But when I sees yo' settin' heah wiv darned an' tattahed breeches,

I knows eff yo' is lost at all it wont be by yo' riches;

Yo' may find 'ligion 'thout a cent an' sing an' preach an' hollah,

But 'ligion now like odder things lean sumffin' on de dol.

lah;

Yo' can't git tickets inter heaben fo' dimes, nor yet by stealin',

But dollah bills all turn de wheels as well as faith an' feelin'. Few dollahs salted down in bank ell gib yo' spectful neighbahs;

Dey'll gib yo' influence an' grease yo' missyunary labahs; Make ob yo' house a pleasant home-no musk-rat habitashun,

An' boost yo' up above de reach ob hungah an' temptashun; Moreobah, yo' kin pay yo' tax, keep off de jedge's docket, An' laff at sheriffs wiv a lump of greenbacks in yo' pocket. Be honest, but don't shet yo' eyes; be generous, but keerful; An' when de white man talk yo' slick be quite perlite an' cheerful,

But mind he don't git all yo' got while yo' is grandly grinnin', He's allus smilin' when he sets his patent trap fo' skinnin'; It's werry well ter credit folks wiv right-smart good intentions,

But understan' de whole machine an' study dar inventions. Don't spend yo' time in making plans, in jawin' an' debatin'; Some feller grab yo' chances while you's talkin' an' a-waitin'; Don't wait fur sumffin' ter turn up, but quit yo' idle dreamin', An' turn things up ter suit yo'self while silly owls am screamin';

Don't trade in Sampson's clubs an' sich, tied up in holdbacks fettah

Good luck is jess persimmon-nice but pluck is sumffin' bettah.

So many niggahs spend dar all, sometimes befo' dey earn it; Might jess as well git none at all, or when dey gits it burn it. Dar pocket-books am lank an' lean, inside der heads am leanah,

Dar houses look like swines' abodes, sometimes a little meanah.

Yo'll find em always at a dance rigged up in rings an' laces, A-struttin' round like dusky swans a-goin' fro dar paces.

Dar heads am empty as a gourd, dar hearts am jess as holler, Likewise dar pocket-books; an' dey am allus tryin' ter borrer

Few dollahs from dar clebah frens, a-scrapin' an' a-pawin', Jess like a mustard plastah, too, a-clingin' an' a-drawin'; Don't be sech trouble-trash as dat, sech puddin'-headed creachahs.

Dem dunces boun' ter bust darselbs in spite ob books an' preachahs.

Best imitate de 'dustrious bees, save up fo' hungry weathah, An' when some strangah 'tack the hive see how dey stick togethah;

Be true to all yo' honest friens, gib tothers de cold shouldah, An' maybe dey will learn respec' fo' wisdom when dey's oldah.

Bime by, when yo' is perched way up on top de social laddah,

Dey'll be moah sensible, or else dey'll be a good deal maddah.

In fact der way ter git along is allus find a reason

Fo' eberything' yo' say or do, an' do it jess in season;

Be shuah ter make expenses less dan what you's daily gainin',

Fix umberillas when it's fine an' not when it's a-rainin'. Don't be meah buttahflys or gnats, so frolicky an' flighty, Jess help yo'selves den ask moah help an' grace ob God Almighty.

When tempted ter buy useless frills, be keerful, don't yo' do it;

No pocket fills if like a sieve mos' ebery thing runs through

it;

Den shall yo' hab a monument as high as yondah steeple, An' smoked Amerikins shall be a great an' mighty people.

RETRIBUTION.

It is not the waters of a mighty river bursting its banks and sweeping swiftly and mercilessly over the lowlands; not the vengeful advance of a prairie fire reaching out its thousands of red tongues for new victims; not the mighty hurricane destroying and devastating. It is a body of men moving along a highway in the darkness, more menacing in its silence than the hurricane in its roaring. Not a voice is raised above a whisper; no face looks backwards. On-over the hillsalong the levels-across the bridges---tramp! tramp!

tramp! They reach the outskirts of a town, but there is no halt. Up the broad street, turn to the right, turn to the left-a thousand people sleeping undisturbed by the measured footsteps.

