can tell ye, I'm jest agoin' to fry them doughnuts in it.' Well, I never made no sich doughnuts in all my born days, before or sense. They was light as a feather, and the men-folks praised 'em up, 'nd said I was the beateree fur makin' doughnuts of anybody they ever see." "So you concluded to marry him, did you?" asked Bessie.

"Yis, I hed to," answered Aunt Patience, with a sigh, "Jonas said if I didn't, he'd sue me for damages. So I tell yer, child, gettin' married is all a humbug."

And having freed her mind, Aunt Patience rolled up her knitting, and betook herself to bed.

THE RIDE OF PAUL VENAREZ.

Paul Venarez heard them say, in the frontier town, that day, That a band of Red Plume's warriors was upon the trail of death;

Heard them tell of murder done,-three men killed at Rocky Run.

"They're in danger up at Crawford's," said Venarez, under breath.

"Crawford's”—thirty miles away-was a settlement, that lay In a green and pleasant valley of the mighty wilderness; Half a score of homes was there, and in one a maiden fair Held the heart of Paul Venarez,-"Paul Venarez' little Bess."

So no wonder he grew pale when he heard the settler's tale Of the men he had seen murdered yesterday, at Rocky Run.

"Not a soul will dream," he said, "of the danger that's ahead; By my love for little Bessie, I must see that something's done."

Not a moment he delayed, when his brave resolve was made. Why, my man," his comrades told him when they knew his daring plan,

"You are going straight to death." But he answered "Save your breath,

I may fail to get to Crawford's but I'll do the best I can."

O'er the forest trail he sped, and his thoughts flew on ahead To the little band at Crawford's, thinking not of danger

near.

"Oh, God help me save," cried he, "little Bess!" And fast

and free

Trusty Nell bore on the hero of the far-away frontier. Low and lower sank the sun. He drew rein at Rocky Run; "Here these men met death, my Nellie," and he stroked his horse's mane:

"So will they we go to warn, ere the breaking of the morn, If we fail. God help us, Nellie!" Then he gave his horse the rein.

Sharp and keen a rifle-shot woke the echoes of the spot. "Oh, my Nellie, I am wounded," cried Venarez, with a moan,

And the warm blood from his side spurted out in a red tide, And he trembled in the saddle, and his face had ashy grown.

"I will save them yet," he cried. "Bessie Lee shall know I died

For her sake." And then he halted in the shelter of a hill:

From his buckskin shirt he took, with weak hands a little

book;

And he tore a blank leaf from it. "This," said he, "shall be my will."

From a branch a twig he broke, and he dipped his pen of oak In the red blood that was dripping from the wound below the heart.

"Rouse," he wrote, "before too late. Red Plume's warriors lie in wait.

Good-by, Bess! God bless you always." Then he felt the warm tears start.

Then he made his message fast, love's first letter, and its last;

To his saddle-bow he tied it, while his lips were white with pain.

"Bear my message, if not me, safe to little Bess," said he. Then he leaned down in the saddle, and clutched hard the sweaty mane.

Just at dusk, a horse of brown, flecked with foam, came panting down

To the settlement at Crawford, and she stopped at Bessie's door.

But her rider seemed asleep. Ah, his slumber was so deep Bessie's voice could never wake him, if she called forever

more.

You will hear the story told by the young and by the old In the settlement at Crawford's, of the night when Red Plume came;

Of the sharp and bloody fight; how the chief fell, and the flight

Of the panic-stricken warriors. Then they speak Venarez' name

In an awed and reverent way, as men utter "Let us pray," As we speak the name of heroes, thinking how they lived and died;

So his memory is kept green, while his face and heaven be

tween

Grow the flowers Bessie planted, ere they laid her by his side.

-Youth's Companion.

MATINS.-EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

Richard, the Lion-hearted,

Parting for Palestine,

In lone St. Mary's Abbey

Knelt at Our Lady's shrine;

And begged that the Abbot's blessing,
And the monks' prevailing prayer,
Might follow him over the waters,
And the deserts hot and bare.

"God be praised!" quoth the Abbot,
"By Holy Rood I swear

That at matins and sext and compline,

Through the church's sacred air,

Petitions shall rise to Heaven

That the wave and the shore may be

Safe for our Sovereign, Richard,

Till conqueror home comes he!"

The moon of another April

Shone on the Eastern sea;

And sailing by rocky Cyprus,

The Holy Land to free,

Were the King and his Norman nobles

When out of the South there blew

The blast of the dread sirocco,

And away the good ship flew!

Into the blinding darkness,

Into the howling storm,

While the salt spray wreathed before her
A beckoning, demon form.
"Mary, have mercy!" the sailors

Shrieked as the masts went down; "Bitter is death," sighed the nobles, "So near to our glory's crown!" Leaning over the bulwarks,

Richard, risen from rest,

With his white brow bared to the tempest,
And his blue eyes turned to the West,
Cried, in a voice of anguish

That rung o'er the foaming sea,
"Would God it were time for matins,
And the grey monks prayed for me!"
Meanwhile, on the fields of England
The dew distilled its balm,

And the lone Cistercian Abbey

Slept in the midnight calm

Till the moon had passed the zenith,
And the watch of morning fell,

When, over the wood and the moorland,
Rung clear the matin bell.

Then, through the silent cloisters,

And under the arches dim,

Abbot, and monk, and friar,
Chanting a solemn hymn

(While the flame of the stone-hewn cressets Flared with its rise and fall,

And the Virgin smiled serenely

From her niche in the lofty wall,)

Entered the aisle to the altar,

And knelt with the fervent prayer That still, for their Sovereign, Richard, The winds might be soft and fair.

"Bless him, O Lord,” quoth the Abbot, And bring him in peace again

With the sign of our faith triumphant !"
And the monks said low, "Amen!"

That moment, over the tempest,
A lull stole out of the West,

And the ship rocked, light as a sea-bird
Asleep on the ocean's breast.
"Lord of my life," cried Richard,

"Thine shall the glory be!

I know 'tis the hour for matins,
And the grey monks pray for me?"

Happy were we, still sailing,
Some blessed shore to gain,
If Abbot, and holy brother
Yearned for our souls in pain.
But ever the wild storm rages,

And our cry is lost in the sea-
“Would God it were time for matins,
And the grey monks prayed for me!"

A PURPOSE.-HENRY CLEMENS PEARSON. From one end to the other of the great "boot-room,” ran a ceaseless rustle of rapid work. Every man, stripped to the light gossamer wrapper, was doing his best. The company had taken a large contract. Hundreds of thousands of pairs of rubber-boots would be turned off within the next few weeks, and thousands of dollars would go to the energetic "piece-hands." The faster a mon worked the more money he made. All false and useless motions were left out. Alert and active, the human machins handled the heavy "boot-trees," doing the most intricate "sticking" and "rolling" with a single touch. At the same long table, in this eager race, worked two One was a South-western Yankee, scarred and weather-pitted, lean and wiry, whose long arms and bony fingers finished the work with a nicety and dispatch that could only be equaled by the skilled "old hands." His mate was slender, smooth-faced, nervous, quick of motion, and clear of eye. There was no odor of liquor in his breath, no tobacco-stain on his teeth. No one there knew him. But all respected him. His "ticket" for the last month had been the largest in the room, and there were

men.