Then Davy he ran 'nd jumped on his back
'Nd cut off his head with one mighty whack.

Then the sojers of Saul they began to feel brave;
They threw up their caps 'nd give three cheers fer Dave,
Then charged like a thunderbolt down on the foe,
'Nd y' jest oughter seen them ar Philistines go.

Now this story shows, if I see the thing right,
That braggin' 'nd bluster don't count in a fight;
That a feller that's small, with right on his side,
Is likely tu tan a much bigger man's hide.

The feller who told me said Gineral Saul
Played Davy a mighty mean trick arter all;
Ez he is a preacher I've no cause to doubt it,
'Nd mebby I'll see him 'nd tell y' about it.

VIEWS OF FARMER BROWN.-KATHARINE H. TERRY.

What would they thought in our day, John,

Of doin's sech as these?

There's gals down there in Simpkin's lot

About as thick as bees,

A-pickin' such old stiff-backed herbs

As golden-rod, and asters;

Mean, pesky weeds! No thrifty farmer'd
Have 'em in his pastures.

Jest hear 'em laugh, and "oh," and "ah,"
'Bout everything they see;

I reckon fifty year ago

Sech things would never be;
The gals in them days had to work,
And never thought o' posies,
Unless 'twas lalocs in the spring,
And in the summer, rosies.

Or mebbe down the garden walk

You'd see some sweet-peas growin',
And larkspurs, pinks, and hollyhocks
Would do their share o' blowin';
But interferin' with the things

God scattered 'mong the grasses

Was never thought of-guess it wa'n't!-
By good old-fashioned lasses.

It's ever since that prig came here
They call Professor Dangly,
The gals have been a-talkin' 'bout
The "Aster novy-angly,"
And the "Solidago strictly,"

And the "Ap'os tuberosy;"
And them old 'tarnel beggar ticks
Are christened now, " Frondosy."

Waal, times is changed, and so is gals,
And so is all creation;

I'm glad I've lived nigh seventy year
Afore this generation;

For, speakin' confidentially,

It seems to me it means

If folks keep on in this 'ere way
Bumbye they wont know-beans.

Poor farmer Brown is resting now,
Life's sands have all been numbered;

With follies of the present age

His peace is ne'er encumbered; But spite of all, close by his grave, break through the sod The purple asters' starry blooms

Each year

And plumes of golden-rod.

-The Housewife.

A MIDNIGHT TRAGEDY.

Two lovers lean on the garden gate;
The hour is late.

At a chamber window her father stands,
And rubs his hands.

For awhile he watches them unawares,
Then goes down stairs.

He looses the dog from his iron chain-
The rest is plain.

The moonlight silvers the garden gate;
The hour is late.

19

"FLAG THE TRAIN."-WILLIAM B. CHISHOLM.

The last words of Engineer Edward Kennar, who died in a railroad accident near St. Johnsville, N. Y. April, 18, 1887.

Go, flag the train, boys, flag the train!

Nor waste the time on me;

But leave me by my shattered cab;
"Tis better thus to be!

It was an awful leap, boys,
But the worst of it is o'er;
I hear the Great Conductor's call
Sound from the farther shore.

boys,

I hear sweet notes of angels, boys,
That seem to say: "Well done!"
I see a golden city there,
Bathed in a deathless sun;
There is no night, nor sorrow,
No wounds nor bruises there;
The way is clear-the engineer
Rests from his life's long care.
Ah! 'twas a fearful plunge, my lads;
I saw, as in a dream,

Those dear, dear faces looming up

In yonder snowy stream;

Down in the Mohawk's peaceful depths

Their image rose and smiled,

E'en as we took the fatal leap;

Oh God-my wife! my child!

Well, never mind! I ne'er shall see

That wife and child again;

But hasten, hasten, leave me, boys!

For God's sake, flag the train!

Farewell, bright Mohawk! and farewell

My cab, my comrades all;

I'm done for, boys, but hasten on,

And sound the warning call!

Oh what a strange, strange tremor this

That steals unceasing on!

Will those dear ones I've cherished so
Be cared for when I'm gone?
Farewell, ye best beloved, farewell!
I've died not all in vain-

Thank God! The other lives are saved;
Thank God! They've flagged the train!

THE TRUE STORY OF A BRIE CHEESE.

W. E. P. FRENCH.

I am an officer of the army, stationed at a large, rambling post near the thriving twin cities of Minnepaul and St. Apolis.

I was brevetted colonel for conspicuous and daredevil gallantry in the commissary department during the late war, but my actual rank is that of second lieutenant.

Republics are ungrateful! If long and arduous services counted, instead of political influence, I should have been made brigadier instead of old General Kusidnes.

The blight and mildew upon my aspirations for military glory have not, however, soured me and made me cold, callous, and indifferent to the good things of this life, and in the pleasures of the table I find compensation for the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." I particularly cotton to a fine, rich, dead-ripe, high-flavored old cheese, so, when my grocer sent me word that he had received a lot of particularly fine Roquefort, Stilton, and Brie, I ordered my buggy and proceeded to the saintly city. It was years, long years, since I had owned a Fromage de Brie, and my heart beat high with joyous hope and expectancy as I followed Mr. Limburgher into the cellar of his handsome store. He is a Frenchman, as his name indicates, and very proud he was of the superb cheeses he presently uncovered to my admiring nose. They were the finest ones, he assured me, he had ever seen out of his beloved Paree. They were ripe, there was no doubt of that; a captious critic, indeed, might have considered them over-ripe, and sug gested that they had fallen from the tree. But, in the words of Cesar, "smelli, tasti, boughti." I carried my prize to the buggy in my own arms and laid it reverently on the foot warmer, which my wife had thoughtfully put in, as the day was chilly and I had a cold in my head.

Just as I was about to start, Captain Koldcheek came up and asked me to take him back to the post. He got aboard, and we started. It is eight miles from the town to the fort, and Koldcheek has a wooden leg; but we hadn't gone over two miles before he said he believed he needed exercise and guessed he'd walk. He had been rather quiet for some time and hadn't seemed to take much interest in anything but his handkerchief. I tried to dissuade him, but he told me he didn't seem to care much about riding as the motion of a buggy sometimes made him sick. As he got out, I noticed that he looked rather pale and peaked, and, happening to glance over my shoulder a moment after we parted, I saw he was hanging over a rail-fence and heard him say something about Europe, repeating "Europe" quite frequently.

When I reached home Madam was out, but I was rather glad of that because I thought the cheese would be a surprise to her-it was. There are no cellars in our quarters, as, like most army houses, they were built by a lineal descendant of Balaam's ass during an attack of emotional insanity complicated with jimjams; so I put my purchase in the refrigerator and sought my easy chair. Scarcely bad I settled myself when there was a frightful yell and an appalling crash in the kitchen. I rushed out and found the cook senseless on the floor, the cheese-box, with its cover pulled off, lying by her. As soon as she came to, she gave me warning. Then I put the cheese in the top of the upright piano, and, just as it was safely stowed away, in came Mrs. Cannon (my name is Cannon). She had hardly gotten in the door when she began to sniff. I hastened to give her a box of candy I had thoughtfully provided. She thanked me graciously and remarked in the same breath, “What an awful odor there is in here, don't you smell it?" Then, with an air of conviction, "It's a dead rat under the floor of this or the next room, and I wish you'd ask the quartermaster to send a carpenter up the first thing to-morrow to take up the boards." I said I would, and we opened