Weary one, mariner, watcher and wanderer,

Homeless and tempest-tossed, restless and worn, When the great Infinite takes you above the stars, There will be rest and home, safety and morn. -Church Union.

UNCLE PETER AT THE "BIG HOUSE."
W. H. NEALL.

The Squire's serving man had suddenly been taken ill and on the very evening of a dinner party to be given at "Moss-Glen."

Uncle Peter was hastily summoned and pressed into waiting upon the table; being coached by the cook, Martha Ann Tiller. That same evening, the old darkey was deposited at the door of his cottage suffering from the effects of a curious kind of "sweet-water." The next morning, with head enveloped in a towel, he related his wonderful experience to his wife, Amanda.

Mandy, I feel jess terry-bull dis mawnin'; 'deed I does. I nebber had sich a pain in my head since de time dat old Pa'son Greentree's chimbley dun blow ober an' strike me on de cra-ni-bum. Dat war bad e-nuff but dis yere is wuss. An' I dun reckon dat I'm not a-gwine ter git my hat on, no-how; dat ar experience at de big house, lass ebenin', dun make my head swell pow'ful large. Yo' needent go lifting ob yo' voice at me, Mandy, an' gittin' yo' dander riz, 'kase I'se a-gwine to tell yo' how I dun got fooled at de Squire's dinna pahty.

I arribed at de Squire's house jess befo' dahk an' I dun went into de kitching along wiff de cook, Sista Martha Ann Tiller. Bime-by de Squire dun come in an' he say: "I'm pow'ful glad fo' to see yo', Peter. My man dun take sick. Jess yo' put dese yere t'ings on Wiff dat de Squire dun han' me

to wait on de table." one ob his ole white shirts an' a pow'ful tall colla', dat like to cut my ears off. Den Sista Tiller dun tie a white carry-vat round my neck. After dat, de Squire dun han' me a wess-co't to put on. any wess-co't I ebber seed befo'. cut out an' dere was no place

fo'

But it wasn't like De front paht was all a man's wittles to fall

*Written expressly for this Collection. The "Uncle Peter Stories," comprise, "The Squire's Rooster," in "100 Choice Selections, No. 33," "Uncle Peter and the Trolley Car," in No. 34: and the above. They will be continued in later Numbers, having proven immensely popular as recitations.

on 'cept his shirt bosom.

Nex' de Squire tole me to put on a co't dat he had dar. Golly, Mandy, dat war wuss dan de wess-co't; it was de curiest kind ob a co't dat I ebber sot eyes on, 'deed it was. Dar was nothin in front but a big rollin' colla' an' only one button in de front paht, but it had a pair of extry long tails a-hangin' out behind. "Look yere, Squire," I dun say, "'pears to me dat de man who dun make dis yere co't, didn't hab enuff stuff to go clar round."

He jess laff an' say:

dat's a swaller-tail."

"Dat's de propa caper, Peter,

Well, Mandy, I reckon dat de Squire war jess about right, too; it looked mo' like a swaller's tail dan it did like a co't. Den I had to put on a pair ob white cotting glubs. De ole man must a looked mighty chipper, for I seed Sista Martha Ann Tiller castin' admih-ing glances to whar I was standin'.

Now don't yo' go fo' to git angry at dat, Mandy, fo' I reckon dat I was rigged up fit to make anyone star'.

Bime-by, de cook, Sista Tiller, dun axed me to tell de Squire dat dinna was on de table. So I dun walked into de big pah-lor an' said:

"Squire, Sista Martha Ann Tiller has dun sot de dinna down an' it am now all nice an' wahm."

Den dey all walked out two by two an' took cheers at de table. Mandy, yo' ought to see dem folkses; I nebber seed anythin' like it befo'. De gemmen war all right, 'kase dey war dressed as good as I war; but dem ladies-my, my!-dey all minded me ob yo' when yo's doin' de week's washin',-wiff no sleeves in dar dresses at all, an' no kiverin' ober dar shoulders to speak of. I dun thought dat de pusson dat made my swaller's tail must have made dem dar dresses, bein' dat dey war cut so skimpy.

And Mandy, befo' I forgit it, I want to tell yo' for yo' own good; if I eber kotch yo' dressin' dat dar way an' goin' to a dinna pahty, I'll hab yo' up befo' de cou't an hab yo' prosecuted fo' cru'lty to an-i-miles-'deed I will.

Well, ebery t'ing went off wiffout a hitch, for de cook, Sista Tiller, dun tole me what to do, an' I dun it to de berry best ob my belief.

Out in de pantry, dey had some bottles ob water in a silber bucket, all packed round wiff ice. Bime-by, Martha Ann Tiller dun tole me take de bucket in an' serbe de folks. When I fotched it in to de dinin'-room, de Squire said, careless like: "Open a bottle, Peter, an' fill dem glasses."

