But if you said he didn't look well
He'd growl," Now, how do ye know?”
And that grit led on to his death—
He was on the railroad track
Crossin' a bridge: I heard the train
And yelled, “Mullins, come back!
The train is round the curve in sight!'
Says he," Humph, how do ye know?"
I helped to gather him up in a pail,

The engine scattered him so.

I think it's best to have more faith
In everyday concerns,

And not go allus a-snoopin' round
To get behind the returns.

A plain statement will do for me,
A hint instead of a blow;

A coroner's jury may fetch out facts,
But it's rather late to know.

LITTLE JOE.-ROBERT C. V. MEYERS.

Written expressly for this Collection.

With eyes like stars he listened to me,
Our little Joe,

As I told him about the storm at sea
Of long ago,

When I was a child, not older than he,

On board the ship from the old country,

And how we were wrecked and I sank in the sea,
Far down below,

And a brave man saved me. Then up spake he,
Our little Joe:

"And so 'twas a night like this, you say,

And the shore was lashed by the fierce white spray, And the surf was loud, and the wind was strong

And bore the ship like a feather along-

Listen! That's not the surf. 'Tis a gun.

Surf don't ring so

Listen! That's a ship in distress,"

Said little Joe.

"Mother," he said, "don't you hear the gun? Come, let us go!"

He ran from me out in the stormy night

Where the wind shrieked, and the spray dashed white
As a woman's cheek in sudden fright.

And high and low

I looked and could not find him. I cried, "Joe! little Joe!"

I made for the surf. He was there. He cried,
"The station is short of a man. Beside,

I think I know how to steer a boat."
A cry rose up like pain in my throat-
"You shall not go,'

I said. "The life-boats are not for you,
My little Joe."

He pulled away.

Our little Joe.

"I must do it,” he said,

"You were saved from a wreck when no older than me.

I must go-I must go.

If the man had held back that time I'd have

No mother now. Come, mother, be brave!
I'll do what that man did-I'll try to save
Some poor soul below.

I'll come back for sure." And then he was gone,
Our little Joe.

I stood there, and oh, that gun boomed out
Heavy and slow,

And we women, we scarce could hear ourselves speak,
The wind shrieked so.

And black was the night, and awful as dark,

And nothing we saw of the life-savers' work.

Would they reach the poor souls? And hark! oh, hark!
Down there below

The gun boomed no more, the wreck had been reached,
So much we could know.

There were no more rockets up in the air,
But all the world to the storm lay bare.

But you know, you know,

What I felt as I stood out there in the storm,
Waiting for Joe.

When sudden a woman she clutched my arm—
The boat was in tow.

We ran that way- thank God! they had come.
"Joe! little Joe!"

I laughed. And we helped the poor saved men
And women to land, and again, and again,

I peered through the dark for my boy, and then

I tried to throw

My voice past the storm-I called and I called,
For Joe, just Joe.

I thought how he'd said, "I will come back for sure.'
But he came not, you know,

Only a white thing like weed touched my feet
And settled low.

Then a man from the life-boat came and caught me. "Come, you must go,"

He said. "I will tell you the story then

About little Joe.

He did a man's work, as brave as a man.
He said, 'For mother I'll do what I can-

She was saved long ago

Then I'll go back to mother, I promised her so."
"He has not come back, he has not," I shrieked,
"Let him come back, that's all that I want!
He must keep his word, a brave man can't
Be untruthful, you know."

"Hush! Hush!" said the man, "he was brave as a man He was truthful. Be quiet, poor woman.”

He ran

And plucked at that thing down there at my feet,

I thought was a sea-weed that the surf beat,

He raised it and brought it to me,

And oh,

My boy had come back—he had kept his word,

For 'twas little Joe.

COUNTING THE SEEDS.

"One I love;" a pretty face
Bending o'er the grate;
"Two I love; "a soft, sweet voice
Measures out her fate;

"Three I love, I say," and still

Other seeds galore;

"Four I love with all my heart,"
What need is there of more?

