"Suppose you try! I won't tell. You're afraid to! Oh! you're afraid they would think it was mean! Well, then, there's the album: that's pretty, if you're sure that your fingers are clean.

For sister says sometimes I daub it; but she only says that when she's cross.

There's her picture. You know it? It's like her; but she ain't as good-looking, of course.

"This is ME. It's the best of 'em all.

you'd never have thought

Now, tell me,

That once I was little as that? It's the only one that could be bought;

For that was the message to pa from the photographman where I sat,—

That he wouldn't print off any more, till he first got his money for that.

"What? Maybe you're tired of waiting. Why, often she's longer than this.

There's all her back hair to do up, and all of her front curls to friz.

But it's nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you and me!

Do you think you'll be coming here often? Oh, do! But don't come like Tom Lee,—

"Tom Lee, her last beau. Why, my goodness! he used to be here day and night,

Till the folks thought he'd be her husband; and Jack says that gave him a fright

You won't run away then, as he did? for you're not a rich man, they say.

Pa says you're poor as a church-mouse. Now, are you, and how poor are they?

Ain't you glad that you met me? Well, I am; for I know now your hair isn't red;

"But what there is left of it's mousy, and not what that naughty Jack said.

But there! I must go: sister's coming! But I wish I could wait, just to see

If she ran up to you, and kissed you, in the way she used to kiss Lee."

BILLY GRIMES, THE DROVER.
"To-morrow, ma, I'm sweet sixteen,
And Billy Grimes, the drover,
Has popped the question to me, ma,
And wants to be my lover;
To-morrow morn, he says, mamma,
He's coming here quite early,
To take a pleasant walk with me
Across the field of barley."

"You must not go, my daughter dear,
There's no use now a-talking;
You shall not go across the field
With Billy Grimes a-walking.
To think of his presumption, too,
The dirty, ugly drover!

I wonder where your pride has gone,
To think of such a lover!"

"Old Grimes is dead, you know, mamma,

And Billy is so lonely;

Besides, they say, to Grimes' estate,

That Billy is the only

Surviving heir to all that's left;

And that they say is nearly

A good ten thousand dollars, ma-
And quite six hundred yearly!"

"I did not hear, my daughter dear,
Your last remark quite clearly,
But Billy is a clever lad,

And no doubt loves you dearly;
Remember then, to-morrow morn,
To be up bright and early,
To take a pleasant walk with him.
Across the field of barley!"

THROUGH THE TUNNEL.

Riding up from Bangor,
On the "Eastern" train,
From a six weeks shooting
In the woods of Maine;
Quite extensive whiskers,
Beard, mustache as well,
Sat a "student fellow,"

Tall, and fine, and swell.

Empty seat behind him,
No one at his side;
To a pleasant station.

Now the train doth glide,

Enter aged couple,

Take the hinder seat.

Enter gentle maiden,

Beautiful, petite.

Blushingly she falters,

"Is this seat engaged?"

(See the aged couple
Properly enraged);
Student, quite ecstatic,

Sees her ticket's "through,
Thinks of the long tunnel-

Thinks what he might do.

So they sit and chatter,
While the cinders fly,
Till that "student fellow"
Gets one in his eye;
And the gentle maiden
Quickly turns about-
"May I, if you please, sir,
Try to get it out ?"

Happy "student fellow"
Feels a dainty touch;
Hears a gentle whisper,

"Does it hurt you much?"
Fizz, ding, dong! a moment
In the tunnel quite,
And its glorious darkness
Black as Egypt's night.

Out into the daylight

Darts the "Eastern" train;

Student's beaver ruffled

Just the merest grain;
Maiden's hair is tumbled,

And there soon appeared

Cunning little earring

Caught in student's beard.

SURLY TIM'S TROUBLE..

It so happened that passing one night, and glancing in among the graves and marble monuments, I caught sight of a dark figure sitting upon a little mound and resting its head upon its hands, and I recognized the muscular outline of the man, called by his fellow-workmen, Surly Tim.

He did not see me at first, but as I half turned away, he lifted his head and saw me standing in the bright, clear moonlight.

"Who's theer?" he said. "Dos't ta want owt ?” "It is only I. What is the matter, old fellow? I thought I heard you groan just now."

"Yo mought ha done, Mester. Happen tha did. I dunnot know mysen. Nowts th' matter, though, as I knows on, on'y I'm a bit out o' soarts."

He turned his head aside slightly and began to pull at the blades of grass on the mound, and all at once, I saw that his hand was trembling nervously.

"That un belongs to me," he said, suddenly, at last, pointing to a longer mound at his feet. “An' this little un. A little lad o' mine-a little lad o' mine an' an' his mother."

46

'What!" I exclaimed, "I never knew that you were a married man, Tim."

"Th' law says I beant, Mester," he answered, in a painful, strained fashion. "I canna tell mysen what God-a'-moighty 'ud say about it."

"I don't understand," I faltered. "You don't · mean to say the poor girl never was your wife?"

"That's what th' law says; I thowt different mysen, an' so did th' poor lass. That's what's the matter, Mester; that's th' trouble.

"It wor welly about six years ago I cumn here," he said; "more or less, welly about six years. I wor a quiet chap then, Mester, an' had na many friends, but I had more than I ha' now. Happen I wor better nater'd, but just as loike I wor loighter hearted—but that's nowt to do wi' it.

"I had na been here more than a week when theer comes a young woman to moind a loom i' th' next