He told those about him, the ghosts of the men
Who used, in their lifetimes, to haunt "The Blue Hen,"
Had come back, each one bringing his children and wife,
And trying to frighten him out of his life.

Now he thought he was burning; the very next breath
He shivered, and cried he was freezing to death;
That the peddler lay by him who, long years ago,
Was put out of "The Blue Hen" and died in the snow.

He said that the blacksmith, who turned to a sot,
Laid him out on an anvil and beat him red hot;
That the builder who swallowed his brandy fourth proof,
Was pitching him downward, head first, from the roof.

At last he grew frantic; he clutched at the sheet,
And cried that the miller had hold of his feet;
Then leaped from his bed with a terrible scream,
That the dead man was dragging him under the stream.
Then he ran, and, so swift that no mortal could save,
He went over the bank and went under the wave;
And his poor lifeless body next morning was found
In the very same spot where the miller was drowned.

""Twasn't liquor that killed him," some said, "that was plain; He was crazy, and sober folks might be insane!" ""Twas delirium tremens," the coroner said, But, whatever it was, he was certainly dead!

HE NEVER TOLD A LIE.

I saw him standing in the crowd-
A comely youth, and fair!

There was a brightness in his eye,
A glory in his hair!

I saw his comrades gaze on him-
His comrades, standing by;

I heard them whisper each to each.
"He never told a lie!"

I looked in wonder on that boy,
As he stood there, so young;
To think that never an untruth
Was uttered by his tongue.

I thought of all the boys I'd known-
Myself among the fry-

And knew of none that one could say:
"He never told a lie!"

I gazed upon that youth with awe
That did unchain me long;

I had not seen a boy before
So perfect and so strong.
And with a something of regret
I wished that he was I,

So they might look at me and say:
"He never told a lie!"

I thought of questions very hard
For boys to answer right:

"How did you tear those pantaloons?"

'My son! what caused the fight?"
"Who left the gate ajar last night?"
"Who bit the pumpkin-pie?"
What boy could answer all of these,
And never tell a lie?

I proudly took him by the hand,
My words with praise were rife;
I blessed that boy who never told
A falsehood in his life;

I told him I was proud of him.
A fellow standing by

Informed me that that boy was dumb
Who never told a lie!

THE LAST REDOUBT.-ALFRED AUSTIN.

Kacelyevo's slope still felt

The cannon's bolts and the rifles' pelt;

For the last redoubt up the hill remained,

By the Russ yet held, by the Turk not gained.

Mehemet Ali stroked his beard;

His lips were clinched and his look was weird;
Round him were ranks of his ragged folk,
Their faces blackened with blood and smoke.

"Clear me the Muscovite out!" he cried.

Then the name of "Allah!" echoed wide,

And the fezzes were waved and the bayonets lowered, And on to the last redoubt they poured.

One fell, and a second quickly stopped

The gap that he left when he reeled and dropped;
The second, a third straight filled his place;

The third, and a fourth kept up the race.

Many a fez in the mud was crushed,
Many a throat that cheered was hushed,
Many a heart that sought the crest
Found Allah's arms and a houri's breast.

Over their corpses the living sprang,

And the ridge with their musket-rattle rang,
Till the faces that lined the last redoubt
Could see their faces and hear their shout.

In the redoubt a fair form towered,

That cheered up the brave and chid the coward;
Brandishing blade with a gallant air;

His head erect and his bosom bare.

'Fly! they are on us!" his men implored;

But he waved them on with his waving sword. "It cannot be held; 'tis no shame to go!"

But he stood with his face set hard to the foe.

Then clung they about him, and tugged, and knelt; He drew a pistol from out his belt,

And fired it blank at the first that set

Foot on the edge of the parapet.

Over that first one toppled: but on

Clambered the rest till their bayonets shone;
As hurriedly fled his men dismayed,

Not a bayonet's length from the length of his blade.

"Yield!" But aloft his steel he flashed,
And down on their steel it ringing clashed;
Then back he reeled with a bladeless hilt,
His honor full, but his life-blood spilt.

They lifted him up from the dabbled ground;
His limbs were shapely and soft and round,
No down on his lip, on his cheek no shade,-
"Bismillah!" they cried, "'tis an infidel maid!"
Mehemet Ali came and saw

The riddled breast and the tender jaw,
"Make her a bier of your arms," he said,
"And daintily bury this dainty dead!

"Make her a grave where she stood and fell,
'Gainst the jackal's scratch and the vulture's smell.
Did the Muscovite men like their maidens fight,
In their lines we had scarcely supped to-night."

So a deeper trench 'mong the trenches there
Was dug, for the form as brave as fair;
And none, till the judgment trump and shout,
Shall drive her out of the last redoubt.

HOW TOM SAWYER GOT HIS FENCE WHITE

WASHED.-MARK TWAIN.

Tom Sawyer, having offended his sole guardian, Aunt Polly, is by that sternly affectionate dame punished by being set to whitewash the fence in front of the garden.

Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a longhandled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged.

He began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would make a world of fun of him for having to work-the very thought of it burnt him like fire. He got out his worldly wealth and examined it-bits of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an exchange of work, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an hour of pure freedom. So he returned his straightened means to his pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. At this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him! Nothing less than a great, magnificent inspiration.

He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in sight presently-the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had been dreading. Ben's gait was the hop-skip-and-jump--proof enough that his heart was light and his anticipations high. He was eating an apple, and giving a long, melodious whoop, at intervals, followed by a deep-toned ding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a steamboat. As he drew near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leaned far over to starboard and rounded to ponderously and with laborious pomp and circumstance-for he was personating the "Big Missouri," and considered himself to be drawing nine feet of water. He was boat, and captain, and engine-bells combined, so he had

to imagine himself standing on his own hurricane-deck giv ing the orders and executing them :

"Stop her, sir! Ting-a ling-ling!" The headway ran almost out and he drew up slowly toward the side-walk.

"Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!" His arms straightened and stiffened down his sides.

"Set her back on the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-wow! Chow!" His right hand, meantime, describing stately circles, for it was representing a forty-foot wheel. "Let her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! 'Chowch-chow-chow!" The left hand began to describe circles.

"Stop the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the labboard! Come ahead on the stabboard! Stop her! Let your outside turn over slow! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ow-ow! Get out that head-line. Lively now! Come-out with your spring linewhat're you about there! Take a turn round that stump with the bight of it! Stand by that stage, now-let her go! Done with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling! Sh't! sh't! sh't!" (trying the gauge-cocks.)

Tom went on whitewashing-paid no attention to the steamboat. Ben stared a moment and then said:

"Hi-yi! you're a stump, ain't you?"

No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist; then he gave his brush another gentle sweep, and surveyed the result as before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said: "Hello, old chap; you got to work, hey?"

Tom wheeled suddenly and said:

"Why, it's you, Ben; I warn't noticing."

'Say, I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could? But, of course, you'd druther work, wouldn't you? Course you would!"

Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said:

"What do you call work?"

"Why, ain't that work?"

Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly: "Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know is, it suits Tom Sawyer."

'Oh, come now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?" "Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it, Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?"