A sleeping jailer is aroused by a thunderous rapping on the heavy door. He opens it and looks out upon a hundred men whose silence-whose very attitudes-tell him everything at a single glance. Two words are whispered in his ear: "The keys!" Duty warns him to resist. Prudence cautions him to obey. A score of men push past him without a look or a word, and one of them holds up a light while the others peer through the barred doors. One-two-three-they halt at the fourth. The occupant has been aroused. With face as white as snow, with eyes which speak of the terror in his heart, with every nerve suddenly unstrung by the menace, he cowers like some conquered wild beast.

"Bring out the murderer!

A key turns in the lock, strong arms pull him into the corridor and out into the summer's midnight. He would fight fire or flood; he would brave bullet or knife, but here is a menace more terrible. He has no more courage than a child. He tries to speak--to beg-to plead, but the words choke him. With a grim and speechless guardian on either side, with grim and speechless men marching before and behind, he is led away. He groans in his agony of mind, but the hands grip tighter. He staggers in his weakness, but the arms which support him grow more rigid.

"Halt!"

The branches of a tree shut out the sight of heaven as the victim looks up. There is a reaction now. He denies his guilt; he pleads for his life. His voice reaches the ear of every man, but no one heeds it. It is hardly a minute before a noose is thrown over his head, and swift fingers tie his arms and legs. He is still speaking, he is desperately hoping that one heart in that crowd may be melted, when the leader gives a sign.

Next instant there is a body swinging from the limbswinging-writhing--twisting--a horrible sight even in the merciful darkness. Scarcely a hand is moved as the minutes go by. Not an eye is turned away until the horrible pendulum hangs still and dead. Then a low command is given, and the crowd breaks into fragments, and the fragments are swallowed up in the darkness.

Retribution takes her place at the foot of the tree to watch the night out alone.

THAT AUTOGRAPH SALE.-ELMER RUAN COATES.
The papers blew a perfect gale,
For a coming autographic sale,-
A sale of literary names

Rejoicing in their world-wide fames.
The list was long: the names are such
As lead the English, German, Dutch;
As have a special charm and rule
In the French, Italian, Spanish school;
As have a hold on this brainy time,
In prose and drama, blank and rhyme.
Some had a very early date,

While other autographs were late.
And a number, be it truly told,

Soon found themselves and the buyer sold.

Now Shoddy, Codfish, Puff, and Blow,

Snob, Dash, and Brag, Loud, Swell, and Show,

Squint, Ogle, Languish, Gad, and Flirt,
With the noble tribes of Squirt and Dirt,

Ride up in carriages brand new,

With the footman and the coach-dog, too.
Not one of these could ever quote
A single line these authors wrote.

And, worse than this, they couldn't name
The books that give these authors fame.
And there's a worst,-the pressing need
Of one to teach them how to read.
They had not only mental sloth,
But a heavy plus of mushroom growth.
'Twas quite enough for them to know
These writers set the world aglow;

That, with their autographic names,
Their pride and pomp could play their games.
They'd buy for others to admire,

To make the envious perspire.

They'd buy them merely for the looks,
As they have bought their unread books.

The gavel raps, and now the sale;
Look at the buncombe zeal prevail.
In manners, they are naughty boys;
We have a perfect stock-board noise,
The women quite as loud as men.
The autographs bring five, and ten,
And fifteen, twenty. Then they rise
To heights that fill you with surprise.
A bogus Cromwell, in a flash,
Is sold for fifteen hundred--cash.
A pause. The auctioneer exclaims:
"Here's an eclipse on all these names.
Let reverence now bow the head."
They do precisely as he said.

"At a certain name your eyes must fill.

Three cheers!" They're given with a will.

"What name?" ""Tis Lady Geraldine."

66

Oh, yes!-related to the Queen,"

Some fellow says. "Tis royal fun

To hear the explanations run.

The chap who never heard her name
Is telling all about her fame.

His rivals grow to seventeen,
And they have "Lady Geraldine"
Related to the queens and kings,

And writer of such brilliant things.

Says the auctioneer: "I've seen her stir-"

"Great crowds!" they shout. "We know of her."

Said he: "She never fears the broil-"

"No, no!" says Blow, "In the right she'll toil."

"Before she'd idle, she would roast."

"She would!" they cry. "It is her boast."
"Just think that she will carry coal!"
They shout: "Just like her, noble soul."

The would-knows tell how she, "so pure,"
Will "carry coal for worthy poor."
"She braves the water and the fire,
In service she will rarely tire.