tinue to avoid it. Temperance, you have my respect, and I wish you well, but Moderation seems better suited to my tastes and inclinations. Come, Wisdom, we will go with her. WIS. I do not go in company with Moderation. Therefore you and I must part.

YOUTH. But you have promised to protect me.

Wis. And you have already scorned my advice. You are leaving me for Moderation, who is next-door neighbor to Intemperance. With such a companion I can not travel.

MOD. (taking Youth's hand and drawing her toward the archway.) Come, let us hasten on our way. We have no time to listen to the talk of fanatics such as these.

TEMP. May you repent your course ere it be too late. WIS. Foolish child, when you feel your need of me, return. I shall always hear an earnest call for assistance.

TABLEAU.

Youth and Moderation about to enter Society, Intemperance stealthily following, Temperance and Wisdom with arms outstretched as if in hope of saving the victim.

ACT II.

SCENE.--On the other side of the archway. Many different characters discovered, some going hither and thither, others standing and conversing, or sitting apart in contemplative attitude. Intemperance in close proximity to Moderation. Wisdom and Temperance watching Youth, who, in soiled robe and looking very sad, stands alone as if in deep thought.

YOUTH (stepping forward). Oh! the misery, the disgrace, the sorrow of a life like this. The society I craved does not satisfy. The path I chose seems leading ever downward. Moderation, who promised so much of freedom and of joy, is only guiding me on to ruin. How often I have found myself hand in hand with the one I despised, that vile Intemperance! Moderation led me there instead of keeping me away, and once I seemed to sleep, and then I awoke to the fact that I was in close companionship with Intoxication. Oh, the horror of it! and yet I feel that I cannot esModeration is always near, making fair promises, and urging me on my course. I have seen her leading other innocent victims along the same path, and it is a path of pov

cape.

erty, sometimes even starvation. The victims are dragged along, and they in turn drag other helpless victims, some of whom are innocent children. Oh, for the help of Wisdom in this crisis! I must make a desperate effort to escape, or go on surely to destruction.

WIS. (advancing and taking Youth's hand.) Poor child, I am here in answer to your call.

YOUTH. Wisdom, I beg you save me ere it be too late. WIS. Have no fear. If you trust in me, nothing can harm you.

MOD. (stepping forward and speaking scornfully. Intemperance keeping behind her.) I see you are willing to become a slave.

YOUTH. Fain would I become a slave to that gentle kindly mistress whom I once refused to hear. Moderation, you have deceived me. You have failed to keep your promises. While pretending to be a foe to Intemperance, you are secretly helping on her cause. Even now she is hover ing near you. My eyes have been opened at last. I shal! have nothing further to do with you. Go!

MOD. I suppose you will now sign away your liberty. YOUTH. Yes, my liberty to follow to the disgrace to which you would lead, if I have not made the decision too late. TEMP. (advancing with pledge in hand.) Dear child, it is not too late. Here, add your name to the many who have enlisted in the cause of Right against the greatest Wrong that ever was known to exist in this beautiful world.

YOUTH (signing). Thus I regain my liberty!

Moderation slinks away, followed by Intemperance, and Youth is surrounded by a number of girls in light-blue robes, who sing one or two stanzas of a temperance song as the curtain slowly falls.

HOW WE KILLED THE ROOSTER.

Listen, my boy, and you shall know
A thing that happened a long time ago,
When I was a boy not as large as you,
And the youngest of all the children, too.
I laugh even now as I think it o'er,
And the more I think I laugh the more.

"Twas the chilly eve of an autumn day,

We were all in the kitchen cheery and gay; The fire burned bright on the old brick hearth, And its cheerful light gave zest to our mirth.

My elder sister, addressing me,

"To-morrow's Thanksgiving, you know," said she;
"We must kill the chickens to-night, you see.
Now light the lantern and come with me;

I will wring their necks until they are dead,
And have them all dressed ere we go to bed."

So the huge old lantern, made of tin,
Punched full of holes, and a candle within,
Put in an appearance in shorter time
Than it takes to make this jingling rhyme.

We started off, and the way I led,

For a raid on the chickens under the shed.
A pile of roots filled the open space,
Thus making a splendid roosting place;
And a motley tribe of domestic fowls

Sat perched there as grave and demure as owls.

