on these railroad trains is just risking your life every time you take one. Back and forth every day as he is, it's just trifling with danger.

Dear! dear! now to think what dreadful things hang over us all the time! Dear! dear!

Scarlet fever has broken out in the village, Cornelia. Little Isaac Potter has it, and I saw your Jimmy playing with him last Saturday.

Well, I must be going now. I've got another sick friend, and I shan't think my duty done unless I cheer her up a little before I sleep. Good-by. How pale you look, Cornelia. I don't believe you have a good doctor. Do send him away and try some one else. You don't look so well as you did when I came in. But if anything happens, send for me at once. If I can't do anything else, I can cheer you up a little.

CUSTER'S LAST CHARGE.-FREDERICK WHITTAKER.

Dead! Is it possible? He, the bold rider,
Custer, our hero, the first in the fight,

Charming the bullets of yore to fly wider,
Shunning our battle-king's ringlets of light!

Dead! our young chieftain, and dead all forsaken!
No one to tell us the way of his fall!
Slain in the desert, and never to waken,
Never, not even to victory's call!

Comrades, he's gone; but ye need not be grieving;
No, may my death be like his when I die!

No regrets wasted on words I am leaving,

Falling with brave men, and face to the sky.
Death's but a journey, the greatest must take it:
Fame is eternal, and better than all;

Gold though the bowl be, 'tis fate that must break it,
Glory can hallow the fragments that fall.

Proud for his fame that last day that he met them!
All the night long he had been on their track,
Scorning their traps and the men that had set them,
Wild for a charge that should never give back.
There on the hill-top he halted and saw them,—
Lodges all loosened and ready to fly;

Hurrying scouts with the tidings to awe them,
Told of his coming before he was nigh.

All the wide valley was full of their forces,
Gathered to cover the lodges' retreat,-
Warriors running in haste to their horses,
Thousands of enemies close to his feet!
Down in the valleys the ages had hollowed,
There lay the Sitting Bull's camp for a prey!

Numbers! What recked he? What recked those who followed?

Men who had fought ten to one ere that day?

Out swept the squadrons, the fated three hundred,
Into the battle-line steady and full;

Then down the hill-side exultingly thundered
Into the hordes of the Old Sitting Bull!

Wild Ogalallah, Arapahoe, Cheyenne,

Wild Horse's braves, and the rest of their crew, Shrank from that charge like a herd from a lion, Then closed around the great hell of wild Sioux.

Right to their centre he charged, and then, facing—
Hark to those yells? and around them, oh, see!
Over the hill-tops the devils come racing,

Coming as fast as the waves of the sea!

Red was the circle of fire about them:
No hope of victory, no ray of light,

Shot through that terrible black cloud without them,
Brooding in death over Custer's last fight.

Then, DID HE BLENCH? Did he die like a craven,
Begging those torturing fiends for his life?

Was there a soldier who carried the Seven

Flinched like a coward or fled from the strife?
No, by the blood of our Custer, no quailing!
There in the midst of the devils they close,
Hemmed in by thousands, but ever assailing,
Fighting like tigers, all bayed amid foes!
Thicker and thicker the bullets came singing;
Down go the horses and riders and all;
Swiftly the warriors round them were ringing,
Circling like buzzards awaiting their fall.
See the wild steeds of the mountain and prairie,
Savage eyes gleaming from forests of mane;
Quivering lances with pennons so airy;
War-painted warriors charging amain.

Backward again and again they were driven,
Shrinking to close with the lost little band;
Never a cap that had worn the bright Seven
Bowed till its wearer was dead on the strand.
Closer and closer the death-circle growing,

Even the leader's voice, clarion clear,

Rang out his words of encouragement glowing,

"We can but die once, boys, but SELL YOUR LIVES DEAR!" Dearly they sold them, like Berserkers raging, Facing the death that encircled them round; Death's bitter pangs by their vengeance assuaging, Marking their tracks by their dead on the ground. Comrades, our children shall yet tell their story,Custer's last charge on the Old Sitting Bull;' And ages shall swear that the cup of his glory Needed but that death to render it full.

