And she might have starved or done worse,
But fur Jake; he tumbled to,

Said he'd be a brother to her!
O my eye!-a cripple, too!
Then he buckled into workin'

Late and early, night and day;
Peddlin' pencils in the daytime,
Dancin' nights amazin' gay;
It was puffickly surprisin'

How that cripple done so much;
Tell yer some o' you young roosters,
Might be better fur a crutch.

Starved himself to clothe and feed her,
Hoped she'd marry of him, Pete;
And the poor cuss used to tell me
How divine she were, and sweet;
But he didn't durst to ask her-
It's the queerest thing in life,
For to see a fellow scary

When he's snoopin' fur a wife.
Molls is mostly purty anxious;
Chaps don't often have to beg;
But the fact is Jake was cut up
'Cos he traveled on one leg.
So it run along a good while,

'Bout six months or so I b'lieve,

Till he come to me last winter,

One night,-it were Christmas eve.

Sot down, pale and weak and tremblin',
With a bundle on his knee;

Let his crutch fall down quite careless,
And his eyes were queer to see;
"Ike," he says, "she left this mornin',
Yes, she's gone,-she's went away;
I'm afraid that Flash Bob took her,
He's been missin' too, to-day."

"Oh, it's hard!" he says, "it's orful!
Dunno where she's went at all!
It don't signify,—that gnostic's
Took her far beyond my call.
Ef he'd been an honest feller-
But a blackleg! Ike you know

What that means fur Sallie's future?
Shame and grief! Why did she go?"
He'd been fumblin' with his bundle,
Without knowin' what he did;
And the things begun to fall out,
But he spied 'em as they slid,
Picked 'em up with snakin' fingers,
Laid 'em keerful on a chair;
Purty woman's duds they was, Pete,
Nice and warm for winter wear.

Them," he says,

แ was Sallie's Christmas

Oh, why was I ever born!
Ike, it's hard to be a cripple,
Only fit fur people's scorn!
Ef I'd been a handsome feller,
Sometime we'd been married yet:
And I loved her, Ike, I loved her,
Oh, so much! my little pet!

"I'd 'a been so careful of her,

I'd 'a worked hard for her sake-" Then he broke down, and he sot there, Sobbin' like his heart would break; When the door was opened softly, Which it had been on a crack

What d'y think? That young gal stood there, Just behind the poor chap's back.

And her face was like a sunrise

Shinin' through a misty sky,

Whils't she touched him on the shoulder,
"Jake," she says, "my boy, don't cry!
Was these pretty things for me, Jake?
But your Christmas, dear," says she,
Will you take me for your Christmas?
Would you be content with me?"
Then she nestled down and kissed him,
With her pretty cheeks all wet;
And I b'lieve a happier Christmas
Never struck a cripple yet.

How'd I come to run her down so?
I was foolin' of yer, Pete;
Fur a better little woman,
Don't reside in Baxter street.

THE LEGEND OF INNISFALLEN.-MINNIE D. BAteham.

The Abbot of Innisfallen

Arose from his couch to pray

Or ever the first faint flush of dawn
Stole over the twilight gray;

While the peace of the great night-angel
In the air was still abroad,

And no world-clamor could jar the wings
That lifted his soul to God.

Oh, fair on Killarney's water
The isle like a blossom lay,

And fair in its bosom the abbey walls
Rose up with their turrets gray;

But the inner soul of the beauty

Illumined the chapel air

When the sun-rise streamed through the oriel pane

On the Abbot's morning prayer.

But once, ere the golden dawning,

The low words died away,

For a strange song rose on the outward air,
And the monk could no longer pray.

In vain he murmured an ave

And pressed to the shrine more near,
His soul was drawn with a mystic spell
And he could not choose but hear.
"The sweet, sweet voice is calling,
It calleth my soul to greet!"
And forth in the hueless morning

He hurried with trembling feet.
"I must gaze on the soul that singeth
Though an angel or fiend it be,

May Christ who was tempted himself, on earth,
Have pity, and pardon me!"

He saw in the dusky twilight

A wonderful snow-white bird;

The air glowed softly around its wings,

And thrilled as the music stirred.

Slowly it flew before him

And the Abbot followed on,

Scant choice have the feet but to overtake

When the eyes and the heart have gone.

And now through the silent forest,
And now by the silver lake,

O'er moor and meadow he followed still,
Through desolate fen and brake.
And if it were noon or evening,-

If moments or years went by,—

The monk knew not while he heard beyond The voice of that melody.

But at last the abbey turrets

Rose up to his sight again,

He thought of his uncompleted prayer
And the glamour cleared from his brain.
But the walls are old and crumbling!
And the ivy grown so high

He can scarcely see the oriel pane
Where he watched the morning sky!
And why are his limbs grown feeble?
His hands so thin and seamed?
And what are the locks like flying snow
Which over his shoulder streamed?
He entered the chapel doorway,

But the porter's face was strange;
Each passing form and familiar scene
Had suffered a wondrous change.

And never a monk in the abbey
Could tell his face or name,
But an aged man from his quiet cell,
With tottering footsteps came ;
"When I was a boy," he murmured,
"They whispered the story o'er
How the father Anselm vanished away,
And they saw his face no more."

"It was I!" said the trembling Abbot,

While the startled monks were dumb,

"Oh, give to me absolution now,

For I know my hour is come."

They gave him the holy wafer,

And reverent laid him down

Where the light fell soft on his wrinkled brow Like a gold and opal crown.

Then his breath came faint and fainter,

And the awe-struck watchers heard

The low, sweet call from the casement ledge
Of a strange and beauteous bird.
It perched on the couch of waiting;
The bells of the abbey tolled;

Then two birds rose to the azure sky,
And the monk lay still and cold.

Oh, what is the ancient legend
But the story of life for each?
To follow forever a shining hope
That beckons beyond our reach!
But I think when we fall a-weary,
And the long pursuit is past,
The beautiful vision we sought so long
Will stoop to our hand at last.

THE SCHOOL-BOY'S APPLES.

A country school-marm, the other day, while working an example on the board, detected an urchin directly behind her in the unlawful act of devouring an apple. She said to him, "Tim, what are you doing?"

"No'hin'" said Tim, with his mouth so full that his cheeks stuck out on either side of his head.

"Yes, you are," paradoxically insisted the teacher. "What have you in your hand?"

"N'apple," said Tim, with some surprise, as he looked at the fragment of the apple in his hand and wondered who had bit it while he was studying.

66 What has become of the rest of it?"

"Dunno," said Tim, looking around in an amazed effort to discover who had the rest of it, "somebody's been eatin' it."

"Have you any more?" demanded the teacher. "Yes'm," said Tim, dolefully, "got 'nother." "Where is it?" relentlessly pursued the teacher. "'N my desk," sighed Tim, as he began to suspect that the teacher was going to demand it of him.

"Well, take it out and go on the platform and eat it."