Then Jane Lizbeth pulled me along till we stood by a dead emp'ror. There was a gal kneelin' by him and she looked powerful sorry. I alus feel sympathize for any body in inflixions and I forgot that they mort be wax, so I said to her tender like, "Don't take on, miss; he's most likely better off nor we be." She didn't let on to notice me, and Jane Lizbeth said, "Oh, Aunt Maria, these is wax figgers too."

"Jane Lizbeth," said I, "for I was goin' to know the hull unwarnished truth immegit, "be they all wax figgers, everybody here?"

"No," said she "some's wax figgers, and some's people. You must excriminate." Jane Lizbeth is powerful fond of usin' hiferlutin' words.

Howsumever, I couldn't nohow tell which was which. If I come to a right smart lookin' woman and thought she was alive, she turned out to be wax; and if I put my hand nigh a figger and said it was a perticerler fine imitation, that same figger laughed and walked off.

Arter a while we come to a hull lot of people on steps. "That's Queen Victory and the President," said Jane Lizbeth, p'intin' to two people what sot together.

"Did Queen Victory come way over to this country to see the wax figgers?" said I.

Then Jane Lizbeth laughed and everybody standin' there done likewise, and Jane Lizbeth whispered, " Don't you understand, Aunt Maria, them's wax figgers too.”

Sech a quantity of wax figgers! I couldn't somehow believe my sentences that they was made of wax. They looked jest ready to harticerlate, as the deacon says. Anyhow, I felt conwicted that the grinnin' nigger by the door wasn't no figger and I made up my mind to give him a leetle advice when I got back there.

Next we come to a man nigh a piany, and I asked him soft like if he would obleege us with some musical compliments, but he never smole, nor even wunk his eye, so I concluded that he must be another wax figger.

While we was walkin' round I seed a wonderful nice look.

in' woman, and she stood so still that I thought she must be another repersentation, as Jane Lizbeth says, so I put my finger right on her eye, and said to Jane Lizbeth, "How can they make their eyes so nateral?" But immegit as I touched it that lady enermost jumped out of her skin, and then looked at me like a roarin' lion seekin' what she mort dewore. I felt pretty nigh beat then, and I seed that Jane Lizbeth was laughin', but I concluded to treat sech actions with silent dignerty. For there didn't seem to be no way of tellin' people from wax figgers, nor wax figgers from people.

Then we went down some stone steps into a dark place and immegit my heart went up into my bronical tubes. The first thing I sot my eyes on was a nigger man with his head cut off. I knowed right away it was that nigger what sot by the door and grinned. Then I enermost fainted. "For the lands sake, Jane Lizbeth," said I, soon as I could gasp for breath, "I had no idee you'd brung me to the cellar of execution. I don't reckon there's worse goin' on nor that at India's frozen mountains."

Jane Lizbeth tried to stop me by talkin' wax figger to me agen, but I knowed better. I seed a figger on the other floor gittin' stabbed and there wasn't no blood aflowin', but there was blood down in that dark place and it was drippin' from that cut-off head. So I jest went on talkin' about sech doins, and I let everybody hear me, too. Pretty soon I happened to turn round and I seed so many other awful sights that I shut my eyes agen 'em. "Jane Lizbeth," said I, "take me immegit out of this house. It's enough to make anybody's blood run in their wanes." Some people was laughin', but Jane Lizbeth was only tryin' to stop me with that wax figger story but I wouldn't be stopped. A good many people was comin' down the stairs then, but I wouldn't stop on their account neither. I hadn't no idee that people would laugh with folks bein' doomed afore their werry eyes, but they did, that's certing, and they continnered to laugh while I hurried away from that place

with my eyes shut tight as eyester shells. Jane Lizbeth was sayin' something about goin' to the garden to git a drink, but I couldn't trust no garden arter what I seed in the cellar. Now I thought since Abraham Lincoln put his name to that declaration of independence, and Georgie Washington, bless his heart! refranchizated our colored brethring that there wasn't no more decapitationing of heads of free, nateral, American citizens, but it 'pears there be, more shame to a liberated country.

