Out the life o' them three babies. Sure enough, I found 'em there, Scorched and scared, and dazed and stupid, but alive, the hull two pair!

An' we did hev' some tall prayin' down at Carterses that night,

When we got there after sunset, in our black and wretched plight.

Carter's rough, but true and helpful; Mother Carter good as gold;

All of 'em was cryin', cryin' at the story mother told! Somehow the hull thing broke father,--made him just a poor old man;

So I hev to hold my shoulder to the wheel the best I can. But my mother? She was thankful; seems she couldn't do

enough

O' the things she used to shirk from, thinkin' they was most too rough.

And the girls? Well, they've forgotten, and they're growin' strong and fast;

And they're full o' grit, like mother; they'll be help enough at last.

Yes, we left the farm for ever: father got to hate the place; Wouldn't, couldn't, be persuaded there again to set his face. Lots o' folks hev' just such stories; for up there in Michi

gan

Every acre is encumbered, Satan's morgidge on the lan"! You might buy ours for a nickel: do you s'pose we'd ever go

Raisin' crops off human ashes?-no, indeed, ma'am, not for
Joe!
But there's somethin' always haunts me in the night-time,
noon, and morn,

When again I think I hear that far-off faintly blowin' horn.
That was mother, in her anguish, tryin' hard to let us know,
And we never dreamin' of it! While I live, I'll hear it blow!

HIS NAMES.

Never a boy had so many names;

They called him Jimmy, and Jim, and James,

Jeems, and Jamie; and well he knew

Who it was that wanted him, too.

The boys in the streets ran after him,

Shouting out loudly, "Jim! Hey, J-i-m-m!"

Until the echoes, little and big,

Seemed to be dancing a Jim Crow jig.

And little Mabel, out in the hall,
"Jimmy! Jimmy!" would sweetly call,
Until he answered, and let her know
Where she might find him, she loved him so.

Grandpapa, who was dignified,

And held his head with an air of pride,
Didn't believe in abridging names,

And made the most he could of "J-a-m-e-s."

But if papa ever wanted him,

Crisp and curt was the summons, "Jim!"
That would make the boy on his errands run
Much faster than if he had said, "My son."

THE LITTLE BOY WHO WENT AWAY.* SAM WALTER FOSS.

Our Little Boy Who Went Away wuz a bottled whirl win', an' w'enever he unstoppled hisself, he whisked through the house like a helter-skelter hurrycane runnin' fer dinner, afeared it wouldn't git there 'fore the vittles wuz all et up.

He wuz a fat little jug, filled up 'ith sunshine so chockfull thet he couldn't keep the cork in, an' so he spilt it all over the house. He strewed it everywhere, an' we all slopped about in it, an' waded and swum in it, an' were all ez happy ez barefooted younguns wading fer goldfishes in a brook thet is bloomin' 'ith cowslips an' bordered 'ith pussy willers.

The hair of our Little Boy Who Went Away wuz ez yaller ez ef it hed been colored by sunbeams mixed 'ith buttercups; but he wuz ez wise,--I think, though you won't agree with me, coz you never see our Little Boy Who Went Away, but he wuz ez wise ez any ol' gray-bearded patriarch, 'ith long whiskers sprawlin' down into his lap.

I guess I know! I uster tell him little, silly stories,

*From "The Yanke Made," by permission of the Author.

'bout dogs an' elephants, an' the great, big, roarin'-lionsstories, you would say with nothin' to 'em, coz you don't know a good story w'en you hear it. But he uster see suthin' to em. Them eyes er his,-little chunks er the blue sky thet he brought from heaven with him w'en he come,-them eyes would open so wide an' lissen, an' drink in the story, jest ez a mornin' glory opens in the mornin' an' drinks in the sun.

An' now I know w'y them eyes opened so wide. His little soul wuz right behin' 'em, lookin' through the winder an' tryin' to climb out. His baby soul was right behin' there, an' it saw more in them little stories than I could see or you could see, or anybody could see thet hed traveled so fur away into this blurred, rusty and cobwebby ol' worl', where we git so splashed, an' grimed, an' dusty, thet it is hard, sometimes, fer the soul to see out of the winder at all.

Oh, you needn't tell me! I know our Little Boy Who Went Away knew more than his dad, though he hadn't learned our language so's he could tell it. But he looked it. Oh! he looked it! Them eyes er his were deep wells er wisdom, an' I uster lower my bucket into' em, an' it uster come up drippin' with the real water er knowledge, more than I could ever fin' in all the readin' books, an' rifenticks an' gogerfys you could pile onto a hay-cart.