My sister, unused to sights of blood,

And pale with excitement, trembling stood;
But summoning courage, she laid her plans,
And seized the old rooster with both her hands,
And with triumph written all over her face,
Her victim bore to the open space.

Then she wrung and wrung with might and main.
And wrung and twisted, and wrung again,

Till, sure that the spark of life had fled,

She threw him down on the ground for dead.

But the rooster would not consent to die,
And be made up into chicken pie,
So he sprang away with a cackle and bound,
Almost as soon as he touched the ground,
And hiding away from the candle's light,
Escaped the slaughter of that dark night.

My sister, thus brought to a sudden stand,
And looking at what she held in her hand,
Soon saw why the rooster was not dead-
She had wrung off his tail instead of his head.

I HAVEN'T MUCH RELIGION.-J. L. SCOTT, D. D.
I haven't much religion; least not enough to spare,
But when I come across it, I know the thing is there;
A thousand kinds, I reckon, and all of them the best,
But when one strikes the real he knows it from the rest.

When a fellow gets religion it turns him clear about,
And makes him feel within just like he acts without;
It doesn't make one perfect nor get through in a day,
But points the road to heaven and starts him on the way.

His face so like a sermon, his hand so like a song,
They somehow set one thinking he would like to go along;
And should the way be stony and things look rather blue
He never has a blessing too small to cut in two.

He isn't in a hurry, but often lags behind

That he may lead the halting or help along the blind;
He laughs when one is happy and weeps for those who cry,
And always gives one credit for just an honest try.

And should a fellow stumble or fail to keep the pace,
He doesn't think him sinful nor drive him from the race;
But ever looking upward, forgets the things below,
It's not so much the distance as the way one wants to go.

He believes in all the churches, but no particular one
Has got the only patent on how the thing is done;
The way to God is open and the distance never more
From yonder little cabin than from the palace door.

He don't go much on doctrine, but believes the Bible true,
A voice that's always speaking in accents old and new;
He may not catch the meaning nor does he claim to know,
One better have less knowledge than know what isn't so.

And when the nights are dreary and the clouds trail on the ground,

He somehow keeps on thinking the Lord is still around;
The cup to drink he dreads it, this cup of bitter wine,
Still never ceases praying, "Thy will, O God, be mine."

I haven't much religion, least not enough to spare,
But when I come across it I know the thing is there;
It doesn't make one perfect, nor get through in a day,
But points the road to heaven and starts him on the way.

PLATO AND DIOGENES.-JAMES F. Gore.

By permission of the Author.

There's a story, once current, and sometimes still told, In spite of its being two thousand years old,

Of Plato, who lived in a village in Greece,

And a crabbed old wag, Mr. Diogenes.

The former is famed to have been wondrous wise
With a fame nigh as famous as Mr. Bill Nye's.
'Tis said that said Plato said many a thing
Quite fit to compare with our poems on "Spring,"
And we judge from the place that his majesty fills,
His pate was as classic'lly hairless as Bill's.

But all men are fools without an exception;
And Plato himself will be found on dissection
To fall sadly short of his fancied perfection.
This is proved to a man of no special perception
By the fact that our hero once gave a reception;
A splendid affair (in a general way),

Outdoing in splendor a modern soiree;

A "roaring success," 'tis but justice to say.

Our host called, 'tis true, not the "halt and the lame"-
We excuse him since all at the first summons came.
He summoned, in fact, whom he happened to please
But this list did not list Mr. Diogenes.

Now, 'twould be gross injustice to say that the latter
Felt grieved or incensed at so little a matter,

Or, that, losing his temper, he swore he 'd been slighted
Because to the party he wasn't invited.

Not at all; for he smiled and remarked to his wife,
Quite martyr-like, “This is the chance of my life."

Now, the time has arrived, and the gods seem to frown
On the revelry witnessed abroad in the town.

Fierce Neptune, enraged, piles the sea on the beach,
Old Chaos is rampant and mingles with each;
Behind their black battlements over the town
The gods are seen hurling their thunderbolts down;
The very earth trembles in dread and alarm
At the hideous laugh of the demons of storm,
While deep calls to deep and the caverns down under
Respond to the deep, rumbling jeers of the thunder.
Oh, it is awful to witness thus hurled

The wrath of the gods at this silly old world!