They were friends, and that only;-for pleasure,
And for study and mutual good;

They had settled the matter completely,
And 'twas perfectly well understood.

Then they found that the gossips pursued them,
As gossips delight to pursue,

So they met and talked over the matter

To decide what 'twas best they should do;
And they came not to any decision

Any clearer or better'n before,

And they had to keep meeting and talking
And discussing the question some more.
They arrived at the solemn conclusion
That their paths must lie further apart;
They were not anything to each other,

And they cared not for Cupid's frail dart;
So they met for the purpose of parting,

For they cared naught about it, they said.
And they laughed at the follies of lovers,-
Then they fell in love heels over head.

AT THE STAGE DOOR.*-JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY,
The curtain had fallen, the lights were dim,
The rain came down with a steady pour;
A white-haired man, with a kindly face,

Peered through the panes of the old stage door.
"I'm getting too old to be drenched like that,"
He muttered and turning, met, face to face,
The woman whose genius, an hour before,
Like a mighty power, had filled the place.

"Yes, much too old,” with a smile, she said,
And she laid her hand on his silver hair;
"You shall ride with me to your home to-night,
For that is my carriage, standing there."
The old door-tender stood, doffing his hat

And holding the door, but she would not stir
Though he said it was not for the "likes o' him,
To ride in a kerridge with such as her."

"Come, put out your lights," she said to him,
"I've something important I wish to say,

*From "Lines and Rhymes," by permission of the Author.

And I can't stand here in the draught, you know-
I can tell you much better while on the way."
So, into the carriage, the old man crept,

Thanking her gratefully, o'er and o'er,
Till she bade him listen, while she would tell
A story, concerning that old stage door.
"It was raining in torrents, ten years ago
This very night, and a friendless child
Stood, shivering there, by that old stage door,
Dreading her walk, in a night so wild.
She was only one of the "extra" girls,

But you gave her a nickel to take the car,
And said 'Heaven bless ye, my little one!
Ye can pay me back, ef ye ever star.'

"So you cast your bread on the waters then,
And I pay you back, as my heart demands,
And we're even now-no! not quite," she said,
As she emptied her purse in his trembling hands
"And if ever you're needy and want a friend,
You know where to come, for your little mite
Put hope in my heart and made me strive

To gain the success you have seen to-night."
Then the carriage stopped at the old man's door,

And the gas-light shone on him, standing there;
And he stepped to the curb, as she rolled away,
While his thin lips murmured a fervent prayer.
He looked at the silver and bills and gold,
And he said: "She gives all this to me?
My bread has come back a thousand-fold;
God bless her! God bless all such as she!"

A MOTHER'S TINDER FALIN'S.*
S. JENNIE SMITH.

So poor Mrs. Mulligan's gone, rist her sowl! It's a tremingus clamity for the neighborhood, Mrs. Jones, but the poor dear is betther off out of this wicked wurruld. I'd say that if it was mesilf, indade I would, and you know that for the truth, sure as my name's Biddy Reilly. *Written expressly for this Collection. "Mrs. Murphy's Recipe for Cake,* "Mary Ann's Escape" &c., in other Numbers, are by the same author.

And how does himsilf stand the confliction? Faies lonesome, does he? Faix and he'll not be lonesome long, let me tell you. He'll foind another woife before many days have passed the merigin. And you moight be willin' to forgive him for that, if it weren't for the chil der. Me heart blades for the little innercent darlin's. Think av it, Mrs. Jones,-six wee motherless childer wid a stip-woman batin thim!

And for the matter av that, she moight be the bist intintioned famale benath the sun, but she couldn't have a mother's tinder falin's for her little wans. (See here, Patsy Reilly, if you lay wan finger on that chiny dish agin, I'll break ivery bone in your body.) As I wus a-sayin', Mrs. Jones, a person what isn't a mother can't have a mother's tinder love for the little wans. It aint no way natural. There was Kate Jice what married Kagen tin months afther his woife doied. She'd bate thim childer wid the fust thing she could lay her hands on. It aint-(Mary Ann, what are you up to now? If you middle wid thim bricy brics any more, I'll knock you spachless.)

You see, Mrs. Jones, paple as aint had any childer can't affectionate thim loike we that have. They don't same to be Howly Moses! if there aint that Tommy of mine wid both fate in the dinner pot, and his father's peraties ferninst his dirty shoes! (Luk here, you young spalpeen, I'll knock your head agin the wall tell you can't spake, if you bother me any more.)

It aint that some of thim stip-mothers don't mane well, Mrs. Jones; but they don't onderstand how to rare the dilicate little things. It aint in thim. They moight be will-intintioned, but it's my dacided opinion that a mother should be a born wan,-wan growin' up wid the childer, so to spake, for how can a stip-mother fale-arrah me! what's thim rascals up to now? Jist howld on a minute, Mrs. Jones, tell I go in and bate ivery wan of thim into obegence. I wont injy a sicond's pace tell I do.

THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST.*-—S. W. Foss.

The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' uv silk,

An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk; Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys an' stovepipe hats were there,

An' doods 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer.

The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz: "Our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz,

An' as we hev no substitoot, as Brother Moore aint here, Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?"

An' then a red-nosed, drunken tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style,

Give an interductory hiccup, an' then staggered up the aisle. Then through thet holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin, An' through thet air of sanctity the odor uv old gin.

Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge: "This man purfanes the house er God! W'y this is sacrilege!"

The tramp didn' hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet,

An' sprawled an' staggered up the steps, an' gained the organ

seat.

He then went pawin' through the keys, an' soon there rose a strain

Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart an' 'lectrify the

brain;

An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees,

He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys.

The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry;
It swelled into the rafters an' bulged out into the sky,
The ol' church shook an' staggered an' seemed to reel an'
sway,

An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!"

An' then he tried a tender strain thet melted in our ears, Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears;

An' we dreamed uv ol'time kitchens 'ith Tabby on the mat, Uv home an' luv an' baby-days an' mother an' all that!

*From "The Yankee Blade," by permission of the Author.

An' then he struck a streak uv hope

given

-a song from souls for

Thet burst from prison-bars uv sin an' stormed the gates uv heaven;

The morning stars they sung together, no soul wuz left

alone,

We felt the universe wuz safe an' God wuz on his throne!

An' then a wail uv deep despair an' darkness come again, An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv

men;

No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, An' then the tramp, he staggered down an' reeled into the

night!

But we knew he'd tol' his story, though he never spoke a word,

An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard; He hed tol' his own life history an' no eye was dry thet day, W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let us pray."

A CHALLENGE.*-JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

"Good-night," he said, and he held her hand,
In a hesitating way,

And hoped that her eyes would understand
What his tongue refused to say.

He held her hand, and he murmured low:
"I'm sorry to go like this.

It seems so frigidly cool, you know,

This 'Mister' of ours, and 'Miss.'

"I thought-perchance-" and he paused to note
If she seemed inclined to frown,

But the light in her eyes his heartstrings smote,
As she blushingly looked down.

She spoke no word, but she picked a speck

Of dust from his coat lapel;

So small, such a wee, little, tiny fleck,
'Twas a wonder she saw so well;

But it brought her face so very near,

In that dim uncertain light,

That the thought, unspoken, was made quite clear,

And I know 'twas a sweet, "Good-night."

*From "Lines and Rhymes," by permission of the Author.