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luck till 'er, wid 'er goin' away ter the coonthry, ter spind Thanksgivin' wid 'er brither; an' be the token, she wor goin' ter shtay the wake, fer they were havin' a big toime there, wid shleighin'an dancin', an' the loike o' that, bein' her youngist brither wor home from Californy, an' warnted ter have a “family rayunion," hersilf sed.

Wull, av it was, thinkes I to mesilf whin I seen 'em a-shtartin' aff: “Now is yer toime, Nora Mulligan ; shure, tis yersilf can git up the illigint party fer Thanksgivin' ut home, an' be St. Michael, we'll have a dance, too, as öll bate ivirything."

An' so I wint ter plannin'. "An' who 'll I ax ter me party” thinkses I. “There's Terry Mulrooney, shure I coodent be havin' coompany widout him, fer wid arl the gas, an' the ʼluminatin', the rooms wad be dark if he wor-rn't there. Arrah, 'tis himsilf is the illigint feller, wid 'is blue eyes an' 'is big fwhiskers. They're a trifle rid, ter be shure, but that's jist nothin' at arl, at arl—I can say 'im arl the sooner at Mass. Kitty Hooligan she bays, says she, “Whin 'e coomes ter say yer, wid ’is rid head, an' 'is brass jewelery arl arn 'im, the paple thinks theys a torchlight percession, an' wance the fire kimpan. ies kim out wid jist catchin' a glimpse o'thim whiskers.” Are-rn't that the foine lie fer her, the invious jade! Shure, I shlapped her face, good, fer 'er impidence; an' wor I ter blame fer it? The loike o' her a-makin' that talk 'bout me own dear bye, an’ shure a finer lad niver kem from Mullingar! I'll not ax her ter me party,

But there's Katie Flynn, she's a good gurrul, an' Judy Ryan, wid her swate smilin' ways, as gintle as the flowers o' May, so she is ; an' of coorse, I'll ax Mickey Brannigan, fer Judy is the light o' his eyes; an' Bridget 0'. Mara, she's that cute, now, she makes ivery wan laugh wid her sayin's, ye'd die yesilf ter hare 'er; an' there's Maggie Reilly, an' Pat Toole, an' Janie Sullivan, an' Nora Mc Funnigafferty, an' Dinnis Finnegan an'a lut more. Shure, I'll have a varry sclict party, too; an' I'll

that's so.

have the invitations printed, so I will, wid a burrud a' stannin' on wan fut, in the corner, as is sthyle now, ye know. An' oh-h-h-! The Howly Vargin be praised !! Shure, the misthriss bave an’illigint new navy blue satin dhriss, trimmed that loafly now, wid shiny sparklin things arl over it, an'a train a yard long. Oh, it's jist beautiful an' it 'll go wid me compliction, illigint. There'll be nothin' loike it, at the party; an’ won't Terry's eyes sthick out? Wusha! I care more ter looke foine ter Terry, than to make the gurruls invious aven, if ye'd belave it."

Wull, ye see, I got ivery thing planned, an' me cookin' arl done, an' the avenin' o' the party come. Ivery thing wor jist roight; the ice-crames wor lovely, an’arl the odther things accordin', an', av it was, whin I pit arn the misthrisses blue satin, it fitted me beautiful, an' wid me new yaller tie, that Terry gev me, an’ me hair arl banged up, they calls it, I did look lovely an' Terry sed so, a-callin' me the pride av 'is harrt an' the jewel av 'is eye, an' the loike o' that-yer know how 'tis, yersilf. I wor a proud an' happy gurrul that toime, for J opened the grand dhrawin’-rooms ter the coompany, ani wid the bright loights, an' the good atin', ivery thing wor jist splindid.

But oh! wusha, wusha, ochone! whin we wor a-clarin' aff the refrishmints, what did that ould haythin av Biddy McWhirk do, but impty a whole sasser of ice-crame right arn the frint av the dhriss I had arn me- --the misthrisses blue satin! Howly mither o' Moses ! but I thort I'd die. An' that wor'n't enough, but while I wor a-stannin', a-cryin' an'a-wringin' me two hands, an' Bridget a-tryin' ter clane it wid some soft soap, 0-0-0 ochone, wirristhroo! the waiter kim rinnin' oup, an' toult me some mane thafe kim in the ary dure, an’sthole ihe spoons

we'd bin afther usin’. I wor wild thin, I tell yez; I yelled “Perlice” an' “ Fire” an' "Murdther," bein' that luny, I did'n't know fwhat I wor sayin', an' chin-Or-r-r thin-ter crack the climix, as folks be

sayin', the mastheran' the misthriss driv up ter the dure, an' kim right inter the midst o' the coompany. Oh-h-h! the yell she let out whin she seen that dhriss, an' shmall blame ter her indade, fer it wor a sight, an' thin-wid the masther a-dhrivin' the coompany out, an' the misthriss a ballyraggin' the whole av us, an' the perlice a-comin', an' the whole o' thim a-scrachin' an'a-yellin' tergither, shure I thort me sowl wor in purgatory, an' I jist wint inter highstrikes, fer, faix, there wor nothin' else lift fer me to do.

