Down brakes! reverse the engine wheels!
Cold pallor o'er each visage steals;
They curb the iron steed,

And with its slackening speed

A calm relief each bosom feels.

Not quite it halts; it strikes a limb
And thrusts it through the shadows dim
Against her slender form,

Who braves the night and storm
To shut the jaws of death so grim.
She falls, a bruised and bleeding one;
And sad and tearful eyes look on
To see her shattered frame;
They asked the brave girl's name,
Who risked her all for them unknown.

And grateful men and women fair
A present offer then and there;
And to her hand they press
The gift in her distress

To soothe her in her pain and care.

But no; for her reward alone

Is love's own work and duty done;
With this alone content,

She yieldeth not consent;

A joy to selfish souls unknown.

They bore her home that evening hour,

To wither like a summer flower,

Until, in silent rest,

Soft folded on her breast,

Her brave white hands forgot their power,—

Brave hands that swung the signal light
And stopped the death-march of that night;
What tales were never told,
What wreck of life and gold

Her courage hid from human sight!

Write high those humble deeds of love;
These lowly heroes, how they move
Along our paths unseen,

To shine at length serene

On memory's greener heights above.

THE TRAMP'S STORY.-C. E. RICHMOND.

Yes, I know I'm only a tramp, and I don't do nothing 'cept steal and murder! But, stranger, you've treated me like a man to-night, and if I do look thievish and ragged, I've got a heart in me yet, and I thanks yer for it, sur-if a tramp's thanks are worth anything to yer. How did I come to be a tramp?

Sur, you waken devilish thoughts in my heart,-heart, did I say! just as if a tramp had a heart, humph!-No, I was not always thus. I wasn't always kicked about like a dog; driven from town to city and city to town; looked upon with loathing and disgust. Yer look kindhearted, mister, and I don't mind tellin' yer how I come to be as low and vile as I am.

Stranger, I was once an honest man like yerself, I carried my head as proud as you do and I could look any man in the eye without flinching. I lived in eastern York state then, with as sweet a wife and darlin' a little girl as ever shed sunshine on a father's path. I had a little property, them days,-little it was, to be sure,—a few acres of ground with a cottage on it, but 'twas enough to be happy on, and that little spot of earth was a perfect heaven to me.

In the evening when I come home from my day's work my little, goldenhaired girl-God bless her! she's with the angels now-used to meet me at the gate and throw her pretty white arms around my neck and kiss me, and wife stood waitin' at the door with the supper hot and steamin' on the table and that little vine-covered cottage was as dear to me as your great big house is to you.

There I lived for many a year, as happy as a clear conscience and honest labor can make one, and our little girl grew up to be the handsomest girl in the neighborhood, and the farmers' boys for miles around used to come and make love to her but she had been petted too much; I had sent her to the village school whar she had larn't

readin' and writin' and all sich things. And she used to read to wife and me on the long winter evenin's about God and Adam and Eve and how the sarpint tempted them.

She used to read another kind of books, too. She said they were novels and love stories and thar she would sit sighin' and cryin' and smilin' over them 'ar books and talkin' about lords and ladies and gentlemen. But I didn't like them 'ar books because they used to make our girl look down on our poor home with a kind of disgust.-Well! Well! stranger, don't get wearied on me, for I likes to think about them 'ar happy days.

But the devil came there too,-not in the form of a sarpent as my daughter used to read on, nor with a long tail on and horns on his head, but with fine clothes on and a white biled shirt,—one of them 'ar city chaps with his clean pale face and small white hands. My girl used to take to him mighty strong. And her face used to light up for him even more than it did for me. Well, sur! one evening they went out walkin' together and when night come they did not come back, and wife found a letter that our girl had written sayin' as how she had gone to be a fine lady and live in a nice big house with horses and carriages and sarvents and all sich things, and then I knowed as how she'd run off with that 'ar city chap. But she said as how she'd come and visit us soon. Well, we waited patiently, wife and I, but that home wasn't what it used to be. We used to sit and talk about our girl, and hope and pray that she might be happy, and we waited patiently for her to come and visit us as she said she would.

Stranger, she came! but it warn't with any nice big horse and carriage. One evenin' as wife and I were sittin' on the door step talking about our girl and countin' up the months and days and hours she had been gone we see'd a poor thing come staggerin' up the road. She stopped at our gate and come in. An old ragged dress

on and a shawl wrapped around her head. It was our girl, mister, it was our girl, but how changed! Her checks were pale and shrunken and she was so thin and weak, -they say a man shouldn't blubber, mister, but it does ease one's heart though, now don't it? Well, sur, we took our girl in and tried to make home as happy for her as it used to be; but 'twarn't no use; she was sick for a long while, then she and her child both died, and then wife, who had set up by them night and day watching them in their sickness, she too took sick and followed our dear girl to that heaven she read to us about so oft.

What did I do then?

What would any man do under the circumstances? I buried the two, side by side, in the old village churchyard and over their graves I swore a terrible oath, in the sight of heaven, that as long as I lived, as long as one drop of blood remained in these arms and legs, I would search for that human fiend that ruined our once happy home! And when I found him I'd tear his heart out by the roots and hold it up before his very eyes that he might see its own hellish blackness! Stranger, I've traveled from New York to San Francisco, from New Orleans to Quebec. Night and day I've been on the watch for him, sleeping in barns, in haystacks, by the roadside, gathering my vittles from door to door. I haven't found him yet, but I WILL FIND HIM! and when I do- —but what do you care for a poor tramp and his troubles. You can live happy here and never think on me and mine. Good night, sur!

Yes, I know it's cold and rainin' out, but I've faced worse storms than this in my time. You couldn't give a poor fellow a chaw of tobacca could you? Thank you sur! Thank you! You've given me a good supper tonight and you've treated me more like a man than I've been for many a day and I thank you for it sur! Ithank you for it. Good night, sur. May God bless you and yours!

THE DEACON'S COURTSHIP.-MRS. L. D. A. STUTTLE.

Poor Deacon Brown, in the prime of life,
Had buried his loved and loving wife,
And what in the world could the deacon do
With four small boys, and a baby too?
Joseph and Jessie, Isaac and Paul,
And none but the deacon to do for all.
So he said to his neighbor, Jones, one day,
In a semi-serious kind of a way,

"I tell you, Jones, I am sick indeed
Of the lonely, hundrum life I lead;

It would brighten the gloom of my lonely life,
If I only well, if I had a wife!

And then, my friend, you are well aware
That my poor little babes need a mother's care.
If I knew of a woman, kind and good,
That would care for them as a mother should,
Why, neighbor Jones, I would give my life—
But where, oh! where can I find a wife?
There is widow Smith, but don't you see,
She isn't the woman at all for me.
I do not care for a pretty face,
A lovely maid with a form of grace;
But give me a woman of common sense,
And not a miserable bill of expense,-
Hearty and rugged, and ready to work,
Never complaining, or trying to shirk,
One who can go if the need demands,
Out in the field with the harvest hands,
And wouldn't consider it out of her place,
Oh! I wouldn't give much for a pretty face."

"Well, deacon," said Jones, with a comical sigh,
While a bushel of fun twinkled right in his eye,
"I know of a woman, you may depend,
Who will make you a tip-top wife, my friend;
She lives in the borders of Barrytown,

And I'm sure she will suit you, Deacon Brown;

She's not very handsome, but then I suppose

That you don't care a cent for the length of her nose,

Nor for the cut of the lady's clothes.

She is always ready to do the chores

Or work on her farm, with the men out-doors;