"Now, Herman, my poy," he continued, "vatch me sell dot goat. I haf sold over dirty-fife uv dem shust de same vay, und I vant to deech you de pisness. Von de nexd gustomer comes in de shop I will show de way Rube Hoffenstein, mine broder in Detroit, sells his cloding und udder dings."

A few minutes later a negro, in quest of a suitable pair of cheap shoes, entered the store. The proprietor advanced smiling and inquired:

"Vat is it you vish?"

"Yer got any cheap shoes hyar?" asked the negro.

66

'Blenty uf dem, my frent, blenty; at any brice you vant."

The negro stated that he wanted a pair of brogans, and soon his pedal extremities were encased in them and a bargain struck. As he was about to leave, the proprietor called him back.

"I ain't gwine to buy nuffin else. I'se got all I want,” said the negro sullenly.

"Dot may be so, my dear sir," replied the proprietor, "but I shust vants you to look at dis goat. It vas de pure Russian wool, und dis dime last year you doan got dot same goat for twenty-five dollars. Mine gracious, cloding vas gone done to noding and dere vas no money in de pisness any longer. You vant someding dot will keep you from de vedder, und make you feel varm as sunimer dime. De gonsumption vas going round, und de doctors dell me it vas de vedder. More den nine beobles died round vere I lif last week. Dink of dot. Mine frent, dot goat vas Russian vool, dick und hevy. Vy, Misder Jones, who owns de pank on Canal streed, took dot goat home mit him yesterday, und vore it all day; but it vas a leedle dight agross de shoulders, und he brought it pack shust a vile ago. Dry it on, my dear sir. Ah! dot vas all righd. Misder Jones vas a rich man und he liked dot goat. How deep de pockets vas, but it vas a leedle dight agross de shoulders."

The negro buttoned up the coat, thrust his hands in

the pockets and felt the purse. A peaceful smile played over his face when his touch disclosed to his mind the contents of the pockets but he choked down his joy and inquired:

"Who did you say wore this hyar coat?"

"Vy, Misder Jones vot owns de pank on Canal streed." "What yer gwine to ax for it?"

"Dwenty dollars."

"Dat's pow'ful high price fur dis coat, but I'll take it." "Herman, here, wrap up this goat for de schentleman and drow in a cravat; it vill make him look nice mit de ladies."

"Nebber mind, I'll keep de coat on," replied the negro, and pulling out a roll of money he paid for it and left the store.

While he was around the next corner moaning over the stuffed purse, Hoffenstein said to his clerk:

"Herman, fix up anudder von of dose goats de same vay, and doan forget to dell dem dot Misder Jones vot run de pank on Canal streed vore it yesterday."

WILLIE'S SIGNAL FOR JESUS.

At twilight, in old Hospital St. Luke,

The smiling eyes that watched grew wet with crying, And kind lips kissed away, with love's rebuke,

The cruel anguish of the sick and dying.

In the fourth ward, a boy with broken bones

Lay dreaming what the morrow should betide him, And sobbed and talked by turns, in faltering tones, With little Susie in the cot beside him.

For he had born the knife that day, and strain

On his weak limbs of surgeon's cord and splinter,
Till he had fainted with the weight of pain

Too great for one just through his seventh winter.
And oh, to wait the rest!-'twas worse, he said,
To lie and tremble at the doctor's warning.
"I think 'twere better, Susie, to be dead

Than bear the hurt that's coming in the morning.

"They say that every night the loving Lord

Comes here for some of us, in watch or slumber,
And I have prayed that when he walks this ward
To-night, he'll take me too, among the number.
"I hope he'll know I want him, and I've planned,
For fear I may be dreaming when he sees us,
Above the bedclothes-so-to prop my hand,
And hold it there, to be a sign for Jesus."

At midnight, in old Hospital St. Luke,

While lamps burned low o'er lives yet lower burning, And angel Sleep, aloof at Pain's rebuke,

Tempted pale eyelids, going and returning,

Who saw the son of God, with countenance bland,
In pity sweet his glory all concealing,

Come at the beckoning of that lifted hand,
And smile his answer to its mute appealing?
The arm grew weak that held it. Faith's good will
Stayed up the tiny sign of supplication

Full long, and then it quivered-and grew still;
It pointed up, from sorrow to salvation.

