Yet, spite of this, as I listened there To the poor sad souls in this narrow street." Looked and wondered and stopped their play, He, staggering, paused-then lingered near, That his mother in tones so sweet and mild Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Under the silver moon. Sleep, my little one, sleep my pretty one, sleep." Then, over him like a torrent, came The sense of his present sin and shame, And the tears came pouring down his cheek. THE CHAMPION SNORER. It was the Cedar Rapids sleeper. Outside it was as dark as the inside of an ink-bottle. In the sleeping-car people slept. Or tried it. Some of them slept like Christian men and women, peacefully and sweetly and quietly. Others slept like demons, malignantly, hideously, fiendishly, as though it was their mission to keep everybody else awake. Of these the man in lower number three was the "boss." When it came to a square snore, with variations, you wanted to count "lower three" in,-with a full hand and a pocket full of rocks. We never heard anything snore like him. It was the most systematic snoring that was ever done, even on one of these tournaments of snoring, a sleeping-car. He didn't begin as soon as the lamps were turned and everybody was in bed. Oh no! There was more cold-blooded diabolism in his system than that. He waited until everybody had had a taste of sleep, just to see how nice and pleasant it was, and then he broke in on their slumbers like a winged, breathing, demon, and they never knew what peace was again that night. He started out with a terrific "Gu-r-r-rt!" that opened every eye in the car. We all hoped it was an accident, however, and trusting that he wouldn't do it again, we all forgave him. Then he blasted our hopes and curdled the sweet serenity of our forgiveness by a long-drawn "Gw-a-h-h-hah!" Then that sounded too much like business to be accidental. every head in that sleepless sleeper was held off the pillow for a minute, waiting in breathless suspense to hear the worst, and the sleeper in "lower three" went on in longdrawn, regular cadences that indicated good staying qualities, "Gwa-a-a-h! Gwa-a-a-a-h! Gahwayway! Gahwaywah! Gahwa-a-ah !” Evidently it was going to last all night, and the weary heads dropped back on the sleepless pillows and the swearing began. It mumbled along in low, muttering tones, like the distant echoes of a profane thunder storm. Pretty soon "lower three" gave us a little variation. He shot off a spiteful 66 'Gwook!" which sounded as though his nose had got mad at him and was going to strike. Then there was a pause, and we began to hope he had either awakened from sleep or strangled to death--nobody cared very particularly which. But he disappointed everybody with a guttural Gurroch!" Then he paused again for breath, and when he had accumulated enough for his purpose he resumed business with Then he went on that nearly shot the roof off the car. playing such fantastic tricks with his nose, and breathing things that would make the immortal gods weep, if they did but hear him. It seemed an utter, preposterous impossibility that any human being could make the monstrous, hideous noises with its breathing machine that the fellow in "lower three" was making with his. He then ran through all the ranges of the usual gamut; he went up and down a very chromatic scale of snores; he ran through intricate and fearful variations until it seemed that his nose must be out of joint in a thousand places. All the night and all the day through he told his story. "Gawoh! gurrah! gu-r-r-r! Kowpff! Gawaw-wah! gawahhah! gwock! gwart! gwah-h-h-h woof!" Just as the other passengers had consulted together how they might slay him, morning dawned, and "lower number three" awoke. Everybody watched the curtain to see what manner of man it was that made the sleeping-car a pandemonium. Presently the toilet was completed, the curtains parted, and "lower number three" stood revealed. Great heavens! It was a fair young girl, with golden hair and timid, pleading eyes, like a hunter's fawn. -Burlington Hawkeye. THE ROBBER. On the lone deserted cross-road, Stood the robber, slyly lurking; For the merchant would he plunder, And the moon peers through the cloudlets, Hark! a sound like angel voices, And he stands and listens anxious,- Then the youngest crossing himself, "O thou dear Christ," lisps he, childlike, Sitting on the throne of heaven, Give the robbers, the rapacious, Under the high crucifix. From afar he hears approaching Slowly does he seize his sabre, And he stands there deeply thinking, And the children still are kneeling,― And the father came home riding Only the bare sabre found they; --Translation from the German. PRECEPTS.-THOMAS RANDOLPH.* First, worship God; he that forgets to pray, And serve Him first whence all things did begin. Honor thy parents to prolong thine end; was a wit, poet *The Thomas Randolph who wrote the following "precepts and playwright in the early portion of the seventeenth century, and a great favorite with "Ben Jonson." |