Sir Hugh d'Espaign, with nine his friends, were holding revel fair

Within a little hostelry, "Le Lion Rouge,” at Aire;

In burst Girard, and said to him: "If honor you essay,
Come where a rabble rout besiege my lady of Albrét."

Sir Hugh gave ear to tale he told, and to the others then
He said: "There are two hundred there, and here we are
but ten.

Why, that is but a score apiece; 'twill heighten the mellay, Let's mount at once, fair friends, and reach the spot ere break of day."

They armed themselves, they mounted fast; Sir Hugh was in the lead;

And as they neared the robbers' camp they checked their horses' speed;

Slowly along the road they made in silentness their way, Until they came where, through the dark, loomed sullenly Albrét.

Asleep Lanceplaine and all his men, the sentries nodding there

The castle guard more watchful were, for succor making prayer

When came the sound of thundering hoofs, a rush of horse,

pell-mell,

And thrust of lance and stroke of sword, on coat and cuirass fell.

Awake, Lanceplaine, from pleasant dreams of lands and lady

fair!

He dreams no more; Sir Hugh's good lance has slain him then and there.

Awake the rest, to fight and fall, for well the wretches know A shriftless cord shall be his fate who 'scapes the thrust and

blow.

In peril dire, Girard, the page; two knaves had set on him; His was a slender build, and they were tall and stout of limb. But steady blows he gives and takes, nor stays for help to

call,

And from the castle as they gaze, they see his foemen fall.

Wave kerchiefs from the battlements; the field is lost and won;

A joyous shout of triumph goes to greet the rising sun, And welcomed by the countess fair, the champions brave, who brought

Swift rescue to beleaguered ones, and well on robbers wrought.

And thus it was Sir Hugh d'Espaign won lands and lady sweet;

And thus it was Girard Beaujeu won guerdon, fair and meet. And poets sing, throughout the land, in many a pleasant lay,

The doings of the knights who rode to the rescue of Albrét.

A JAIL-BIRD'S STORY.-ROBERT OVERTON.*

The shades of night 'ad closed round Seving Dials, an' the public 'ouses was about for to foller their example. I 'ad been a-doin' a little bit on my 'ead at Clerkenwell-"three months with "-in consequence of a little misunderstandin' about a silk 'andkerchief.

I 'ad been let out that day; not a nice sort of a day to be turned into the streets, even out of a prison,-snow fallin' everywhere, thicker as the night come on, an' the wind blowin' colder an' colder every minute, freezin' the 'eaps of slushy snow. As I walked along, the winders was all bright with the warm fires a-blazin' within the swells' 'ouses. I could 'ear the 'appy blokes inside laughin', an dancin', an' makin' merry, and I knowed they all 'ad plenty to eat an' drink. The theaytres was ali ablaze with light, an' a-comin' out of 'em into their carriages was people as any thief what wasn't a rank outsider could have made a month's livin' out of in two minutes. I 'ad likewise noticed as there seemed a extra show on at the churches, an' by-an'-by out crashed the bells, ringin' through the cold air, thick with the fallin' snow, an' some people passin' me as I slouched against the wall says to each other, wery cheery, "A merry Christmas to you-A merry Christmas."

"Oh," I says to myself, "It's merry Christmas, is it? I shouldn't 'a thought it. I aint pertickler merry myself, not what yer might call downright roarin' boister

*A very superior reading by Mr. Overton, entitled "The Three Parsons," will be found in No. 25 of this Series. "Me and Bill," (on which is founded the ans thor's popular nautical drama, "Hearts of Oak,") is in No. 26, "Turning the Points," in No 27, and "Juberlo Tom," in No. 29. Each of these presents a pe culiar blending of quaint humor, strong pathos, and stirring dramatic effect.

ous, so I s'pose that's why I forgot as it was merry Christmas!

66

Now, then," says a perleeceman, a-comin' up to me, "what do yer want 'angin' about 'ere, eh?"

"Well, guv'ner," I says, "I want a good many things. I wont go so far as to say that I couldn't do with a bit of a fire an' a tit of a bed; and I've sorter got a dim idea as I want a bit o' supper. Between you an' me," I says, "I could make a fool of about 'alf a roast bullock, with baked pertaters. But don't let it go no further," I says, "becos it might 'urt the feelin's o' some o' these 'ere Christian people a-comin' out of church."

"You'll 'ave to go further yerself," says the perleeceman. "None o' yer nonsense 'ere. I know yer. 'Ow would Buckin'ham Palace or Marlboro' 'Ouse do for yer?" I might put up with 'em for a night or two till my town 'ouse is in order," I says; "but I've left my dress soot be'ind me. Besides, I aint expected till the next Droring Room, an' I wouldn't care for to take 'em unawares like. It might inconwenience 'em, don't yer know. Maybe they wouldn't 'a 'ad the chimbley swep'."

