BEN HASSAN'S DREAM.-WALDO MESSAROS. Yusef Ben Hassan slept and dreamed a dream Of a fair garden watered by a stream That glittered like a jeweled scimitar Flung down among the flowers; and as far As eye could see the roses billowed up In wilding waves. The lily's snowy cup, With golden-beaded nectar all abrim, A worthy chalice seemed for seraphim To pledge each other, and along the palms Drifted the airy length of worship psalms From dusky-throated bulbuls. On a lake Clear as the lucid deeps of sky that take The ichor of the sun, bright lotus lay, And rose and fell like jewels in the play Of a fair woman's breast, where like a child Love tosseth in its cradle undefiled. Never between his pulpit and his tomb Saw Allah's prophet garden such as this, Its fields of light and dells of leafy gloom, Its waters shimmering in summer bliss. Ben Hassan rose, and wandered in amaze Along the 'broidered path. The yielding haze Parted before him as he moved, and bung In golden folds around him. Lightly flung The swaying flowers their scented petals round, And carpeted with beauty the glad ground That sent a willing perfume forth to kiss The fading leaves expiring in their bliss.

"Allah, compassionate," Ben Hassan prayed, "Let me dwell here. The load of life has weighed Too heavily upon me, and I bend

Beneath the burden, for I have no friend

To bid me welcome to his tent; no wife

To cheer me with her smile and share my life,

To bring me dates and comfort me with milk;

No maid to weave for me the scarf of silk

That warriors love to wear. My horse alone,
Fleet as Al Borak, do I love and own.
Let us dwell here together till the day

Of certainty shall call us both away.

Then Allah leaning thro' the haze replied,

"Son, this is thine own land. Thou shalt subside

Thy fleet horse through its groves, nor shall he feed
Upon the sweet grass rippling yonder mead.
Thou shalt remain alone; none else but thee
Shall dwell in this abode of ecstasy.

Ben Hassan murmured, "Allah, merciful!
Be pitiful to me, my brain is dull

With ache of disappointment. I have sought
A friend in all the world, and I have bought
Fair slaves with dewy lips and shining eyes,
And floating rings of hair that Sultans prize.
But love was not for me, for I was stern;
The ways of men and women could not learn.
But Alladin, my steed, he only knew
My inner nature. He alone was true
Of all the world; I lay one night of dread
Upon the battle field among the dead,
And I could hear the howling wolves around,
Gnawing the helpless men upon the ground,
And Alladin stood trembling by my side.

Before him stretched the desert, brown and wide-
He would not flee, but o'er me he bent
And breathed into my face the pasture scent
Of homeland in the Hedgez. 'Twas like life,
And love and laughter, voice of child and wife.
I reached my arms around his neck, and wept
And drew him down beside me, and we slept
Together 'neath the moon, and many years
Together have we been, our hopes and fears
Lost in each other's sense. Oh, let him in,
Or all this bloom of beauty will grow dim."

Then Allah answered, when Ben Hassan ceased,

Son, thou art merciful unto thy beast.

Thou art approved, thy heart hath taught thee well,
But where thou art thy steed can never dwell."

Sadly Ben Hassan turned and left the place,
Passed through the garden gate, and hid his face
In his coarse mantle, saying as he went:
"My steed I choose. Allah, I am content."
And suddenly, as from a sea of bloom,
The desert air was weighted with perfume.
Ben Hassan dropped his mantle, and behold!
The Eastern heavens blazed with sunrise gold,
With strange new life the sand was all astir;
Fair groves grew all around; the gentle whir

Of light-winged birds he heard on every side;
Roses burst sighing forth. In dainty pride
The lily bent its gracious head and lent
Its charms to swell the mystery. The scent
Of orange bloom, and oleander, too,
With keen astonished sense, Ben Hassan knew.
But all was changed; the desert in an hour,
The sterile sand, by some mysterious power
Had given birth to beauty. Lovely maids
And gallant, goodly men beneath the shades
Sat canopied, and bounding to his side
Came Alladin, neighing with joy and pride.
And while Ben Hassan stood he heard a voice,
As softest music, say: "My son, rejoice!