THE QUICKSAND.* - Robert C. V. MEYERS. After the revolution of 1688, in England, there sprang into existence the Jacobites, who adhered to the cause of the dethroned James II and his descendants of the house of Stuart. A little party of Jacobites are heru sorely pressed by their enemies upon a inarshy fen. They had pressed us sore, and we fled from them,

To us they were surely as ten to one;
Our chief they had shot, so we laid him there

In the wood in the flare of the setting sun. “They call us serfs,” said he, “our rights

Are only such as the king will say ;
They have killed our brothers and our sons,

They would steal our wives and daughters away. “Hear our wives! Do you hear them bleat ?

Poor dams with little lambs that cry!
Let our loved ones kill us. Take me, I pray,

To Lizabeth, my wife, to die."
We carried him to the women there,

We heard the foemen onward come,
Nearer and nearer, with bugle blast,

And shrill fine fifes and beat of drum. Lizabeth she heard and spake

Her face was white like ivory“Women,” she said, “the spoiler is here;

When our men are dead is it ours to die?" At that each woman grasped her knife,

Lizabeth kissed our chief's set face, *Written expresily for this Collectivo. 8*

And nearer came the shout of the foe

Like hunters of fox at close of the chase.
And then we saw them! "Strike!” said he,

Our chief, and bared his hairy breast.
So each man did, and "Strike!” said they-

In the women's eyes was the flare of the west.
And lirra, lirra, the bugles sang,

And trap, trap, trap, the drum-beats came; The feathers waved in the crests of the foe,

And their voices rose as they spied their game. Then Lizabeth spake, the flare of the west

Deep in her eyes as she raised them there, Her arms upthrown, and her throat bent back,

Like a thing at bay where the hunters are. Yea, Lizabeth spake: "Come, God !” she cried,

“As unto Israel in the Red sea, Come thou to us in miracle !”

And her face it was white like ivory.
And there was the foe a hundred yards off,

Their music and laughter stinging the day. “ Come, God!” cried Lizabeth.” “Strike!” said the men,

“Then sheathe in your own hearts your knives that slay' The women they looked in the eyes of their lords,

They raised up their daggers-to let them fall, For Lizabeth cried, “The quicksand ! Hold!”

And every one of us heard her call.
“God," she cried, “thou hast come, thou hast come!

Lo! thy miracle comes between!”
And the earth it was moving like oil made thick

Over there where our foe had been.
Oh, life! it was awful! the trees slid flat,

The rocks heaved heavy almost with groan,
And our foe had a foe they fought in vain,

The black beast quicksand sucking them down. They shrieked, they cried for help from us

We could not give them, hand gripped hand. They fought with each other, they cursed, they killed,

But none came out of the black quicksand. Our wives and daughters they hid their eyes,

They clung to us, and the children cried;

And there was the moving earth, and there

Were the sinking men in the sucking tido. And then a voice, 'twas Lizabeth's,

Spake out with awe in every word: * God is here!” And our foe was gone,

And the quicksand only a little stirred.

A BACHELOR'S REVERIE.
Three locks of hair in my hand I hold

As I sit in the firelight's glow,
One black, one brown, and one like gold-

They are relics of long ago.
And where are the girls who owned them now.

The brown-haired half brunette,
The beautiful blonde with the snowy brow,

And the maid with the braids of jet ?
The first was true till a rival lied

About me, and him she wed;
To-day to her apron string he's tied,

And they're happy, I hear it said.
I quarreled with her of the snowy brow,

And she married another, of course;
She is living in South Dakota now,

Where she's trying to get a divorce.
And the dark-haired maiden, where is she?

I thought her affection sure,
But she wouldn't desert her home for me,

For her father was ill and poor.
So I gave her up and went away,

Declaring she used me ill;
That was years ago. I returned to-day

And I find she is single still.
No lover she's had since I went away,

Though her father has long been dead;
She teaches school, so the neighbors say,

To earn her daily bread,
I've wealth enough she can have it ad,

Me with it. I think I'll write;
No, it isn't late. By jove! I'll call

On the dark-haired girl to-night.

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