46

Move on," 'e says. "I know yer. Come, move on."

The perleeceman were quite right in one thing, it were quite true 'e knowed me, for 'e'd run me in many a time. So I couldn't be offended at 'is winnin' ways. I stepped from the wall across the slippery pavement, an' I didn't know, till I come to move, 'ow cold an' numbed I was. But as I stepped into the road I must 'a stumbled. I remember the blaze of two bright lights, a loud cry, the swerve of a pair of frightened 'orses, an' the 'orrid pain of a 'eavy wheel on my body; an' then the lighted 'ouses an' churches an' theaytres, an' the gay crowds of people, an' the fallin' snow an' the bitter cold, my 'unger an' thirst, an' the kind perleeceman, all faded away.

When I opened my eyes again I was in a 'orspital. A clean white pillow was under my 'ead, an' clean white sheets covered my wounded limbs, an' I was lyin' on Somethink so soft an' easy that I thought at fust the doo

tors must 'a took out all my bones in some operiations, an', as I was always a bony chap, I began thinkin' as I 'ad ought to be allowed the price o' the bones.

I just opened my eyes, an' looked once down the long roʊm, an' see a whole line o' little white beds, all like mine-some with curtains drawed round 'em.

I closed my eyes again, an' sorter dozed off. Presently I 'eard a woice--a woman's woice, oh! sich a low, an' sweet, an' soft, an' gentle woice-talkin' to the poor chap in the bed next to mine, an' readin' to 'im out of a book. An' what she read was all about a woman an' a child. I'd 'eard somethink about it before, but I never took it in till I 'eard about it then, lyin' weak an' 'elpless. I couldn't understand it all, not bein' a schollard, but only Jack Scraggs, the jail-bird; but I could make out enough of it to 'ang on by. Before she finished I knowed who the woman was, an' I knowed who was the child. When she stopped speakin' I 'eld out my 'and an' beckoned 'er to come to me. An' when she come an' sat down by my bedside, I says, "Tell it to me." An' she went over all the story again, talkin' so simple an' easy I could make out almost all she said. When she rose to go away, evernin' 'ad come, for I see through the top of the winder a great star shinin'; an' I wondered whether 'twas like the star that was a-shinin' long ago above the woman an' the child.

Every day she used to come an' talk to me, an' she told me more an' more every time; till I used to watch for 'er as anxious as the perleece used to watch for me sometimes.

Everybody was wery kind to me in the 'orspital,-the doctors, an' the nurses, an' the kind lady what used to come to read to us.

The mornin' I was discharged two doctors come an' pulled me about a bit; an' one of 'em said I were all right now, exceptin' that 'e rather suspected hincipient valvular hagglomerations in my 'eart. I were told af terwards as 'e must 'a meant some complaint, but I

didn't know it at the time, and I felt 'urt like. I didn't know what 'e meant, but it sounded bad.

66

Mister," I says, "you're wrong. Don't go suspectin' me of sich a thing as that. I know," I says, "as my 'eart is full of all manner o' bad feelin's an wickedness; but I aint got no hincipient thingummy-indeed I aint, sir. Far from it," I says. "I'm a-goin' for to try to lead a honest life. I'm a-goin for to try to turn over a noo leaf, please God-blowed if I aint!"

LITTLE CHARLIE.*-ROBERT OVERTON.

AS TOLD BY AN ENGLISH JAIL-BIRD.

Some'ow I don't mind talkin' about myself, an' a-tellin' all manner o' things about myself; but when it comes to speakin' about little Charlie, I feels took aback like. There comes a ugly sort o' lump into my throat, an' my woice gets sorter 'usky, an' I can't see quite clear through my eyes. Yer see I never 'ad nobody for to love, nor nobody for to love me, exceptin' little Charlie. I never 'ad no father an' no mother worth speakin' about; I never 'ad no little brother or sister to look after. I never 'ad nobody to care for, nor nobody to care for me, like Charlie, little Charlie, the poor little tired urchin I found forsook in the Park. I can't tell about it properly, but all my life, so rough an' so wicked as it 'ad always been, seemed to grow into my poor, wee, lovin' Charlie.

It was in the Park I found 'im, soon after I was discharged from the 'orspital. I 'ad been tryin' 'ard to live honest, but it were 'arder work than the treadmill. One dark night, after I'd been tryin' to get a job for a night's lodgin' without earnin' a copper, an' after bein' turned away from the Work-'Ouse becos' they was a-doin' of sich a roarin' trade they was like the homberlebusses in wet weather-"full inside," I got into the Park, an' made

*This and the preceding reading, either of which is complete in itself, are parts of the same story. They can be read separately or the two can be combined s the reader's faucy may dictate.