By chance, it happened, that each host
Three brothers at one birth enrolled;
And so the hostile states propose

That all shall be by them controlled.
The compact made in legal form,
By royal delegate and priest;

Pure herbs are brought-the oath is sworn-
And slain the sacrificial beast!

This done, behold the rival lines,
Drawn up in arms on either side;
A level campus spreads between,

Where six brave men shall all decide.
Rome sends her brave Horatii,

Who rush with fury to the fray; The noble Curiatii

Leave Alba's ranks the twins to slay.

Each warrior bears within his breast
The spirit of a mighty band!

They think not of their precious lives,

But only of their native land!

Arms clash on arms, and burnished swords
Flash as they quiver in the air!
Great horror strikes the watching crowd,
Yet neither side, of hope despair.

Then voice and breath alike seem lost-
Awe-struck the waiting armies stand;
For see! their chosen champions now
Are fighting closely hand to hand.
Two Roman soldiers fall in death,

And one must now contend with three; The Alban army shouts with joy,

And cheers the Curiatii!

The Alban brothers all have wounds,
Horatius is still unharmed;

He turns his back upon his foes,

And speeds away as if alarmed.
The twins pursue, as each has strength,
But soon the Roman stands at bay;
He meets the Albans, one by one,
And two lie dead upon the way!

The anxious armies now behold

A contest waged more evenly;

The Roman lines send up a shout,

As confident of victory!

All hear the boasting Roman cry:

"Your brothers both by me were slain For sweet revenge, and now you die, That Rome may over Alba reign."

He draws his sword, and runs him through,
Brave Curiatius falls and dies!
And then the valiant Roman stoops,

And strips the Alban as he lies.
Horatius, a hero then,

Returns in triumph from his toils; The line is formed, the march begun, The leader graced with triple spoils.

Horatia, from the city's gates,

Discerns the vast triumphal line; Then sees her brother at the head,

Where glist'ning spoils resplendent shine
But look! great Heaven! she soon descries
A cloak, which Curiatius wore,
The same her loving hands had made,
Now sprinkled with her lover's gore!

A moment then in doubt she stood,
While horror changed to deep despair;
Again she looked upon the cloak,

The sight was more than she could bear.
Her country's weal, her brother's fame,
The joyous triumph of the day,
Were powerless to check her tears-

And grief unchecked held perfect sway!

The warrior, flushed with martial pride,
Most keenly felt Horatia's smart;
He drew his sword from out its sheath,
And plunged it in the maiden's heart.
"Go hence! and join thy spouse," he cried,
"Since thou couldst so forgetful be
Of Rome, thy brothers, and of me,
And mourn our fallen enemy!"

A thousand eyes behold the deed,

Yet no one checks the murderer's hand`; Or saves Horatia from her fate

Like men struck dumb by awe they stand.j

A moment all in silence gaze,

And then the angry victor shows
His reeking blade, and cries aloud:
"So perish all my country's foes!"
Two ruling thoughts possess the throng,
As scores of men their weapons draw:
The pride of patriotic zeal,

The majesty of Roman law!
Justice demands the soldier's death;
His deeds of valor make amends!

King Tullus asks him to appeal,

And bide the verdict of his friends.

Up rose Horatia's father then,

And said: "My child was justly slain!
Else, by the nation's law of right,
Horatius should plead in vain."
Then, folding to his breast his son,
And pointing to the arms and cloak,
He fixed his eyes upon the crowd,
And thus in telling phrases spoke:
"My countrymen, can ye endure

A sight our foes could hardly bear,
And suffer one, adorned with spoils,
The basest traitor's lot to share?
Go, lictor! bind the hands that gained
The freedom of our threatened state?
Go! veil his head, whose single hand
Averted our impending fate!

"Hang high his body on the tree,
And scourge him near the city wall!

But let him die amid his spoils,

And where we saw the Alban fall! For whither can ye bring this youth, Whom victory has crowned this day, Where glory shall not cover him,

And wipe the stain of guilt away?

"This son-this daughter-both were mine:
My heart went out to each the same;
The nation's savior he was hailed-
She turned his triumph into shame!
This morn, and not a man in Rome

Felt more paternal pride than I

Shall I go childless to my home?

Will ye permit the fourth to die?"

The people felt the father's tones,

They quickly granted his request:
He burst the bonds that bound his boy,
And not a lictor dared molest!
Atoning rites at once were paid,
By sire and son unitedly;
The state received the sacrifice,

And Rome declared her hero free!

Nor was the murdered maid forgot,
Whose chidings roused her brother's ire:
The stricken father was not left

Alone beside her funeral pyre!

The Roman heart was moved as well,
If faith in love or war was shown;
And where the pierced Horatia fell,
The generous people placed a stone.

THE DOG KINDERGARTEN.

Midget and Fidget, and Dumpy and Dun,
Were four little four-legged budgets of fun;
They had a red house at the foot of the lawn
Where they slept together from dark to dawn;
From dawn till dark they romped and ran,
Wrestled and tumbled till school began;
Then Floss, their mother, set all in a row,
To teach them the things that other dogs know,
And cuffed their ears if they spoke too low!
"First lesson in bark! Attend now, bark.
Bow-wow! so, speak it up loud as I!
Yip, yap, pip, boog-boo, ki yi!"

"Yip-yip!" said Midget; "Yap-yap!" said Fidget: Boog-boo!" said Dumpy; " Ki-ki!" said Dun.

To the pupils this was lively fun;
And the second lesson was just begun

When they saw a pussy-cat out by the well;
Heels over head they went, pell-mell,

And the school broke up with a four-pup yell.

"There are some things," Mother Flossie thought, "That little dogs know without being taught!" But pussy was rather too spry to be caught.

TURNING THE TABLES.*-S. JENNIE SMITH.t

A HOME PLAY IN TWO ACTS.

CHARACTERS.

MR. EARLE, proprietor of a large factory.

MRS. EARLE, his wife.

GRACE EARLE, his daughter.

ROBERT EARLE, his son, who is always looking for something better

in the way of an occupation.

MR. DESMOND, a friend who wants to cure Robert.

KITTY DESMOND, his daughter with whom Robert is in love.
PAT RILEY, just from "Ould Ireland," man of all work.

JUDGE REYNOLDS, an unexpected caller.

SCENE. Prettily furnished parlor in Mr. Earle's home. Door leading to hall. Enter Robert Earle in letter-carrier's costume. ROBERT (looking at his watch). Well, it is almost time I was off on my route, but I did hope that Kitty and her father would arrive before I started. How I long to see the dear girl (going to window)! Ah! there she is now at the door, and alone too. I wonder where Mr. Desmond is. (Goes hastily to door as Kitty enters.) Kitty, how glad I am to see you (attempting to embrace her)!

KITTY (drawing back and offering her hand). Good morning, Robert. Where are all the folks?

ROBERT (reproachfully). And is that the welcome you have for me after an absence of three months?

KITTY. What more do you expect?

ROBERT. Do girls generally greet in that way the man to whom they are engaged?

KITTY (decidedly). We are not engaged.

ROBERT. What! haven't you promised me ever since we were little children together that if I grew up to be a man who didn't use either liquor or tobacco that you would marry me?

*Copyright, 1897, by P. Garrett & Co.

+Author of "The Journey of Life," and "To the Palace of the King," two beautiful figurative sketches for Sunday Schools; and, "The Way to Freedom," Temperance Play for girls, in a similar vein. Miss Smith has also contributed a number of Irish dialect, and other humorous recitations, to Garrett's "100 Choice Selections," Series