But then the light passed-the train swept on-I saw

no more.

Doubtless the train had surprised him, coming so swiftly and so suddenly, and had caused him to start back"--so I said to my fellow-passenger when I explained the meaning of my sudden cry. But he would not be lieve in what I had seen.

"No man in his senses would walk that wall to-night," he said; "and no madman either, for, as a rule, lunatics are wonderfully cunning for their own safety. You must have been mistaken."

When we reached the next station it was to find that the train would go no farther that night.

66

It's far too rough to skirt the sea any more to-night," said the careful guard, and he was right.

But I could not get that strange sight out of my head, and so, wrapping myself in my ulster, I walked down to the end of the wall with my friend, "to witness a great sea," as he said.

When there we found the knot of anxious men still waiting and watching for him who came not.

"Oh! he's not had time enough yet," cried Warton. "Give him another half hour. For my part, I believe now he'll come. It is not so bad if he holds on to the breast work."

As I heard these words, cold drops of perspiration stood on my face. "Then what I saw was not fancy," I whispered; "it was a man's death-agony."

Presently we learned what they were waiting for, and in return I told them what I had seen. And as I spoke a solemn, awful silence fell on those terrible silence I shall never forget.

but Owen came not.

stalwart men,- -8 Still we waited,

The next morning broke heavy and grey. But the storm had passed, the wind was subdued, and the sea was "going down." The tide ran out at noon, and Owen's friends ventured along the wall. I accompanied them, for I longed to verify that what I feared had not come

to pass. As we proceeded the wan winter sun struggled out from the torn masses of cloud and shone down with a faint and sickly light. But nothing was to be seen. The sullen sea moaned as it broke against the wall, and the wind still swept chilly by with dismal sound, but the strength of the storm was spent and now their melancholy music was but the requiem of the dead man.

For Owen never came back, and the wild look of despair I had seen in his eyes must have been the startled gaze that rested on Eternity.

WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN.-EVA LOVETT CARSON.

Archibald Edward Theophilus Jones

Had a way of expressing his feelings in moans,

In sobs and sighs,

And dolorous cries;

The water continually ran from his eyes.

Upon every occasion he "started the bawl"

At the silliest trifle, or nothing at all,

Till his mother declared: " Why, Theophilus, dear,
If you are not more careful, you wont leave a tear!

"And some day, you know,

It might happen so,

Your feelings, or head, might receive a hard blow;
A blow that would really be worthy a tear,

And by being so lavish at present, I fear

You'll have not a tear left,

And being bereft

Of the tears that are needful to make a good cry,
With no means of relieving your feelings you'll die!"

But Theophilus paid to this counsel no heed.

He continued to roar

And cry as before.

The family wished themselves deaf,—yes, indeed;
Although certainly some

Of them wished he was dumb,

For surely among things excessively trying

May be reckoned the child that forever is crying.

Well-the worst of the story remains to be told.
He was weeping one morning-because it was cold-
When he felt a strange quiver,

A shake and a shiver;

It began at the point where his eyes met his nose,
And ran through his backbone quite down to his toes.
Astonished, he stopped for an instant his wail,
And when to renew it he tried—ah, sad tale!

Alas, how can I tell

Of the fate that befell?

This

poor little boy found he'd cried himself dry.
Not a tear could he squeeze from his dear little eye;
Though he struggled his hardest, 'twas useless to try.
Vain-all vain!

And an unsatisfactory cry

Is the one where you haven't a tear in your eye!

Boys, be warned by his fate,

Before 'tis too late.

Don't cry for small matters,
Slight bruises and batters;
Or, indeed, who can say,

It might happen some day,

When some weighty occasion for crying should rise,

You'd be left, like young Jones, with no tears in your eyes!

-Good Cheer.

AN EVENING DOZE.-ALBERT E. HUNT,

When twilight's sombre shadows fall,
And evening zephyrs softly blow,

I love to lie and list the call,—

The nightly call I so well know:

"Crabs-Balt-eemore crabs!"

The soothing clouds that round me surge
From out my meerschaum's browning bowl

My drowsy soul to slumbers urge,

While from the street the echoes roll:
"Corn-hot corn!"

And while my lazy fancy dreams
Of bliss and joy that never die,
Of love and sweet ecstatic themes-
Up from the corner swells the cry:
"Pep-ree pot!"

FAUNTLEROY.-BENJAMIN F. BUTLER, JR.

Now look here, Jack; I know this track,

I got it all by rote.

I'm agoing to back the Guv'nor's hack,

For a twenty-dollar note.

'E's 'ealthy an' sound, an' 'e'll swaller the ground With one o' them bursts of speed.

The race is a walk-you hear me talk!

With Fauntleroy in the lead.

Twenty dollars on Fauntleroy,

And the odds a hundred to one,

When they get to the post I'm a Dutchman's ghost,

But yer going to see some fun.

Last night I washed 'is fetlocks clean,

An, I give 'im an extry feed,

'E'll give 'em the laugh, 'fore they reach the 'alfWith Fauntleroy in the lead.

'E'll never go back on 'is old pal, Jack-
See the nags is ready to start.

When 'e gets 'is 'ead 'e'll knock 'em dead,
God bless 'is honest 'art.

'E knows, of course, e's a gentleman's 'orse,
An' 'e never was pulled in 'is speed.
If 'e gets a chance, 'e'll lead 'em a dance-
With Fauntleroy in the lead.

There's "Apple Bud" is sweatin' blood;
The "Duchess" is far behind;

The nigger's mount is no account,
The geldin' beats the wind.

The "Harkness" colt hez shot 'is bolt,
Just watch that nigger jump,

'Is mount is as dead as a lump o' lead,
But 'e's working like a pump.

They're in the stretch, I win my bets!
The field is far away.

The shortest horse on the bloomin' course
Will win the stakes to-day.

I tell you pard' 'e's got 'em dead!

Did you ever see such speed?
See, there's the wire a yard ahead-
With Fauntleroy in the lead.

E wins! 'e wins! my money, quick!
I got ter get back ter town.

I'll drink to-night to the geldin' tight,
That run the "Duchess" down.

No racer foaled can beat the colt;

'E'd make Firenzi bleed;

Oh! didn't I laugh when they passed the 'alf-
With Fauntleroy in the lead.

THE FATHER'S CHOICE.*-S. B. PARSONS.
By permission of the Author.

Peace hath its victories more renowned than war
And not Horatius or the brave Winkelreid
Can stir the pulse or make the eye o'erflow
Like the stern sacrifice of Christian men.

Upon the borders of the fair Passaic,
Where the wild plover wings his rapid flight,
Amid the fringe of marsh and grass and trees,
A lowly cottage stands. Autumnal sun
Ne'er gilded with its rays a happier scene,—
A stalwart man, well-knit and strong of limb,
Whose quiet eyes, firm lips, and manly air
Gave indication of the strength within;
A maid-like mother on whose healthy cheeks
And glistening eyes and glossy nut-brown hair,
The cares and toils of life had left no trace;
And a fair boy whose bright and happy look
Had borrowed all the glory and the joy
Of the ten summers which had o'er him passed.

The father's eye, through the festooning vines,
Glanced down upon the river: "Lizzie dear,
Give me my hat; good-bye, I see a sloop

That comes to pass the draw; I'll let her through;

And then the train will soon be coming down!"

A quick eye beamed, young fingers touched his hand;

46

Father, dear father, let me go there, too;

I love to see the vessel gliding by

With sail all set, and then to stand and watch

The same story, under the title of "The Drawbridge Keeper," told by a dif ferent author, can be found in No. 3, of this Series. The name of the herois Luther is Albert G. Drecker.