The next mornin' Jane Lizbeth inquired if I would like to wisit that wax show agen, but I jest informed her, with proper sperit, that my heart hadn't got through yet palpitatin' like a dead lamb's tale, and that I wouldn't never, on no consideration whatsumever, step my new two dollar shoes into that place agen as long as my name's Maria Willoughby, Kiterwille, left hand side of the road, nigh the toll gate.

THE MOTHER-IN-LAW.*-CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.
Dhere vas many qveer dings in dis land off der free
I neffer could qvite understand;

Der beobles, dhey all seem so deefrent to me
As dhose in mine own faderland.

Dhey gets blenty droubles, und indo mishaps
Mitoudt der least bit of a cause;

Und, vould you pelief id, dhose mean Yangee chaps,
Dhey fights mit dheir moder-in-laws?

Shust dink off a vhite man so vicked as dot!

Vhy not gife der oldt lady a show?

Who vas it gets oup, ven der nighdt id vas hot,
Mit mine baby, I shust like to know?

Und dhen, in der vinter, vhen Katrine vas sick,
Und der mornings vas shnowy und raw,
Who made righdt avay oup dot fire so qvick?
Vhy, dot vas mine moder-in-law.

*From "Dialect Ballads," by permission of the author.

Mr. Adams has won

a national reputation in his line. In previons Numbers will be found "Leedle Yawcob Strauss," "Dot Baby off Mine," "Mother's Doughnuts," "Vas Marriage Failure," and other famous recitations by the same writer.

Id vas von off dhose voman's righdts vellers I been,
Dhere vas noding dot's mean aboudt me;

Vhen der oldt lady vishes to run dot masheen,
Vhy, I shust let her run id, you see.

Und ven dot shly Yawcob vas cutting some ricks
(A block off der oldt chip he vas, yaw!)

Eef she goes for dot chap like some dousand off bricks, Dot's all righdt! She's mine moder-in-lav.

Veek oudt und veek in, id vas alvays der same,

Dot voman vas boss off der house;

Budt, dhen, neffer mindt! I vos glad dot she came,
She vas kind to mine young Yawcob Strauss.
Und vhen dhere vas vater to get vrom der spring
Und firevood to shplit oup and saw,

She vas velcome to do it. Dhere's not anyding
Dot's too good for mine moder-in-law.

A CHRISTMAS STORY.-JANE KAVANAGH.

'Twas Christmas eve; the snowflakes fell
On house-top, street and spire,,
Until earth's foulest spots were clad
In holiday attire.

Around the somber prison walls
The gentle showers fell,

And silvered o'er the iron bars
That guarded each dark cell.

In one of these, upon his cot,
A youth so young and fair
Sat darkly brooding on the lot
That led his footsteps there.

had sped

Scarce twenty changeful years
Above the bright young head,
So bowed in woeful misery
Upon a prison bed. -

Adown the gloomy corridor
A dark-robed figure glides,
And halts beside the grated cell
Where woe and sin abides.

She tells him with such tender words
Of hope and pardon, too,

Of brighter paths on earth to win,
Of honest work to do.

And something in the low, sweet voice
That probes his bosom's pain
Reminds him of his mother deau,
Like some sweet, sad refrain.

Adown the gloomy prison walls,
The pure white snowflakes fell,
Until a silver curtain hid

Each inmate in his cell.

Sweet Sister Mary, done her work,
The prison turned to leave,

With hope that one young soul was saved
On that glad Christmas eve.

A score of years have passed away;
Again the snow falls down,

Again the Christmas eve has dawned
Upon a northern town.

We stand within the massive walls
That guard a convent broad,

A hundred helpless orphans, and
A noble sisterhood.

An old acquaintance here we find;
The care-marks on her brow
Bespeak her honored rank, for she
Is Mother Mary now.

The convent treasury is bare;
Poor Mother Mary sighs-

Her children may not eat the feast
That's held in paradise.

But hark! the convent bell is rung,
A peal so sharp and clear;

The smiling portress hastens in,
With present for Ma Mere.

The package is a bulky one,

And when the sum is told