"I don't feel that I've any call to interfere. I know very well that my Bob isn't a bad boy, and that he does what he thinks is right, and, from what I hear about the matter he wasn't very far wrong this time. You and Bob will have to settle your little differences yourselves."

But there were none to settle after that day, for Mr. Masterson never tried to whip Bob "or any other girl," a3 Bob had so comically expressed it, from that day forward, and the school was none the worse on that account, while Bob was a hero among us all winter.

TOO PROGRESSIVE FOR HIM.-LURANA W. SHEldon.

I am somethin' of a vet'ran, just a-turnin' eighty year,―
A man that's hale an' hearty an' a stranger tew all fear;
But I've heard some news this mornin' that has made my
old head spin,

An' I'm goin' tew ease my conshuns if I never speak ag'in.

I've lived my fourscore years of life, an' never till tew-day
Wuz I taken for a jackass or an ign'rant kind o' jay,
Tew be stuffed with such durned nonsense 'bout them crawl-
in' bugs and worms

That's killin' human bein's with their "mikroskopic germs." They say there's "mikrobes" all about a-lookin' for their prey;

There's nothin' pure tew eat nor drink, an' no safe place tew stay;

There's "miasmy" in the dewfall an' “malary” in the sun;
'Tain't safe to be outdoors at noon or when the day is done.

There's "bactery" in the water an' "trikeeny" in the meat,
"Ameeby" in the atmosphere, "calory" in the heat;
There's "corpussels" an' "pigments" in a human bein's blood,
An' every other kind o' thing existin' sence the flood.

Terbacker's full o' "nickerteen," whatever that may be;
An' your mouth'll all get puckered with the "tannin" in the

tea;

The butter's "olymargareen"-it never saw a cow;

An' things is gittin' wus an' wus from what they be just now.

Them bugs is all about us, just a-waitin' fer a chance
Tew navigate our vitals an' tew 'naw us off like plants.

There's men that spends a lifetime huntin' worms just like a goose,

An' tackin' Latin names to 'em an' lettin' on 'em loose.

Now, I don't believe sech nonsense, an' I'm not a-goin' tew try.

If things has come tew such a pass, I'm satisfied tew die;
I'll go hang me in the sullar, fer I wont be such a fool
As to wait until I'm pizened by a “annymally cool."

A RACE FOR LIFE.-J. L. MOLLOY.

A gun is heard at the dead of night-
"Lifeboat ready!"

And every man, to the signal true,
Fights for place in the eager crew;
"Now, lads! steady."

First a glance at the shuddering foam,
Now a look at the loving home,

Then together, with bated breath,

They launch their boat in the gulf of death.
Over the breakers wild,

Little they reck of weather,
But tear their way

Through blinding spray.

Hear the skipper cheer and say!
"Up with her, lads, and lift her!
All together!"

They see the ship in a sudden flash

Sinking ever,

And grip their oars with a deeper breath,
Now it's come to a fight with death,

Now or never!

Fifty strokes, and they're at her side,
If they live in the boiling tide,

If they last through the awful strife.
Ah, my lads, it's a race for life!

Over the breakers wild,
Little they reck of weather,
But tear their way

Through blinding spray.

Hear the skipper cheer and say
"Up with her, lads, and lift her!
All together!"

And loving hearts are on the shore,
Hoping, fearing;

Till over the sea there comes a cheer,
Then the click of the oars you hear
Homeward steering-

Ne'er a thought of the danger past
Now the lads are on land at last;
What's a storm to a gallant crew
Who race for life, and who win it, too?
Over the breakers wild,

Little they reck of weather,
But tear their way
Through blinding spray.

Hear the skipper cheer and say,
"Up with her, lads, and lift her!

All together!"

ONLY JOE.-JAMES ROANN REED.

"This grave were ye meanin', stranger? Oh, ther's nobody much lies here;

It's only poor Joe, a dazed lad; been dead now better'n a year.

He was nobody's child, this Joe, sir-orphaned the hour of his birth;

And simple and dazed all his life, yet the harmlessest creatur' on earth.

Some say that he died broken hearted; but that is all non. sense, you know;

For a body could never do that as were simple and dazed

like Joe.

But I'll tell you the story, stranger, an' then you can readily

see

How easy for some folks to fancy a thing that never could be.

Do you see that grave over yonder? Well, the minister's daughter lies there;

She were a regular beauty, an' as good as she were fair. She'd a nod and a kind word for Joe, sir, whenever she passed him by;

But, bless ye, that were nothin'-she couldn't hurt even a fly.

It wern't very often, I reckon, that people a kind word would

say,

For Joe was simple and stupid, an' allus in somebody's way;

So I s'pose he kind o' loved her; but then that were nothin',

you know,

For there wasn't a soul in the village but loved her better 'n

Joe.

An' when Milly took down with consumption, or some sech weakness as that,

Joe took on kind o' foolish-there were nothin' for hin. to cry at;

An' he'd range the woods over for hours, for flowers to place by her bed,

An' Milly, somehow or other, kind o'liked his dazed ways, they said.

But when winter was come, she died, sir, an' I well remember the day

When we carried the little coffin to the old churchyard

away;

It were so bitter cold we were glad when the grave were made,

An' when we were done an' went home, I suppose poor Joe must have stayed.

They found him here the next mornin', lyin' close to the grave, they said,

An' a-lookin' like he was asleep, but then of course he were dead.

I suppose he got chilled and sleepy, an' how could a body know

How dangerous that kind o' sleep is, as never knowed nothin', like Joe?

So they say that he died broken-hearted; but that only shows, do you see,

How easy for some folks to fancy a thing that never could be; For now you have heard the story you'll agree with me, stranger, I know,

That a body could never do that, as were simple and dazed, like Joe!"

THE TONE OF THE VOICE.

It is not so much what you say,
As the manner in which you say it;
It is not so much the language you use,
As the tones in which you convey it.

"Come here!" I sharply said,

And the baby cowered and wept;

"Come here!" I cooed, and he looked and smiled, And straight to my lap he crept.

The words may be mild and fair,

And the tones may pierce like a dart;
The words may be soft as the summer air,
And the tones may break the heart.

For words but come from the mind,
And grow by study and art;

But the tones leap forth from the inner self,
And reveal the state of the heart.

Whether you know it or not,—

Whether you mean or care,
Gentleness, kindness, love and hate,
Envy and anger are there.

Then would you quarrels avoid,

And in peace and love rejoice,

Keep anger not only out of your words,
But keep it out of your voice.

TIM'S DOWNFALL.-S. JENNIE SMITH.*
Written expressly for this Collection.

What am I afther radin' do you be askin', Mrs. Ca. sey? Sure, it's a letther from me son Tim what wint to Philadelphy to git iddicated, and the news that do be in it narely braks me heart. Tim was the foine b'y, Mrs. Casey, the whate flower of the fam'ly, Pat useter say, he niver wint around sassinatin' paple like the other childer; sich a soft tongue he had in his head, and he was that taken to shtudy he wadn't consint to ate a shtick of candy widout there was a book on the other end.

He was so confectionate too, Mrs. Casey. I moind how he never shtarted to bid widout kissin' me an' Pat. And what wid his larnin' and gentle-loike manners and respictibility, Pat an' me thinks to make a foine man av Tim, and we spinds ivery cint we can airn to git that b'y iddicated. It was plased we were to belave there wad be wan gintleman in the Hogan gineration, and we

*Author of “Mrs. Murphy's Recipe for Cake,” “Aunt Maria at the Eden Musee," and other excellent humorous recitations in previous Numbers.