So I layed hold ob one, mighty innocent like an' cut de string when pop!! bang!!! out flew de cork an' fotched a young gemmen right back ob de ear; 'deed it did, Mandy, an' he jumped as if a moole had kicked him. But I dun hab no time to 'pologize; dat dar bottle was a-fizzin' an' a-sizzin' an' a-squirtin' like a steam bull-gine at a fiah, an' all ober a young lady dat was a-sittin' 'long side ob de Squire. Dey had to put a shawl round her shoulders, afterwards; I was glad ob dat, for de way dat young pusson war dressed she might hab kotched cold.

But dere I war, a-holdin' dat bottle out wiff one han' an' a-tryin' to keep dat ar' water outen my face wiff de udder.

"Put yo' thumb ober de top; put yo' thumb ober de top," dun yelled de Squire.

"I dun cant find de top," I yelled back.

An' I jess tried all ob my might to stop her off, but Mandy, dat stuff jess sizzled out on all sides, till de bottle war dun empty. Don't talk; de fiah-works, on last fo'th July war nothin' to de way dat bottle cahried on. I seed dat some ob de folks war a-smilin', den I began to think dat maybe dat squirtin' water was a joke ob de Squire, but he sat dar lookin' black as a thunder-cloud.

"I'll open de udders," he say. And he dun it mighty peart, too, and nebber spilled a drap.

After dat I got 'long torre-bly well, all I had to do war to change de glasses an' see de water didn't run out.

I war jess a-itchin' to know what kind ob bebberage it war; so I dun took a sip ob some, when I war a-goin' back and forth from de kitching. I knew dat it warn't gin an' it didn't hab be labbor ob whiskey an' it warn't sour, like ha'd cidah! It jess tasted like sweet water, wiff some kind of bite-y stuff in it. I dun thought dat it war a sin an' a shame to waste all dat dar "sweetwater," so I dun drunk it up what were left in de glasses, as I cah-ried dem out to be washed.

An' Mandy, I nebber felt so spry in all my life. I jess went round dat dinna table, hummin' a tune an' alaffin wiff de white folks, who seem to take quite a fancy to de ole man.

But de Squire, he didn't seem berry well; he sot at de top ob de table a-shakin' his head an' lookin' as mad as a hornet.

As soon as all de folks had cl'ared outen de room an' de fiddle dun struck up, I showed Sista Martha Ann Tiller de double shuffle in de kitching; whew! chile, I war as light as a fedder an' I nebber thought ob my rhumatics, ah! ha! dey dun come back wiff pow'ful fo'ce dis mawnin'. I war a-shakin' my feet rather libely, when I seed de Squire a-standin' in de do'way.

He hab his brudder wiff him; I knowed dat 'kase dey boff looked alike. Den I began to see three Squireses an' three Sista Martha Ann Tillers, all a-lookin' at me to once. An' when I was 'xplainin' to de Squireses, de room an' de winders began to go round an' round, like a hummin' top, an' de flo' ebery once in a while would rar' right up at me an' I had de ha'dest time to keep it down to whar it belong. Once, befo' I was ready, it riz up an' fotched me one, good an' ha'd, between de eyes, den I nebber knowed anodder t'ing till I dun wake up in dat bed, dar.

An' Mandy, yo' pay 'tickler 'tention to what I am a-gwine to say; de berry nex' time I go to wait on de table at de Squire's "big house," I ain't a-gwine, and dat's de truff.

DREAM RAMBLES.-I. EDGAR JONES.

Methinks I see in dreamland fancies,
The vanished forms of long ago;
The ghosts of days aglow with splendor,
With echoes sad of songs of woe.

And ever through these phantoms glancing,
The thoughts which sanctified them then,
Too deep for words or artist's pencils,
Too glad for touch of tongue or pen.

I seem to see dream-angels beckon

To lands where love dwells in the calm,
To atmospheres of glad contentment,
Which tremble to an endless psalm.

And soft dream voices gently calling,
From earthly scenes and troubles sad,
To peaceful realms of sweet surprises,
Where skies are gold and songs are glad.

And there--among the beckoning figures—
With heaven-light on her angel face,
With eyes which hold their old affection,
An angel mother's loving face.

Who says that time is lost in sleeping,
That life is but for those awake?
Perhaps its best is veiled in slumber

When prisoned thoughts their rambles take.

When souls no longer fret in harness,

When that which is meets that which seems, And ghost-hands part the veil asunder That hides the drama-life of dreams.

When eyes are closed to baser matters,
When heaven unwinds its magic scrolls,
And spirits, freed from earthly trammels,
Link hearts with unimprisoned souls.

So let the voice of dream-elves call you,
And lead you on by sunny gleams,
To where the daytime toils and troubles
Blend in the miracles of dreams.