Thy soul was loyal to self-sacrifice,

And earth for thee shall be as paradise."

OVER THE RANGE.

Stumpy Wicks was dead. The mountain fever had killed him. A few days before he had started off into the hills, telling the boys he would find something rich or never go out again. He did not find anything rich, and he never went out again. The fever laid its grip on him, and in three days he was dead. He had "gone over the range," the boys said.

It had become necessary to bury Stumpy Wicks. And how was he to be buried? By his relatives? He had no relatives. By the town? There was no town. By his pard? He had no pard. Forty years ago Stumpy Wicks had left his home-no one knew where-and his people-no one knew whom-to wander alone in the West. He died alone. His wife, his mother, his sister, if he had one, will never know where he died, or what hands laid him in his grave.

It was the boys. They got together and made a coffin out of a box or two, and covered it with black cloth. They put Stumpy into it, with a clean flour sack over his poor, dead face. They chipped in and hired an ex-parson, who for some years had abandoned his profes

sion, to "give Stumpy a send-off." They dug a grave to a good and honest depth in the tough red earth. They went out and found a flat rock for a headstone and on it, with an engineer's graver, they scratched the brief epitaph, "Stumpy Wicks." Then they followed the coffin-wagon to the grave, walking through the mud and rain.

There were forty men in that funeral procession and not one woman. Very few were drunk, and nearly all had taken off their six-shooters. There were forty men who stood around that open grave, and not one woman to drop a tear, as the ex-parson read a brief portion of the Episcopal burial service and offered a short prayer. There was no history of Stumpy's life. No one knew that history. It was doubtless a sad enough one, full of slips and stumbles; full of hope, perhaps, before he finally "lost his grip." They found a woman's picture, very old, and quite worn out, indeed, in Stumpy's pocket, and this was buried with him. This was probably his history.

There was not a tear shed at Stumpy's funeral. Not a sob was heard. But neither was there any oath or any laughter.

When the time came to fill up the grave, ready hearts assisted ready hands, and the experienced miners quickly did the work. They rounded up the mound and lifted up the headstone. When the ex-parson stepped back from the grave he stumbled over the headstone of Billy Robbins the gambler, whom Antoine Sanchez knifed. There were a good many of the boys resting there. The bullet, the knife, and the mountain fever had finished them, except those whom the committee assisted. It was the committee who put Antoine Sanchez at the foot of Billy Robbins' grave.

There was no green thing in this grave-yard, no living plants, no little flowers. It lay red and bare upon a red and bare hillside. There were no white stones to mark the homes of the sleepers; those used were rough, red granite.

The boys were quiet. They were thinking, perhaps They looked up to the sky, which, strangely enough, had in it no tint of blue; and the sky, in pity that no tears were shed, wept some upon them.

As the procession broke up and moved back to the saloons, one was heard to say that it was the mournfulest plantin' he ever had a hand in. In fact, the camp did not get back to its normal condition until the next day. There was something too sad even for these rough souls in the lonely, broken life, the lonely, unwept death of Stumpy Wicks. It made them think-and I wonder if some of them did not stretch out their arms from their blankets that night and hold them up and call out softly, "Oh, Stumpy, Stumpy! What is it you see over the range? After a wretched, broken life, what is there for a man over the range?" -Cour d'Alene Eagle.

GRANDFATHER'S STORY.-MARY H. FIELD.

"Tell us a story, grandpa,"

The children beg once more,
And they cluster round him fondly,
As he sits by the open door.
"Tell us a story about yourself,"
Cries loving little Claire,

So he gently takes her on his knee
And strokes her shining hair,

Then the children crowd still neares
As he begins to say:

"I was only a little fellow

And it seems but yesterday,

Yet when I come to reckon,
It was fifty years ago,
And the little boy of yesterday

Is an old man grown, I know!

"From a green New England hillside
Our dear old home looked down,
And afar in the pleasant valley
Rose the white spire of the town.
On the long black roof, down sloping,
The summer sunshine played,