In that vile and filthy alley, long ago one winter's day, Dying quick of want and fever, hapless, patient Billy lay, While beside him sat his sister, in the garret's dismal gloom, Cheering with her gentle presence Billy's pathway to the tomb.

Many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child, Till his eyes lost half their anguish, and his worn, wan features smiled;

Tales herself had heard hap-hazard, caught amid the Babel

roar,

Lisped about by tiny gossips playing round their mothers' door.

Then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she told How beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold, Where, when all the pain was over,-where, when all the tears were shed,-

He would be a white-frocked angel, with a gold thing on his head.

Then she told some garbled story of a kind-eyed Saviour's

love,

How He'd built for little children great big play-grounds up

ȧbove,

Where they sang and played at hop-scotch and at horses all

the day,

And where beadles and policemen never frightened them

away.

This was Nell's idea of heaven,-just a bit of what she'd

heard,

With a little bit invented, and a little bit inferred.

But her brother lay and listened, and he seemed to under

stand,

For he closed his eyes and murmured he could see the promised land.

"Yes," he whispered, "I can see it, I can see it, sister Nell; Oh, the children look so happy, and they're all so strong and well;

I can see them there with Jesus-He is playing with them,

too!

Let us run away and join them, if there's room for me and

you."

She was eight, this little maiden, and her life had all been

spent

In the garret and the alley, where they starved to pay the

rent;

Where a drunken father's curses and a drunken mother's

blows

Drove her forth into the gutter from the day's dawn to its

close.

But she knew enough, this outcast, just to tell this sinking boy,

"You must die before you're able all the blessings to enjoy. You must die," she whispered, “Billy, and I am not even

ill;

But I'll come to you, dear brother,-yes, I promise that I will.

"You are dying, little brother, you are dying, oh, so fast; I heard father say to mother that he knew you couldn't last. They will put you in a coffin, then you'll wake and be up there,

While I'm left alone to suffer in this garret bleak and bare.”

"Yes, I know it," answered Billy. “Ah, but, sister, I don't mind,

Gentle Jesus will not beat me; He's not cruel or unkind. But I can't help thinking, Nelly, I should like to take away Something, sister, that you gave me, I might look at every day.

"In the summer you remember how the mission took us out To a great green lovely meadow, where we played and ran

about,

And the van that took us halted by a sweet bright patch of land,

Where the fine red blossoms grew, dear, half as big as mother's hand.

"Nell, I asked the good kind teacher what they called such flowers as those,

And he told me,

I remember, that the pretty name was rose. I have never seen them since, dear-how I wish that I had

one!

Just to keep and think of you, Nell, when I'm up beyond the

sun.'

Not a word said little Nelly; but at night, when Billy slept, On she flung her scanty garments and then down the stairs

she crept.

Through the silent streets of London she ran nimbly as a fawn,

Running on and running ever till the night had changed to dawn.

When the foggy sun had risen, and the mist had cleared a

way,

All around her, wrapped in snowdrift, there the open coun

try lay.

She was tired, her limbs were frozen, and the roads had cut her feet,

But there came no flowery gardens her poor tearful eyes to greet.

She had traced the road by asking, she had learnt the way

to go;

She had found the famous meadow-it was wrapped in cruel

snow;

Not a buttercup or daisy, not a single verdant blade

Showed its head above its prison. Then she knelt her down and prayed;

With her eyes upcast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground,

And she prayed to God to tell her where the roses might be

found.

Then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew strangely dim;

And a sudden, awful tremor seemed to seize her every limb.

Oh, a rose!" she moaned, "good Jesus,—just a rose to take to Bill!"

And as she prayed a chariot came thundering down the hill; And a lady sat there, toying with a red rose, rare and sweet; As she passed she flung it from her, and it fell at Nelly's feet.

Just a word her lord had spoken caused her ladyship to fret, And the rose had been his present, so she flung it in a pet; But the poor, half-blinded Nelly thought it fallen from the skies,

And she murmured, "Thank you, Jesus!" as she clasped the dainty prize.