"Tis morn at last. The nurses come again
And see that childlike token where it lingers,
Erect and cold, above the counterpane,

With resignation in its helpless fingers.
From sights of fear and sounds of parting hope,
And curses wrung from sufferers unforgiven,
The soul of wounded Willie had gone up,
Led by that small up-lifted hand to heaven.

Why wait for Death, O spirit sick with sin?

Faith now may imitate the child's behavior,

And from the wounds of penitence within
Stretch forth her signal to the healing Saviour.

BELSHAZZAR'S DOWNFALL.-HEINRICH HEINE. (Translation by Theodore Martin.)

The midnight hour was drawing on;
Hushed into rest lay Babylon,—

All save the royal palace, where

Was the din of revel and torches' flare.

There high within his royal hall
Belshazzar, the king, held festival.

His nobles around him in splendor shine,
And drain down goblets of sparkling wine.
The nobles shout and the goblets ring;

'Twas sweet to the heart of that stiff-necked king.
The cheeks of the king they flushed with fire,
And still as he drank his conceit grew higher;
And, maddened with pride, his lips let fall
Wild words that blaspheme the great Lord of all.
More vaunting he grew, and his blasphemous sneers
Were hailed by his lordly rout with cheers.

Proudly the king has a mandate passed;
Away hie the slaves, and come back fuil fast."
Many gold vessels they bring with them,
The spoils of God's house in Jerusalem.
With impious hand the king caught up,
Filled to the brim, a sacred cup;

And down to the bottom he drained it dry,
And aloud, with his mouth afoam, did cry—
"Jehovah! I scoff at thy greatness gone!
I am the king of Babylon."

The terrible words were ringing still,
When the king at his heart felt a secret chill.
The laughter ceased, the lords held their breath,
And all through the hall it was still as death.
And see, see there! on the white wall, see
Come forth what seems a man's hand to be!

And it wrote and wrote in letters of flame

On the white wall-then vanished the way it came.

The king sat staring, he could not speak,

His knees knocked together, death-pale was his cheek.
With cold fear creeping his lords sat round,
They sat dumbstricken, with never a sound.
The magicians came, but not one of them all
Could interpret the writing upon the wall.
That self-same night-his soul God sain!-
Was Belshazzar, the king, by his nobles slain.

THE TIDES ARE RISING.

It is somewhere recorded of a certain traveler, who was making a journey on the sea-coast, that owing to the beauty of the scenery he was induced to take the road along the tide-washed sands as most agreeable. This road was safe only at low tide, and lay along the beach between the sea and the lowering and precipitous cliffs bounding the coast. Pleased with the romance of the sea on one hand and the cloud-capped cliffs on the other, he loitered along the path, regardless of the encroaching waves that washed the sand nearer and nearer his feet. A man on the cliffs above, seeing his perilous condition, called to him and warned him of his danger. "If you pass this point," cried this friend, "you lose your last chance of escape. Look! the tides are rising! They have now covered the road behind you, and they roll nearer and nearer the cliffs before you; by this ascent only can you escape."

on.

The traveler disregarded these kind admonitions. He felt strong and confident he could gain the turn in the coast before the tide cut off his progress, and he hastened He soon discovered his danger. The sea coiled angrily before him. He turned to retrace his steps, but he was terrified to see the tide rolling across the path in the rear. He looked up the precipitous cliffs, but they were inaccessible. The tides rolled at his feet. He ran for the highest ground, but the swelling waves drove him from this. With much effort he gained a projecting rock, but the waves scorned his retreat; they rose higher and higher; they dashed the foaming surf around his feet-they rose to his breast-to his neck-his nostrils snuffed their sickening stench-he screamed in despair for aid, but none came. The sea closed over him, and the night of death was suddenly upon him.

An incident like this conveys a goodly moral. Thousands and tens of thousands are to-day loitering