POOR LITTLE JOE.

Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey,
Fur I've brought you sumpin great.
Apples? No a derned sight better!

Don't you take no interest, wait!

Flowers, Joe,-I know'd you'd like 'em—

Ain't them scrumptious, ain't them high? Tears, my boy, what's them fur Joey? There-poor little Joe-don't cry.

I was skippin' past a winder,
Where a bang-up lady sot,
All amongst a lot of bushes-
Each one climbin' from a pot.
Every bush had flowers on it,
Pretty? Mebbe not! Oh no!
Wish you could a seen 'm growin'
It was such a stunnin' show.

Well, I thought of you, poor feller,
Lyin' here so sick and weak,
Never knowin' any comfort,

And I puts on lots o' cheek,
"Missus," says I, "if you please, mum,
Could I ax you for a rose?
For my little brother, missus,
Never seed one, I suppose."

Then I told her all about you-

How I bringed you up,-poor Joe!

(Lackin' women-folks to do it,)

Sich a imp you was you know

Till yer got that awful tumble,
Jist as I had broke yer in,
(Hard work too,) to earn yer livin'
Blackin' boots for honest tin.

How that tumble crippled of you--
So's you couldn't hyper much--
Joe it hurted when I seen you

For the first time with yer crutch. "But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum, 'Pears to weaken every day.”

Say! it seems to me ole feller,

You is quite yourself to-night; Kind o'chirk, it's been a fortnight

Sence your eyes have been so bright. Better! well I'm glad to hear it!

Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe, Smellin' of them's made you happy? Well, I thought it would, you know.

Never see the country did you?
Flowers growin' everywhere!
Sometime when you're better, Joey,
Mebbe I kin take you there.
Flowers in heaven! 'M-I spose so;

Dunno much about it though;

Ain't as fly as wot I might be
On them topics, little Joe.

But I've heerd it hinted somewheres
That in heaven's golden gates,

Things is everlastin' cheerful,

B'lieve that's wot the Bible states. Likewise, there folks don't get hungry; So good people when they dies, Finds themselves well-fixed for everJoe, my boy, wot ails your eyes?

Thought they looked a little singler.

Oh no! don't you have no fear;
Heaven was made for such as you is-
Joe wot makes you look so queer?
Here-wake up! Oh don't look that way!
Joe my boy, hold up your head!
Here's your flowers, you dropped 'em Joey.

Oh my God! can Joe be dead?

PELEG ARKWRIGHT.

THE NEWSBOY'S DEBT.

Only last year, at Christmas-time, while pacing down the city street,

I saw a tiny, ill-clad boy-one of the many that we meet— As ragged as a boy could be, with half a cap, with one good

shoe,

Just patches to keep out the wind-I know the wind blew keenly too:

A newsboy, with a newsboy's lungs, a square Scotch face, an honest brow,

And

eyes that liked to smile so well, they had not yet forgotten

how:

A newsboy, hawking his last sheets with loud persistence. Now and then

Stopping to beat his stiffened hands, and trudging bravely on again.

Dodging about among the crowd, shouting his "Extras" o'er and o'er;

Pausing by whiles to cheat the wind within some alley, by some door.

At last he stopped-six papers left, tucked hopelessly beneath

his arm

To eye a fruiterer's outspread store; here products from some country farm,

And their confections, all adorned with wreathed and clustered leaves and flowers,

While little founts, like frosted spires, tossed up and down their mimic showers.

He stood and gazed with wistful face, all a child's longing in

his eyes;

Then started as I touched his arm, and turned in quick, mechanic wise,

Raised his torn cape with purple hands, said, "Papers, sir? The Evening News!"

He brushed away a freezing tear, and shivered, "Oh, sir, don't refuse!"

"How many have you? Never mind-don't stop to countI'll take them all;

And when you pass my office here, with stock on hand, give me a call."

He thanked me with a broad Scotch smile, a look half wondering and half glad.

I fumbled for the proper "change," and said, "You seem a little lad

To rough it in the streets like this.” "I'm ten years old on Christmas-day!"

"Your name?" "Jim Hanley." "Here's a crown, you'll get change there across the way.

"Five shillings. When you get it changed come to my office-that's the place.

Now wait a bit, there's time enough: you need not run a headlong race.

Where do you live?" "Most any where. We hired a stable-loft to-day.

Me and two others." "And you thought, the fruiterer's window pretty, hey?

"Or, were you hungry?" "Just a bit," he answered bravely as he might.

"I couldn't buy a breakfast, sir, and had no money left last night."

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"And you are cold?" 'Ay, just a bit. I don't mind cold." "Why, that is strange!"

He smiled and pulled his ragged cap, and darted off to get the "change."

So, with a half-unconscious sigh, I sought my office desk

again :

An hour or more my busy wits found work enough with book and pen.

But when the mantel clock struck five I started with a sudden

thought,

For there beside my hat and cloak lay those six papers I had bought.

"Why, where's the boy? and where's the 'change' he should have brought an hour ago?

Ah, well! ah, well! they're all alike! I was a fool to tempt him so.

Dishonest! Well I might have known; and yet his face seemed candid, too.

He would have earned the difference if he had brought me what was due.

"But caution often comes too late." And so I took my homeward way,

Deeming distrust of human kind the only lesson of the day.