Lo! that night from out the alley did a child's soul pass a

way,

From dirt and sin and misery up to where God's children

play.

Lo! that night a wild, fierce snow-storm burst in fury o'er the

land,

And at morn they found Nell frozen, with the red rose in

her hand.

Billy's dead, and gone to glory-so is Billy's sister Nell; Am I bold to say this happened in the land where angels dwell,

That the children met in heaven, after all their earthly woes, And that Nelly kissed her brother, and said, "Billy, here's

your rose?"

RECLAIMED; OR, SUNSHINE COMES AT LAST.*

SCENE.—A room poorly furnished, Mrs. Barnwell seated, sewing. Mr. Barnwell, a dejected look on his face, seated on a broken chair. Frank on a stool or box.

MR. BARNWELL. Mary, it seems useless for me to make any further effort. The demon has got hold of me he claims me for his own and I am powerless in his grasp. I may as well drink myself into perdition at once and close my miserable career.

MRS. BARNWELL. Oh, Edwin, do not talk in that way! Rouse yourself. Ask help from on high; pray earnestly for help that you may be enabled to stand! This, I believe is your only hope now.

MR. B. Oh, Mary, there is no hope. When the thirst comes upon me I yield-I am forced to go. I may think of your poverty and suffering, I may think of our poor child here, but in spite of all I must go. Oh, Mary, you do not know what a hold the love of strong drink has got upon me. The thirst at times is so great that I am willing to sacrifice everything,-life, home, my hopes of future happiness,~ everything, that I may have the accursed drink. Oh, no, you cannot understand how entirely I am in its power.

MRS. B. Edwin, I beseech you, make one more effort to save yourself and us. We are in poverty; life is a burden. If you continue in your present course what must be the end of it all?

FRANK. Oh, papa, if you only could quit drinking how happy we would all be! When you come home from the saloon I am afraid, and mamma is afraid. Sometimes I think you will kill us. Oh, papa, can't you be a good man, just like when you are not drinking?

Copyright, 1891.

MR. B. My poor child, I know I am a brute-but I am lost, I am lost! (Rises, seemingly in great agony and strides across the room, then seats himself.)

FRANK (going to him and climbing upon his knee). No, papa, you aren't lost-you're here. I'm your little Frank and I'll help you all I can if you'll only be a good man again. Don't you know how mamma feels? I think she is sick all the time now because you are so bad and if she should die, oh, what would I do?

MR. B. (putting Frank down, and rising.) Oh, how can I endure this? (Takes his hat.)

FRANK. Oh, papa, don't go out again. Don't go to the saloon.

MRS. B. (going to him.) Edwin! Edwin!

MR. B. (waving her aside.) It is of no use, Mary. I am lost. The thirst has returned. Why should I struggle any longer? Let me go; let me end my miserable life.

[Exit.

Mrs. B. sinks into a chair, weeping; Frank tries to comfort her.

ACT II.

[Curtain.

SCENE.-Same as in Act I. Frank lying on a cot in one corner of Mrs. Barnwell seated by a small table, sewing.

the room. FRANK. Mamma, I'm so sick, and I've had such an ugly dream. I thought papa was driving both of us out of the house and then after awhile we both died.

MRS. B. My poor child! Try and go to sleep again and I think you will feel better in the morning.

FRANK. Mamma, I can't sleep. I'm so cold. If I should die and go up to heaven don't you think I could ask God to help my papa, so that he wouldn't drink any more? (Mrs. Barnwell doesn't reply but buries her face in her hands.) Don't cry, mamma. I'll die, and then I'll go to heaven and I'll do everything to get God to help you, and to keep papa from being so bad. (Noise heard outside; Frank sits up.) Oh! (Seems frightened.) Oh, mamma, he's coming.

MR. B. (entering, intoxicated.) What yer sittin' up fur? Why don't yer go to bed?

MRS. B. I am trying to finish this piece of sewing.

MR. B. Throw down yer sewin'; pitch it out of er house. Don't want no sewin' here. Better have some supper, I think. Git some supper, I say.