THE NEWSBOY.-E. T. CORBETT.

Want any papers, Mister?

Wish you'd buy 'em of me

Ten year old, an' a fam❜ly,

An' bizness dull, you see.

Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby,
An' Dad, an' Mam, an' Mam's cat,
None on 'em earning money-

What do you think of that?

Couldn't Dad work? Why yes, Boss,

He's workin' for Gov'ment now-
They give him his board for nothin',
All along of a drunken row.

An' Mam? well, she's in the poorhouse,
Been there a year or so;

So I'm taking care of the others,
Doing as well as I know.

Tibby my sister? Not much, Boss,
She's a kitten, a real Maltee;
I picked her up last summer-
Some boys was a drownin' of she;
Throw'd her inter a hogshead;
But a p'liceman came along,
So I jest grabbed up the kitten
And put for home, right strong.
And Tom's my dog; he an' Tibby
Hain't never quarreled yet-
They sleeps in my bed in winter
An' keeps me warm-you bet!
Mam's cat sleeps in the corner,
With a piller made of her paw-
Can't she growl like a tiger

If any one comes to our straw!

Oughtn't to live so? Why, Mister,
What's a feller to do?

Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry,
Seems as if each on 'em knew-
They'll all three cuddle around me,
Till I get cheery, and say:

Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers,
An' money an' clothes, too, some day.

But if I do git rich, Boss,

(An' a lecturin' chap one night
Said newsboys could be Presidents
If only they acted right);
So, if I was President, Mister,
The very first thing I'd do,
I'd buy poor Tom an' Tibby
A dinner-an' Mam's cat, too!

None o' your scraps an' leavin's,

But a good square meal for all three;
If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss,
That shows you don't know me.
So 'ere's your papers-come take one,
Gimme a lift if you can-

For now you've heard my story,

You see I'm a fam❜ly man!

CONFESSION OF A DRUNKARD.

I had position high and holy. The demon tore from around me the robes of my sacred office, and sent me forth churchless and godless, a very hissing and byword among men. Afterward my voice was heard in the courts. But the dust gathered on my open books, and no footfall crossed the threshold of the drunkard's office. I had money ample for all necessities, but it went to feed the coffers of the devils which possessed me. I had a home adorned with all that wealth and the most exquisite taste could suggest. The devil crossed its threshold and the light faded from its chambers. And thus I stand, a clergyman without a church, a barrister without a brief, a man with scarcely a friend, a soul without hope-all swallowed up in the maelstrom of drink..

SPELLING DOWN.-WILL GIFFORD.

Well, Jane, I stayed in town last night,
(I know I hadn't oughter),
And went to see the spellin' match,
With cousin Philip's daughter.

I told her I was most too old;
She said I wasn't nuther-

A likely gal is Susan Jane;
The image of her mother.

I begged and plead with might and main,
And tried my best to shake her,
But blame the gal, she stuck and hung,
Until I had to take her.

I ain't much used to city ways,

Or city men and women,

And what I see, and what I heard,
Just sot my head a swimmin'.

The hall was filled with stylish folks,
In broadcloth, silks, and laces,
Who, when the time had come to spell,
Stood up and took their places;
And Mayor Jones, in thunder tones,
And waistcoat bright and yeller,
Gave out the words to one and all,
From a new-fangled speller.

The people looked so bright and smart,
Thinks I it's no use foolin'

They've got the spellin'-book by heart,
With all their city schoolin';
Till Orvil Kent, the Circuit Judge,
Got stuck on Pennsylvania,

And Simon Swift, the merchant clerk,
Went down on Kleptomania.

Then Caleb Dun, the broker's son,
He put two n's in money,

And Susan Jane, she smirked and smiled,
And left one out in funny.

And Leonard Rand, the Harvard chap,
With features like a lady,

Spelled lots o' French and Latin words,
And caved on rutabaga.

And as I sot there quiet like,
A winkin' and a blinkin',