then bursts out laughing)—"ha! ha! ha! Why, Snyder,— ha-ha!-what's the matter with that nose?" Snyder, of course, can't see any fun in having a burnt nose or having it laughed at; and he says, in a tone sternly emphatic, "I peen out fishin' mit der poys, unt de sun it yust ash hot ash blazes, unt I purnt my nose; dat ish all right." Another tormentor comes in, and insists on "setting 'em up" for the whole house. "Snyder," says he, "fill up the boys' glasses, and take a drink yqurse- -ho! ho! ho! ho! ha ha ha! Snyder, wha-ha! ha!-what's the matter with that nose?" Snyder's brow darkens with wrath by this time, and his voice grows deeper and sterner,— "I peen out fishin' mit der poys on the Leedle Miami. De sun pese hot like ash-vel, I purn my pugle. Now, that is more vot I don't got to say. Vot gind o' peseness? Dat ish all right; I purn my own nose, don't it?" "Burn your nose,-burn all the hair off your head, for what I care; you needn't get mad about it." It was evident that Snyder wouldn't stand more than one more tweak at that nose; for he was tramping about behind his bar, and growling like an exasperated old bear in his cage. Another one of his tormentors walks in. Some one sings out to him, "Have a glass of beer, Billy?" "Don't care about any beer," says Billy, "but Snyder, you may give me one of your best ciga- Ha-a-a! ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho! he! he! he! ah-h-h-ha! ha! ha! ha! Why-whySnyder-who-who-ha-ha! ha! what's the matter with that nose?" Snyder was absolutely fearful to behold by this time; his face was purple with rage, all except his nose, which glowed like a ball of fire. Leaning his ponderous figure far over the bar, and raising his arm aloft to emphasize his words with it, he fairly roared,- "I peen out fishin' mit ter poys. The sun it pese hot like ash never vas. I purnt my nose. Now you no like dose nose, you yust take dose nose unt wr-wr-wr-wring your mean American finger mit em! That's the kind of man vot I A STRAY CHILD.-ELIZA SPROAT TURNER. The chill November day was done, And hopelessly and aimlessly The scared old leaves were flying; And shivering on the corner stood No cloak or hat her small, soft arms, Her dimpled face was stained with tears; And one hand round her treasure while "He came and played at Milly's steps, I've walked about a hundred hours, From one street to another: The monkey's gone, I've spoiled my flowers, Oh! please, I want my mother." "But what's your mother's name? and what The street? Now think a minute." "My mother's name is mamma dear- "But what is strange about the house, "Oh dear! I ought to be at home To help him say his prayers,— • He's such a baby he forgets; And we are both such players;And there's a bar to keep us both From pitching on each other, For Harry rolls when he's asleep: Oh dear! I want my mother." The sky grew stormy; people passed "You'll have to spend the night with me," I tied a kerchief round her neck- A card with number, street, and name; I might sometimes forget it: WHEN THE TIDE GOES OUT. Through the weary day on his couch he lay, That the weary spirit may rest in peace, When the tide goes out from the sea-girt lands, The white-winged ships that silent wait For the foaming wave, and a wind that's late; The treasures cast on a rocky shore, From the stranded ships that shall sail no more; And hopes that follow the shining seas, Oh! the ocean shall win all these When the tide goes out. But of all that drift from the shore to the sea, Floating away from a silent shore, For our parting spirit pray, oh! pray, With calm, sweet skies and a favoring air, CALLING A BOY IN THE MORNING. The Connecticut editor who wrote the following, evidently knew what he was talking about: Calling a boy up.in the morning can hardly be classed under the head of" pastimes," especially if the boy is fond of exercise the day before. And it is a little singular that the next hardest thing to getting a boy out of bed is getting him into it. There is rarely a mother who is a success at rousing a boy. All mothers know this; so do their boys. And yet the mother seems to go at it in the right way. She opens the stair-door and insinuatingly observes, “Johnny." There is no response. "Johnny." Still no response. Then there is a short, sharp, “ John," followed a moment later by a long and emphatic "John Henry." A grunt from the upper regions signifies that an impression has been made; and the mother is encouraged to add, “You'd better be getting down here to your breakfast, young man, before I come up there, an' give you something you'll feel." This so startles the young man that he immediately goes to sleep again. And the operation has to be repeated several times. A father knows nothing about this trouble. He merely opens his mouth as a soda-bottle ejects its cork, and the "John Henry" that cleaves the air of that stairway goes into that boy like electricity, and pierces the deepest recesses of his nature. And he pops out of that bed and into his clothes, and down the stairs, with a promptness that is commendable. It is rarely a boy allows himself to disregard the paternal summons. About once a year is believed to be as often as is consistent with the rules of health. He saves his father a great many steps by his thoughtfulness. HER LETTER.-BRET HARTE. I'm sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance, A dozen engagements I've broken; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits-on the stairs-for me yet. And you, sir, are turning your nose up, "And how do I like my position?" "And what do I think of New York?" "And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?" "And isn't it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that?" Well, yes, if you saw us out driving |