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THE PRETTY MAID OF KISSIMMEE.-JOEL BENTON,

Upon the cars—in spirit gay,

As rapturous as could be
I met a girl from Florida

Who lives in Kissimmee.

Her eyes were like the sapphire's blue,

Her hair was flowing free,
She asked if I was going too,

To Kiss—to Kissimmee.

I never knew the town before,

But she was fair to see,
And she bad charms and gold galore

This maid of Kissimmee.

We talked with most amazing speed,

And did not disagree;
And still she urged, “I trust, indeed,

You're going to Kissimmee.”
I am not often dashed, I'm sure,

Nor prudish can I be,
But think I blushed when she said “You're

Now going to Kissimmee.”

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"I could not stand a hint like that,

And my mistake you see.”
She smiled—and smoothed her ruffled hat-

And turned to Kissimmee.

SHADOWS ON THE SNOW.-I. EDGAR JONES.
A woman watched the falling snow

Through window panes in plants embowered;
And hear the angered breezes blow

O’er carven drifts that whitely towered
Against the clouded winter's eve ;

While comfort reigned within the room
Where shadows born of embers weave

Their glowing fancies through the gloom;
Her prattling children warmed and fed,

“How beautiful the snow!” she said.

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A woman watched the falling snow

Through broken panes with dirt defiled,
And paced her parret to and fro,

Where starving children, wan and wild,
Joined in the storm king's sad refrain ;

Their mother's heart in anguish stirred,
For well she knew their panys of pain,

The evils wrought by hopes deferred ;
And, praying for a crust of bread,

How terrible the snow!” she said.
A woman watched the falling snow

Through windows turned toward the sea;
Heard winter's snow-veiled tempest blow,

While billows roared in angry ylee;
As forests bent before the gale,

She caught her darlings in her arms,
And watched the distance for a sail,

Her wife-heart stirred with wild alarms;
“ God grant his ship be safely led!

How treacherous the snow !” she said.
A woman watched the falling snow,

Who struggled through the city's street;
Hers all the anguish outcasts know
Who walk the world with weary feet;

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Faint, hungry, saw through lighted panes

The well-filled boards, interiors warm,
Her crushed and anguished soul complains;

But staggering onward through the storm,
Ill-clad and dogged by haunting dread,

“How cruel is the snow!” she said.
A woman watched the falling snow,

Who wandered on through winding lanos;
Her labored footsteps sad and slow,

Her frozen body racked with pains;
Her senses reeling, while her prayers

Float upward on the winds of night,
But no man knows and no one cares,

As ghostly drifts are mounting white;
At last she totters, reels and lies

Where snow-flakes, gently round her form,
In fleecy piles of ermine rise,

As though to shield her from the storm.
“How merciful the snow !” she said.

And there they found her cold and dead.

WE ALL KNOW HER.–Tom Masson. She warbled the soprano with dramatic sensibility,

And dallied with the organ when the organist was sick; She got up for variety a brand-new church society, and

Spoke with great facility about the new church brick. She shed great tears of sorrow for the heathen immorality,

And organized a system that would open up their eyes; In culinary clarity she won great popularity, and

Showed her personality in lecturing on pies. For real unvarnished culture she betrayed a great propen

sity; Her Tuesday-talks were famous and her Friday-glimmers

great. She grasped at electricity with mental elasticity, and

Lectured with intensity about the marriage state. But with the calm assurance of her wonderful capacity, She wouldn't wash the dishes, but she'd talk all day on

rocks; And while she dealt on density, or space and its immensity,

With such refined audacity, her mother darned the socks!

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BROUGHT BACK.-John F. NICHOLLS. She wandered alone at midnight, through alley and court

and street, Through the heart of the wealthy city, yet starving for food

to eat; Still on, though her feet were weary, and the wintry wind

blew keen, Whilst her heart was nearly breaking at thought of the

"might have been.” Through her mind old scenes are passing, so vivid and quick

and clear; She can see the stile where Harold first met her and called

her “dear; And the old, sweet country village, where she lived in the

days gone by, And where not a pang of sorrow e'er caused her a tear or

sigh. Then again does her fancy paint her a picture of that gay

scene, When the wedding bells rang sweetly, and she was a sailor's

queen. But the vision melts, and quickly there flits through her

haunted mind The sight of her love departing, and leaving her sad bebind. He had gone to his duty bravely, away o'er the salt blue sea; “Oh, God!” she prayed when he left her, "bring Harold a

gain to me.” But months went by and he came not, and now two years

had Aed; She had lost all hope, and mourned him as one who was

surely dead. She had wed against parents' wishes, they'd renounced her

long ago, And poverty's strong hand forced her to take to the needle

and sew; But she who had loved the country, and thrived in its pure,

fresh air, Soon pined in the crowded city, penned up in a workroom

there. Still on did she wander slowly, till, weary and well-nigh

spent, Into one of the broad recesses on London Bridge she went, And peering just over the coping, she strains her eyes to scan The place beneath where swiftly the cold, black river ran.

What horrible thoughts are coming! They tell her a leap

in there Will ease her of all life's burdens, its pain and want and care. “Only one leap,” she murmurs; “no more to be starved,

oppressed; May be I shall meet my Harold in the far-off land of rest.” She sprang on the bridge's coping, and gave just a glance a

round. No one in sight! 'Twas lucky! But her sharp ear caught

a sound. 'Twas a footstep coming quickly. Should she wait till it

passed her by ? No, she would plunge that instant. What matter who saw

her die? But a voice cries, “Hold! for God's sake!” She starts, and

falls from the ridge, Not into the rushing river-not on to the hard, stone bridge; But a man's strong arms have caught her, she is gently raised

to her feet; She turns, and they both are startled as soon as their glan.

ces meet. “ Harold!” “Why, Bess, my darling!” The husband and

wife have met. What pen can describe the gladness such meetings as these

beget ? Bess hardly believed her senses; she felt so supremely blest, As her weary head lay pillowed on her sailor-husband's

breast. He told how his sbip had foundered, how he managed to

reach a shore, Where he eked out an existence for eighteen months or

more, Till rescued, he came to England to search for his poor young

wife, And how he at last had found her, and brought her back to

life.

NORA MULLIGAN'S THANKSGIVING

PARTY*_-LOUISE H. SAVAGE. Oh, wusha thin, tis the sore thrubble that's kim ter mesilf this toime, an' jist wait a bit till I be tillin' yez, an' say how yer harrts 'll be achin' wid sympathy fer me misfortins. The misthress wor the cause av it arl, bad Written expressly for this Collection.

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