"Or else," and here the herald paused for breath,
"The royal council shall be put to death."

The wise men spent a long and dreary day
In vain attempts to find some easy way
To shun the headsman's keen and glittering axe,
And lay down Persian carpets without tacks.
But sombre night was drawing on apace
And yet they'd found no plan to suit the case;
When from the crowd that curious stood about
A horny-handed son of toil stepped out:

"If now the royal feet are clad," said he,

"The whole wide world at once will seem to be
As soft and easy as the finest down

That ever went to pad a royal crown.”

With shouts of praise the council hailed the plan
And ere another working day began,

The king was shod in sandals stout and strong
Held on his royal foot by leathern thong.

And as a living proof of what I say,
Observe the shoes upon men's feet to-day.

ON THE SUNSET LINE.-BEAUMONT CLAXTON.*
A CONDUCTOR'S STORY.

[Copyright, 1896, by Beaumont Claxton.]

So, boys, you want a story, well, mine's not one of mirth, For to me, of all sad stories, it's the saddest one on earth. Let me see 'twas the winter of eighty, I'd a run on the Sunset Line,

And a splendid run it was, boys-say, Billy, put absinthe in mine.

Old Hank Rush was pulling us that run with Number two

hundred and ten,

And take the whole crew over, 'twas a gritty set of men. That night we reached the junction, an hour off schedule

time,

And, with fourteen coaches loaded, pulled onto the Main

Line.

Some Press excursion or other, on its way from the Pass, And a jovial set of fellows--well, the kind you don't meet

at Mass.

Actor-author, Elocutionist and Impersonater.

But the rear coach hold a passenger, who didn't belong to the lot,

A wee bit in calico, not much more'n a baby, just a tot.

"Your ticket, little lady." "Please, sir, I aint dot one," she said,

"But I's doin' to meet my mamma," and she raised her golden head

With a look of childish innocence, as frank as a summer sky, While a smile played on her dimpled face, and lighted her soft blue eye.

"Yes I's doin' to meet my mamma; please, sir, let me ride! She went away last summer, and papa and brother cried,In a big black box they sent her, away from me and brother,

And now, sir, I's dot a new mamma, but she aint a bit like the other;

She scolds, and sometimes whips me, and calls me a naughty brat,

But my own dear mamma was kind and good, she never talked like that.

66

And last night, in my sleep, I saw her, not as she went away But all in white, with the angels, dest as bright as day.

Soft and sweet she called me, 'Come to mamma, Alice, my

pet,'

And so I's doin' to meet my mamma-why, mister, your eyes are wet."

Boys, I own I was choked and wheezy-say. Billy, make it the same—

But when sorrow touches the heart strings, a man aint always game.

Just then came a shriek from the engine, which seemed to deaden my strength,

For I knew we were hitting 'em sixty an hour, if we were making a length,

One of those danger signals, which for a moment freeze the blood,

Like when you look from a precipice down at some awful flood.

It thrilled like a wail of agony, from a soul in the depths

of hell,

In a second I set the air on, in less time than it takes to tell.

As well try to curb the ocean, as a late special on downward grade.

I could feel the reverse of the engine, the beams snapped like cactus blade,

And then in another instant, the collision came head end, As we struck the fast freight flying west from around the

bend,

Like the shock of rival planets, when they meet in a fiery sky:

Then groans of men and women entrapped in the wreck to die,

Made the scene a pandemonium with human fuel for the fire. Then came the work of rescue, and I tell you the task was dire;

But circumstances make heroes, and there's lots of men today

Dressed in linen and long-tailed coats, who are made of the Roman clay.

We found poor Hank at the lever, scalded and crushed to a pulp

Boys, the sight was sickening, and made one's heart come up with a gulp.

There were scores in death and torture, where a moment before was mirth

It's a blessing man can't see his ending when he takes his place on earth.

At last we found little Alice, like a broken sensitive plant, Death's hand had struck her so quickly, as to hardly leave

its stamp.

Her soft blue eyes were open, a smile on her dimpled face, As though she saw her mamma in that far-off golden place. And as we knelt beside her, out there in the bleak night

time,

We knew Alice had met her mamma-but not on the Sunset Line.

THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS.

Trinity bells, with their hollow lungs,

And their vibrant lips, and their brazen tongues,
Over the roofs of the city pour

Their Easter music, with joyous roar,

Till the soaring notes to the sun are rolled,
As he swings along his path of gold.

