cent less than thirty; either pay that, or leave the car at once." "Be aisy, sorr, and Oi'll lave the car, for Oi can't submit to bain' chated out av foive cints be any wan. Come on, me darlints." And the conductor, flushed with victory, failed to notice that his exasperating passenger had reached Twenty. ninth Street, her destination, and was being rapturously embraced by Biddy Looney and the aforesaid little Moikey. He thought, poor fellow, that the laugh which went round the car was at the expense of that woman and her sprightly progeny. GOD'S MUSIC.-F. E. WEATHERLY. Since ever the world was fashioned, A music of divers meaning Has flowed from the hand of God. In valley and gorge and upland, He puts forth his hand to the ocean, He touches the waving flower-bells, But the music divinest and dearest, NATHAN HALE, THE MARTYR SPY.*~I. H. BROWN After the disastrous defeat of the Americans on Long Island, Washingtou də sired information respecting the British position and movements. Capt. Nathan, Hale, but twenty-one years old, volunteered to procure the information. He was taken and, the day after his capture, was hanged as a spy, Sept. 22, 1776. His pa triotic devotion, and the brutal treatment which he received at the hands of his captors have suggested the following: "Twas in the year that gave the nation birth,— Pursued like hunted deer, The crippled army fled; and yet, amid With armies disciplined and trained by years Of martial service, could he, this Fabian chief, Now hope to check the hosts of Howe's victorious legions~: In stratagem the shrewder general He casts about for one who'd take his life In hand. Lo! he stands before the chief. In face, A boy; in form, a man on whom the eye could rest In search of God's perfected handiwork. In culture, grace, and speech, reflecting all A mother's love could lavish on an only son. Appraised the youth at his full worth, and saw "Young man," he said with kindly air, "Your country and commander feel grateful that Such talents are offered in this darkening hour. Have you in reaching this resolve, considered well Your fitness, courage, strength,-the act, the risk. You undertake? Have you, in that fine balance, which By permission. Detects an atom on either beam, weighed welt 66 In tones of fitting modesty that well This duty to perform, the danger of the enterprise Whose issue makes our country free. In times A single life depends. If mine be deemed A fitting sacrifice, God grant a quick 66 Deliverance." "Enough, go then at once," the great Commander said. May heaven's guardian angels give You safe return. Adieu." Disguised with care, the hopeful captain crossed Well might he feel a soldier's pride. An hour hence His plans he'd lay before his honored chief; "Halt!" a British musket leveled at His head dimmed all the visions of his soul. ᏚᎪᎪ A dash-an aimless shot; the spy bore down Had freed him from his clutch, but for a score Of troopers stationed near. In vain the struggle fierce And desperate; in vain demands to be released. A tory relative, for safety quartered in The British camp, would prove his truckling loyalty A motion of the head, and he who'd dared O Judas, self condemned! thou art But the type of many a trait'rous friend, Was led. Before Lord Howe the captive youth 'Base dog!" the haughty general said, "Ignoble son of loyal sires! you've played the spy Quite well, I ween. The cunning skill wherewith You wrought these plans and charts might well adorn An honest man; but in a rebel's hands they're vile And mischievous. If aught may palliate A traitor's act, attempted in his sovereign's camp, With tone and mien that hushed The buzzing noise of idle lackeys in the hall, Has British rule been aught to me than barbarous For tyrant royalty your lordship represents I never breathed a loyal breath; and he Who calls me traitor seeks a pretext for a crime "I'll hear no more such prating cant," said Howe, Before to-morrow's sun goes down you'll swing In loathsome cell, deprived Of holy sacrament, and e'en the word of Him And to another whose young heart The morrow's work would shade in gloom, He passed the night in charge of one whom Satan had Securely bound upon a cart, amid A speechless crowd, he stands beneath a strong Upon the surging multitude. Clearly now 66 Men, I do not die in vain, A million prayers go up this day to free The land from blighting curse of tyrant's rule. Oppression's wrongs have reached Jehovah's throne, This glorious land-is free-is free! "My friends, farewell! In dying thus I feel but one regret; it is the one poor life I have to give in Freedom's cause." THE PRAIRIE MIRAGE. A burning summer sun had beaten down on the prairie for days. Furnace-like, the south winds came racing out of the pulsing haze at the far horizon. The sky seemed of copper and the floor-like plain's once emerald disc was tinged by the heat with grayish-brown. |