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 yourse- -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

am!" And Snyder was right.

A STRAY CHILD.-ELIZA SPROAT TURNER.

The chill November day was done,
The working world home faring;
The wind came roaring through the streets
And set the gas-lights flaring;

And hopelessly and aimlessly

The scared old leaves were flying;
When, mingled with the sighing wind,
I heard a small voice crying.

And shivering on the corner stood
A child of four, or over;

No cloak or hat her small, soft arms,
And wind blown curls to cover.

Her dimpled face was stained with tears;
Her round blue eyes ran over;

She cherished in her wee, cold hand,
A bunch of faded clover.

And one hand round her treasure while
She slipped in mine the other:
Half scared, half confidential, said,
"Oh! please, I want my mother!"

"Tell me your street and number, pet:
Don't cry, I'll take you to it."
Sobbing she answered, "I forget:
The organ made me do it.

"He came and played at Milly's steps,
The monkey took the money;
And so I followed down the street,
The monkey was so funny.

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

The street-I can't begin it."

'But what is strange about the house. Or new-not like the others?"

"I guess you mean my trundle bed,

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
All muffled, homeward faring:

"You'll have to spend the night with me,"
I said at last despairing.

I tied a kerchief round her neck-
"What ribbon's this, my blossom?"

"Why, don't you know?" she smiling, said,
And drew it from her bosom.

A card with number, street, and name;

My eyes astonished met it;

For," said the little one, "you see

I might sometimes forget it:

And so I wear a little thing
That tells you all about it;
For mother says she's very sure
I should get lost without it."

WHEN THE TIDE GOES OUT.

Through the weary day on his couch he lay,
With the life tide ebbing slowly away,
And the dew on his cold brow gathering fast,
As the pendulum numbered moments passed.
And I heard a sad voice whispering say,
"When the tide goes out he will pass away.
Pray for a soul's serene release!

That the weary spirit may rest in peace,
When the tide goes out."

When the tide goes out from the sea-girt lands,
It bears strange freight from the gleaming sands:

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,
Is the human soul to Eternity

Floating away from a silent shore,
Like a fated ship to return no more,
Saddest, most solemn of all ;—a soul,
Pausing where unknown waters roll.
Where shall the surging current tend,
Slowly drifting friend from friend,
When the tide goes out.

For our parting spirit pray, oh! pray,
While the tide of life is ebbing away,
That the soul may pass o'er sunnier seas
Than clasped of old the Hesperides.
A bark whose sails by angel hands

Shall be furled on a strand of golden sands;
And the friends that stand on a silent shore
Knowing that we shall return no more,
Shall wish us joy of a voyage fair,

With calm, sweet skies and a favoring air,
When the tide goes out.

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,
In a robe even you would admire,—
It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue:
In short, sir," the belle of the season
Is wasting an hour on you.

A dozen engagements I've broken;
I left in the midst of a set;

Likewise a proposal, half spoken,

That waits on the stairs-for me yet.
They say he'll be rich,-when he grows up,-

And then he adores me indeed.

And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.

"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?"
"And aren't it a change to the ditches
And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"

Well, yes,-if you saw us out driving
Each day in the park, four-in-hand,-
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving
To look supernaturally grand,-