"Five I cast away"-Ah no!

Fortune thus were wrong

Should the count thus ended be;

Love's ties are too strong.

"Six he loves," a dimpled smile;
"Seven she loves;" a blush;
"Eight both love," a sweet look steals
O'er the fair face flush.

"Nine he comes; he tarries ten;
Eleven he courts-" but wait!
Anxious search has failed to find
The seed where rests her fate.
Carefully she looks them o'er,
Then, as brow grows light,
"Twelve he marries. Mercy! I
Nearly died from fright!"

THE CROWNING OF THE KING.-ROBERT SOUTHEY. In the midst of the utterly helpless condition of Charles VII, a young peas. ant girl, Joan of Arc, the celebrated "Maid of Orleans," came to his rescue. There was a prophecy that the kingdom lost by a woman (Queen Isabella) should be restored by a virgin. Joan headed an army of six thousand men and went to aid Dunois in the relief of Orleans. The French spirit was awakened, the enemy utterly defeated, and Charles brought triumphantly to Rheims, where, in the magnificent Cathedral, he was crowned, with imposing ceremonies, King, of France. His future success was so pronounced as to secure for him the ap pellation," the victorious."

The morn was fair

When Rheims re-echoed to the busy hum

Of multitudes, for high solemnity

Assembled. To the holy fabric moves

The long procession, through the streets bestrewn
With flowers and laurel boughs. The courtier throng
Were there, and they in Orleans, who endured
The siege right bravely,-Gaucour, and La Hire,
The gallant Xaintrailles, Boussac, and Chabannes,
La Fayette, name that freedom still shall love,
Alençon, and the bravest of the brave,
The Bastard Orleans, now in hope elate,
Soon to release from hard captivity
A dear-beloved brother; gallant men,

And worthy of eternal memory;

For they, in the most perilous times of France,
Despaired not of their country. By the King
The delegated damsel passed along

Clad in her battered arms. She bore on high
Her hallowed banner to the sacred pile,
And fixed it on the altar, whilst her hand
Poured on the monarch's head the mystic oil

Wafted of yore by milk-white dove from heaven,
(So legends say) to Clovis, when he stood

At Rheims for baptism; dubious since that day,
When Tolbiac plain reeked with his warriors' blood,
And fierce upon their flight the Alemanni prest,
And reared the shout of triumph; in that hour
Clovis invoked aloud the Christian God,

And conquered: waked to wonder thus, the chief
Became love's convert, and Clotilda led

Her husband to the font.

The missioned Maid

Then placed on Charles's brow the crown of France,
And back retiring, gazed upon the King
One moment, quickly scanning all the past,
Till, in a tumult of wild wonderment,
She wept aloud. The assembled multitude
In awful stillness witnessed, then at once,

As with a tempest-rushing noise of winds,
Lifted their mingled clamors. Now the Maid
Stood as prepared to speak, and waved her hand,
And instant silence followed.

King of France!"

She cried, "at Chinon, when my gifted eye
Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the Spirit
Prompted, I spake-armed with the sword of God,
To drive from Orleans far the English wolves,
And crown thee in the rescued walls of Rheims.
All is accomplished. I have here this day
Fulfilled my mission, and anointed thee
Chief servant of the people. Of this charge,
Or well performed or wickedly, high heaven
Shall take account. If that thine heart be good,
I know no limit to the happiness

Thou mayst create. I do beseech thee, King,"
The Maid exclaimed, and fell upon the ground

And clasped his knees, "I do beseech thee, King,

By all the millions that depend on thee

For weal or woe, consider what thou art,

And know thy duty! If thou dost oppress

Thy people, if to aggrandize thyself

Thou tearest them from their homes, and sendest them To slaughter, prodigal of misery;

If, when the widow and the orphan groan

In want and wretchedness, thou turnest thee

To hear the music of the flatterer's tongue;