An' our Little Boy Who Went Away he made some very wise speeches. There warn't much, you un'erstan', in the words he said, coz he hadn't learned our language. But it wuz the way he said it. Sissero never hed sich a cute way er sayin' things. Dan'l Webster never brought down the house like he did. There are some thoughts, you know, thet are too elerkent fer words; an' so we play them on a fiddle, or an organ, or a brass band.

Now the language thet our Little Boy Who Went Away talked wuz the same language talked by fiddles and music. It didn't mean a great deal according to the dictionary. But I come to b'leve, a long time ago, thet the dictionary don't know much. It never give the right

meanin' to the words used by our Little Boy Who Went Away. There wuz suthin' behin' them words thet the dictionary couldn't get at.

W'en he spoke we uster wander off into heaven, unbeknownst to ourselves, an' he uster show us roun', coz he wuz'quainted there; an' uster lay down under the trees er healin', an' dream dreams of a higher heaven an' a higher, an' a higher one, until we got way up into the top an' out onto the ridge-pole,-w'en we'd wake up, an' shin down on a sunbeam, an' go to diggin' taters an' sellin' aigs jest ez we did afore.

W'en our Little Boy Who Went Away wuz tucked in his crib at night, he laid there like a red rose in a basket er wite clo'es. An', though he lay ez still ez a mouse in a meal bag, we knowed he wuz travelin' through a pleasant country by the smile thet wuz on his face.

We knowed he wuz travelin' through a nice an' purty country, where the grass wuz red an' yaller, an' where red-orange-yaller-green-blue-indigo-an'-violet butterflies wuz flyin' right ahead on him an' tollin' him on. We knowed the rollickin' brooks sung to him w'ile he wuz asleep, and the comical pollywogs wiggled, an' big bunglin' ganders flopped their wings an' tried to fly, fer he allus come into the village of Wakeup every mornin', laffin' an' gigglin' an' sloppin' over with fun an' frolic, with his two eyes ez full er mischief ez the mill-pond is full er water in the middle of a rainy spring w'en all its gates are shet.

We allus got 'nough to eat, sich ez it was, our little boy's mother an' me. But we were no great shucks, an' never 'mounted to much, an' we were lottin' on our little boy to show the worl' thet there wuz some punkins in our famberly, after all. We knowed he'd be sillickman an' guv'nor, an' senator, an' pres'dunt w'en he growed up.

We knowed it, and were anxious fer the time to come w'en we could show the worl' thet our famberly wuz jest ez smart ez the Grant, Lincoln or Garfield famberly, or

any other famberly under the sun. Our little feller, w'en he growed up, wuz goin' to balance all the miserble failures of all the no-account generations thet went before him, an' fix up the books of the famberly so's there would be a big balance on the credit side.

So we watched over him night an' day. But we didn't watch close enough, I guess. Fer one day he went away. Oh, he went off on a long journey, thet we poor critters are too blind to see the end of, thet leads way over yonder out er sight. His little feet toddled into a path thet we couldn't foller, an' all the babies thet start in thet path never turn back to the arms thet are stretched out to 'em, an' the hearts thet are breakin' for 'em.

We watched the little feller goin' into the col' w'ite fog where his father couldn'lead him, an' his mother couldn' hug him to her breast. We watched him way into the dimness until we heard the col' water of the river beatin' up agin its snow banks, and then-then-he wuz gone, an' the sun went down behin' the col' mountains, an' it wuz winter in our hearts.

An' summer hain't never come back fully any more; but sometimes we get little broken glimpses of its sunshine w'en his mother an' me set, at twilight time, an' talk about our Little Boy Who Went Away.

YAWCOB'S TRIBULATIONS.*-CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.
Maype dot you don'd rememper,
Eighteen-dwendy years ago,
How I dold aboudt mine Yawcob,
Dot young rashkell, don'd you know,
Who got schicken-box und measles;
Filled mine bipe mit Limburg sheeze;
Cut mine cane oup indo dhrum-schticks,
Und blay all sooch dricks as dhese.

Vell! dhose times dhey vas been ofer,
Und dot son off mine, py shings!

*From “Dialect Ballads" (Charles F. Adams), by permission. Harper & Broth, Publishers.