While I stood dar weepin' an' gazin'

On her form pinched wid hunger and pain.
"Den I think 'twa' de debil dat whispered,
'Dar's chickens dat's roostin' nigh;

Yo' kin cotch 'em, an' dress 'em, an' stew 'em
Fo' she wakes, Uncle Pete, ef yo's spry !'
An' I nebber stopped to lis'en

To de warning voice widin;
But I stole out into de darkness-
An', Jedge, I committed dat sin.
"I took from dar roost dose chickens;
I sneaked dem into my home;
An' befo' dat little chile wakened

Dat good chicken broth was done.
I took it, all streamin' an' 'licious,

An' sot it down close by her side;
When she got a good whiff o' its fragrance,
Her big brown eyes popped open wide.

""Oh, de dream, it has come true, dear gran' dad! Fo' de angels dey brung it, I know.

When dey entered de room did yo' see dem?
Had dey wings, as de picture-books show?'
Sez I: 'Little Honey, we mus'n't

Pry into sich misturious things;

No, I didn't see de angels. I'm sartin'
Dat I did heah de rustlin' o' wings!'

"But dat's jes' de way wid de debil,

Yo' trus' him an' he'll trick yo', dat's sho';
An' he done let dat light snow-fall happen
Jes' to show dem tracks up to my do'.
So, as we sot dar so cheerful,

De officers came to my home

Dey came and dey 'rested Ole Peter,

An' dey lef' dat dyin' chile all alone."

Every eye in the court-room was moistened;
The Judge, with a tear on his face,
Said, "You're free, and can go, Uncle Peter;
I've decided to dismiss the case."

When out of the dock he shuffled,

And reached for his battered hat, old, Uncle Pete found he scarcely could lift it, 'Twas so heavy with silver and gold.

ELIAB ELIEZER.-JAMES ROANN REED.

The Reverend Eliab Eliezer

Sat toasting his shins by the grate;
His ponderous brain busy musing
On man's most pitiable state.

Abroad the storm-king was raging,

And the snow was fast whitening the ground; But its fury disturbed not Eliab,

In his reverie so deep and profound.

For he thought how wicked and sinful
Was poor fallen man at the best;
And even Eliab Eliezer

Was almost as bad as the rest!

And he piously groaned in the spirit,
At the flesh which so leads us astray;
"There's nothing that's good," saith Eliab,
"In these weak, worthless vessels of clay.
"Yea; man is a poor, sinful creature

Even when he tries to do right;

But when he does not, and to ruin
Willing rushes, how dreadful the sight!
"Now, there's swearing Meg, at the corner,
Her case shows plainly, I think,

How wicked our natural hearts are,

How much lower than brutes we can sink.

"I will preach to my people a sermon,
And take old Meg for my text;

And show them how narrow the safe road
That leads from this world to the next."

So he sat himself down at the table,
And began with "Original Sin; "
And by-and-by Meg and her swearing
Were deftly dovetailed therein.

With "thirdly" and "fourthly" he finished;
Then turned to his grate nice and warm,
When he thought of Widow Mory, and wondered
If she was prepared for the storm.

"I'll call around soon in the morning,
And be sure that all is quite right."

He did; and found food in abundance,
And the grate with a fire glowing bright.
And the widow, with joy fairly weeping,
Told how she was caught by the storm;
Not a morsel of food for her children,

Not a coal her poor hovel to warm!

And that they would surely have perished,—
Too cold to go outside and beg,—
When pitying Heaven sent succor
By such a strange angel - Old Meg!

Then a light slowly dawned on Eliab—

I can't say what conclusion he reached;
But I know, stowed away 'mong his sermons,
Lies one that never was preached!

THE OVERLAND MAIL.-RUDYARD KIPLING
In the name of the Empress of India, make way,
O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam.
The woods are astir at the close of the day-
We exiles are waiting for letters from home.
Let the robber retreat, let the tiger turn tail,
In the name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!
With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in,

He turns to the footpath that heads up the hill-
The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin,
And, tucked in his waist-belt, the Post Office bill:
"Despatched on this date, as received by the rail,
Per runner, two bags of the Overland Mail."

Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim.