"Dearest papa," says my boy to me,
As he nimbly climbs on his mother's knee,
"Why are these eggs that you see me hold
Colored so finely with blue and gold?
And what is the wonderful bird that lays
Such beautiful eggs upon Easter days?"

Tenderly shine the April skies,

Like laughter and tears in my child's blue eyes,
And every face in the street is gay,

As I think, what shall I in answer say?
So I weave from fancy the tale he begs,
And tell him this story of Easter eggs:

You have heard, my boy, of One who died
Crowned with keen thorns, and crucified;

And how Joseph, the wealthy,-whom God reward-
Cared for the body of Christ the Lord,
And proudly tombed it within the rock,
And closed the gate with a mighty block.

Now, close to the tomb a fair tree grew,
With pendulous leaves, and blooms of blue;
And deep in the green tree's shadowy breast
Sat a beautiful song-bird upon her nest,
That was bordered with mosses like malachite,
And held four eggs of an ivory white.

Now when the bird, from her deep recess,
Beheld the Form in its burial dress,
And looked on the heavenly face so pale,
And the dear feet, pierced with the cruel nail,
Her heart nigh broke with a sudden pang,
And out of the depth of her grief she sang.

All night long, till the moon was up,
She sat and sang in her moss-wreathed cup
A song of sorrow, as wild and shrill

As the homeless wind when it roams the hill;
So full of tears, so loud, so long,

The grief of the world seemed turned to song.
But soon there came, through the weeping night,
A glittering angel robed in white;

And he rolled the stone from the tomb away,-
The tomb where Jesus, the Crucified, lay.
And he rose in the midst of the cavern's gloom,
And in living lustre came forth from the tomb.

Now the bird that sat in the heart of the tree
Beheld the celestial mystery;

Its heart was filled with a sweet delight,

And it poured a song on the throbbing night,-
Notes, climbing notes, till higher, higher,
They shot to heaven like spears of fire.

When the glittering white-robed angel heard
The sorrowing song of the grieving bird,
And heard the following chant of mirth,
That hailed the rising again on earth;
He said, "Sweet bird be ever blest,

Thyself, thy eggs, and thy moss-wreathed nest!"
And ever, my child, since that blest night
When Death bowed down to the Lord of Light,
That wonderful bird's eggs change their hue,
And glitter with red, and gold, and blue,
Reminding the children in such bright way
Of the holy marvel of Easter day.

LETTERS FOR MR. SMITH.-ROBERT C. V. MEYERS."

[COPYRIGHT, 1896.]

CHARACTERS.

J. J. SMITH, a broker.

JAY SMITH, a lawyer.

JOHN SMITH, a grocer.

MISS ALICE ROBINSON, fiancee of Jay Smith.

MRS. ROBINSON, Alice's mother.

MRS. JOHN SMITH.

MARY, a maid.

SUGGESTIONS AS TO COSTUMES: J. J. Smith, morning dress, red scarf. Jay, traveling suit, overcoat, hat, gloves. Afterwards without overcoat, hat or gloves. John, rough suit, very high collar with stock, wig slightly bald, side whiskers. Alice, pretty traveling frock, flowers in belt. Mrs. Robinson, black silk dress, quiet bonnet. Mrs. John Smith, gorgeous frock, and a bonnet of ribbons and flowers of extravagant color and fashion. Mary, print frock, white apron, white cap, collar and cuffs.

(If not convenient to have cast of characters printed, the different "Smiths" should be clearly explained to the audience in the beginning.)

SCENE.-Parlor in a country inn. Entrances, center, right, and left. Table, with writing materials, papers, etc. Enter Mary, center, with letters.

MARY (looking at the envelopes). Smith-Smith-Smith. Every one of these letters for Mr. Smith. How much his friends must love him; he has been here only one day, and

*Author of "The Day Before the Wedding," "Ze Moderne English," "The Top Landing," "A Bonnet for my Wife," "A Dynamite Plot," "The Jewels of my Aunt," and other Comedies, Farces, etc., in "100 Choice Selections" Series, The leading peculiarity of Mr. Meyers's Dramas lies in their sparkling dialogue, quick action and easy adaptability to place. For a synopsis of th ae and other new Flays, included in our List, send for Catalogue.