WAKIN' THE YOUNG UNS.-JOHN Boss. SCENE.-The old man from the foot of the stairs---5 A. M. Th' hour hand's creepin' (Wal' durned ef this 'ere ain't vexatious!) Git up! Git up! Mar'ann! Mar'ann! (Jist hyar her snorin'!) Thet you be a-movin'! Hyar the kitchen stove a-roarin'? The kittle's a-spilin' To git hisse'f bilin'. It's comin' day. Git up! Git up! Jule, O Jule! Now whut is ailin'? You want ter rest? Wal' I'll be blest! S'pose them cows 'Ll give down 'ithout you pailin"? Git up! Git up! Jake, you lazy varmint! Jake! Hey, Jake! You know the stock's ter keer fer; (Thet boy is wusser'n a rock ter wake!) Don't stop to shiver, But jist unkiver, An' pop out! Git up! Git up! Young uns! Bee-ull! Jake! Mar'ann! Jule! (Wal durn my orn'ry skin! They've gone ter sleep agin, Fer all my tellin'!) Bee hyar, I hain't no time ter fool! I'll give this mornin'. I'm done yellin'! Git up! Git up! Wal' whut's th' odds-an hour, more or less? Ter sleep a leetle longer Thar in bed. The times is comin' fas' enough, I guess, They was back up yender sleepin', THE SLAUGHTER HOUSE.*-REV. ALFRED YOUNG, C. 8. P. Say, Paddy! D'you mind the ould grog-shop that stood on the corner, down the Ninth Avenue, Kep' by Tim Hoggarty, back in the time whin the businessbad cess to it! Didn't make headway up in our parish, thanks to the Fathers' Fightin' an' praichin' an' prayin' an' workin' an' writin' agin it? Tim's was the place to get dhrunk like a baste for a dime, if you had one; "Hell's ouldest whisky"-that was the name of it, so mortial hot an' strong; Dhrinkin' it giv' min the horrors so turrible hard they soon died of it. Sure 'twas no wondher the widows that suffered-poor crathurs should christen it "Hoggarty's slaughter-house." Say, Paddy! D'you mind poor Barney McSwiligan-fine, dacint man he was whin he was sober Wint there one night-more than twinty years past now; but who can forget it? Lavin' his wife an' the childher cowld at home, cryin' with hunger, From "The Catholic World," by permission. Spindin' his last cint at Hoggarty's dhrinkin' his skin full; Thin fallin' dead on the door-step with niver a priest to prepare him; An' Hoggarty sindin' his dead corpse home to the wife on a hand-cart: Sure, wasn't that a rale slaughter-house? Say, Paddy! D'you mind Mickey Bralligan's wife-Biddy Doolan that was till she married Ravin' an' tearin' an' howlin' like mad forninst Hoggarty's Scraimin': "Come out, come out from the slaughter-house Don't dhrink the stuff that'll knock the life out o' yer inno cent body, An' sind yer dear sowl unprepared down to hell in a jiffy foriver. Mickey, come out, come out from the slaughter-house!" Say, Paddy! D'you mind the great sarmon we heard in the church the very nixt Sunday, Praiched by one of the Fathers right from the althar, afthes the Gospel, Givin' agin the grog-sellers one of their regular “sand blasts?" Och! how the blood run cowld to the very tips of me fin gers, Lavin' me pale as a ghost, all shiverin' an' tremblin' an' spacheless; Whin, of a suddint, out come his riverence thund'rin' an' shoutin' The very same words we heard Mrs. Bralligan scraim at Tim Hoggarty's: "Come out, come out from the slaughter-house!" Say, Paddy! D'you mind how you an' Mickey an' me wint up that same evenin', Thin an' there tuk the pledge for the rest of our lives an' Blessed be God! from that day to this not one of us broke it, poor man's destruction, Aye! an' the rich man's too, as ye'll read ivery day in the papers. Raison's agin it, an' so is the Faith, an' our wives an' our childher Many's the long, happy day, praises be to the Lord! that we've had since we stopped it; With many more yet, by His blessin', to come if we're thrue an' desarve it. Sure the whole parish, youngest an' ouldest, all knows an' respects us! 'Twon't be your wife, nor Mickey's, nor mine, that'll wonder what's kep' us, An' cryin' along with the child her, breakin' their heartsthe poor crathurs! Thin, gittin' desp'rate, flyin' down sthreet bareheaded an' ragged, Poundin' the door of some divilish grog-shop, like to ould Hoggarty's, Shoutin' an' scraimin'-disgracin' our name, an' our faith, an' our nation "Come out, come out from the slaughter-house!" A SAD MISTAKE.* JOSEPHINE E. PITTMAN SCRIBNER. One day, as a very susceptible young man entered one of the down-town cars, his eye was arrested by the most entrancing vision of girlhood he had ever beheld. His heart fell a victim at once to her charms, and oblivious to the smiles of the spectators, he gazed upon her fresh, sweet face with a rapt expression of countenance and was carried blocks out of his way, in consequence of his inability to tear himself away from the contempla. tion of so lovely a creature. By dint of indefatigable dogging of footsteps and asking of questions he learned his divinity's name! oh, bliss! oh, rapture!! Her name!!! He kept the secret of his love to himself, until "concealment like a worm" began to feed on his damask cheek and he pined perceptibly. He must tell his love, but how? Ha! a brilliant idea strikes him! He will go by night to the house through whose door she had disappeared that happy day when first he saw her. Accordingly he purchased a banjo and set about learn. *Written expressly for this Collection. ing a few chords, with which to accompany his seraphi voice. One moonlight night, after he considered himself proficient enough, he stole with silent step to the forbidding pile of brick and stone which sheltered his darling, and took his stand under the window his heart fondly told him was hers, and began to pour out his soul in a deep basso profundo, accompanied by the low, steady tum, tum, of the banjo. (Air, Sweet Evelina.) Oh, Miss Kate Pennoyer! oh, Miss Kate Pennoyer! Oh, Miss Kate Pennoyer! oh, Miss Kate Pennoyer! He waited a few minutes but received no reply. A second time his voice smote the air-still profound silence. After a third rendition of his soul-stirring theme, he was about to turn away in despair, when he was rewarded by a window being opened from above and dark woolly head appeared and replied to him: Oh, young man below dar! oh, young man below dar! Playin' so nice on de ole banjo. Oh, young man below dar! oh, young man below dar i THE RESCUE OF MR. FIGG. Mr. Timothy Figg got lost in the fog, And scratched on his crown, In order to hasten the rise of a plan By which he might get to the precincts of man; While held in his spell, That all that he uttered was "Well! well!" While thus in grave study, with eyes on the ground, And on through the fog Ran a little brown dog, |