Has rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff. Does the tempest cry "Halt?" What are tempests to him? The service admits not a "but" or an "if."

While the breath's in his mouth, he must bear without fail, In the name of the Empress, the Overland Mail.

From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir,

From level to upland, from upland to crest,

From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur,

Fly the soft sandaled feet, strains the brawny brown chest. From rail to ravine-to the peak from the vale

Up, up through the night goes the Overland Mail.

There's a speck on the hillside, a dot or the road-
A jingle of bells on the foot-path below-
There's a scuffle above in the monkey's abode-

The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow. For the great sun himself must attend to the hail: "In the name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!"

SETH PETERS'S REPORT OF DANIEL WEBSTER'S SPEECH.*-SAM WALTER FOss.

Old Seth Peters once heard Daniel Webster deliver an oration at an agricultural fair way back in the forties, and somewhere in the state of New Hampshire.

This oration made such an impression upon Seth that he has talked about it ever since. And every time he talks about it, he sees new beauties in that speech. The oration that the godlike Daniel delivered grows more and more wonderful to him; and so every time he describes it, he tells a new story more extravagant and grotesque than the last. The last time I heard him describe this speech, was in a country store last summer. This is the way he did it:

"Want to hear 'bout Dan'l Webster's gret lectur I heerd at the county fair, do ye? Don't blame ye. There ain't no man alive to-day who can throw language an' sling words like Dan'l could. There ain't no man now, I say, nor never wuz, nor never will be till eternity dies of ol' age.

66

Wall, the only time I ever heerd county fair w'en I wuz a youngster.

I

Dan'l wuz at our Lemme see, thet wuz goin' on fifty year ago come nex' tater diggin'; but got elerkunce 'nough thet day to las' me all the rest er my life. I hain't never heerd a speech sence then. Dan'l sp'ilt me for any other kiner speech, lectur, sermon, pr'armeetin' an' everythin' else. Every speech I have ever heard sence, falls ez flat on my ear ez a hunk er putty

on a pine slab. They all soun' jes' ez if you hit a feather

*From "The Yankee Blade," by permission of the Author.

bed with a snow shovel. There ain't no ring, no roar, no rumble, no rush, no ring-tailed thunder to 'em, the way ther wuz to Dan'l's stuff. Dan'l I tell you wuz a six-foot-an'-half seraph with pants on; an' w'en he opened his mouth the music er the spheres stopped playin', fer nobody wanted to listen to sich fool, fol-de-rol music, w'en Dan❜l opened up his flood-gates an' jest drowned the worl' with elerkunce.

"I remember jes' ez if it wuz yes'day, w'en Dan'l riz up there on the ol' plank platform, bordered with punkins, at the ol' county fair. He riz an' riz, an' every time he riz, he let out another j'int, jes as you do in the newfangled fishin' poles. Sez I to myself, 'He'll never git thro' risin';' but bimeby, after he had shot up inter the heavens a long ways, he suddenly stopped and stood there like Bunker Hill Monimunt in a garding er cabbages.

"Dan'l warn't in no hurry 'bout beginnin'. He jest stood still, it seems to me, 'bout half a nour, an' looked aroun' with them awful eyes of his'n. They seemed like two mighty souls lookin' out of the winder at a worl' thet wuz afraid of 'em. I jes' hung down my head an' wouldn't look at 'em. I knew they could look right inter me, an' through me, an' see what a miserable little cuss I wuz. So Dan'l jes' stood an' looked at his audience until he froze 'em into their tracks. The Durham bull stopped blartin', an' jes' stood and gawped at Dan'l. The prize hog stopped eatin' his corn, an' there warn't a rooster crowed-they all knowed if they did they'd drop dead. Dan'l stood still so long I got awful nervous fer him. I wuz 'fraid he'd forgotten his speech. But bimeby, he opened his mouth an' words begun to rumble out like low thunder frum underneath the groun'. They come kinder slow at first, but every one on 'em wuz sent like a cannon ball, an' struck every man, woman, an' child there right over the heart. Then they come faster, an' then we all knowed thet the universe wuz a big music box, an' Dan'l wuz turnin' the crank. The hull diction ary wuz a big bin filled with apple sass, honey, an' stewed