be the duty of the members to watch each other, to see that they did not break the pledge.

The next morning Deacon D. walked into his next neighbor's yard--who, by the way, was Mr. L., the sheep manwondering, as it was a bitter cold morning, whether L. was up yet. He met his neighbor coming out of the house, and, to his surprise, gloriously drunk; or, to use a modern phrase, "burning a very beautiful kiln."

"Why, L.!" exclaimed the astonished deacon, "what does this mean, sir? You have broken your pledge, and disgraced our society and the temperance cause."

"Not-hic-as you knows on, deacon," says L. "I haven't bro-hic-broke the pledge, deacon."

'Certainly you have, sir, and I shall report you to the society. You agreed not to drink except when you washed sheep. You cannot make me believe you are going to wash sheep on such a cold day as this."

"F-follow-hic-me, deacon."

On

L. started for the barn, and the deacon followed. entering the door the deacon saw a large wash-tub standing on the floor, with an old ram tied to it, the poor animal shaking dreadfully with the cold, and bleating pitifully.

"There―hic-d-d-deacon," said L., pointing to the sheep with an air of triumph, "that old-hic-ram has been washed six times this-hic--morning."

AFTER THE BALL.-NORA PERRY.

They sat and combed their beautiful hair,
Their long, bright tresses, one by one,
As they laughed and talked in the chamber there,
After the revel was done.

Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille,
Idly they laughed, like other girls,
Who over the fire, when all is still,

Comb out their braids and curls.

Robe of satin and Brussels lace,
Knots of flowers and ribbons, too,
Scattered about in every place,

For the revel is through.

And Maud and Madge in robes of white,
The prettiest night-gowns under the sun,
Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night,
For the revel is done,--

Sit and comb their beautiful hair,

Those wonderful waves of brown and gold,
Till the fire is out in the chamber there,
And the little bare feet are cold.

Then out of the gathering winter chill,
All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather,
While the fire is out and the house is still,
Maud and Madge together,-

Maud and Madge in robes of white,
The prettiest night-gowns under the sun,
Curtained away from the chilly night,
After the revel is done,-

Float along in a splendid dream,

To a golden gittern's tinkling tune,
While a thousand lustres shimmering stream,
In a palace's grand saloon.

Flashing of jewels, and flutter of laces,
Tropical odors sweeter than musk,
Men and women with beautiful faces
And eyes of tropical dusk,—

And one face shining out like a star,
One face haunting the dreams of each,
And one voice, sweeter than others are,
Breaking into silvery speech,-
Telling, through lips of bearded bloom,
An old, old story over again,
As down the royal bannered room,

To the golden gittern's strain,

Two and two, they dreamily walk,
While an unseen spirit walks beside,
And, all unheard in the lovers' talk,

He claimeth one for a bride.

Oh, Maud and Madge, dream on together,
With never a pang of jealous fear!
For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather

Shall whiten another year,

Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, Braided brown hair, and golden tress, There'll be only one of you left for the bloom Of the bearded lips to press,—

Only one for the bridal pearls,

The robe of satin and Brussels lace,Only one to blush through her curls

At the sight of a lover's face.

Oh, beautiful Madge, in your bridal white,
For you the revel has just begun ;

But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night
The revel of life is done!

But robed and crowned with your saintly bliss,
Queen of heaven and bride of the sun,
Oh, beautiful Maud, you'll never miss

The kisses another hath won!

COME BACK,-THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

You say the poor-house is a mile ahead;
It once stood yonder-"that was years ago."
True, true! They'll give me supper and a bed;
A job at picking oakum too, I know,
For that 's their way.

Old Potter always used to find some work,
And plenty, for the traveling tramp to do;
And his successor, even if less a Turk,
Will follow his example. So I knew
Old Potter, eh?

Of course I did. Not as a pauper though;

I made poor-masters and such things just then; For, strange as it may seem, I'd have you know That I have ranked among the “solid men" Of Brantford town.

Now I am mostly in the liquid line

When I can get it. Thirty summers since My food was dainty, clothes were superfineThey said I feasted people like a princeBut now I'm down.

Who from a high position falls, falls far,

And from the distance feels the more the hurt.
The humbler men in life much happier are,
For they lie prone already in the dirt,
And feel no ill.

Traveled around? You bet I have. I left
These parts long years ago, and I have been
From east to west since then, have felt the heft

Of years of trouble, and the sights I've seen
A book would fill.

Now you're a man of substance; one whom chance,
Or labor, may be, helped to fill his purse—
You've had your troubles? Every one must dance
Just as his fortune fiddles. (He'll disburse
At least a dime.)

Troubles are nothing with the means to thrive-
Abandoned by your father? Why, how mean
Some people are. If my son were alive
He'd be your age. The boy I have not seen
A long, long time."

A quarter! Thank you.
What! Abner Brown?

May I ask your name?
Your mother? Dead, you say!
(There are her eyes and hair-the very same)
These are not tears--the raw east wind to-day
Moistens the eyes.

You don't object to please an old man's whim
By giving me your hand? You mind me much
Of one I knew. (My head begins to swim.)
I tremble? Age and want the sinews touch
As manhood flies.

Good-bye. God bless you! He has gone. His smile
Had sun-light in it; zephyrs in his breath-
He shall not know how, after this long while,
Hither returned, to die a pauper's death,
His father came.

Let the boy prosper. Never let his life

Be shadowed by my half-forgotten crime;
I've seen and touched him. My poor, patient wife
Is dead; but he is like me in my prime,
All but my shame.

For me the poor-house, and the pauper's bed,
And the pine coffin, and the noteless grave.
He shall not blush to know when I am dead
He was akin to one, to vice a slave,
Who soiled his name.

CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND.-VICTOR HUGO.

It sometimes happens that a man, traveler or fisherman, walking on the beach at low tide, far from the bank, suddenly notices that for several minutes he has been walking

with some difficulty. The strand beneath his feet is like pitch; his soles stick in it; it is sand no longer; it is glue.

The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as soon as he lifts his foot, the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye, however, has noticed no change; the immense strand is smooth and tranquil; all the sand has the same appearance; nothing distinguishes the surface which is solid from that which is no longer so; the joyous little crowd of sand-flies continue to leap tumultuously over the wayfarer's feet. The man pursues his way, goes forward, inclines to the land, endeavors to get nearer the upland.

He is not anxious. Anxious about what? Only he feels, somehow, as if the weight of his feet increases with every step he takes. Suddenly he sinks in.

Decidedly he is not on bearings; now he looks The sand covers them.

He sinks in two or three inches. the right road; he stops to take his at his feet. They have disappeared. He draws them out of the sand; he will retrace his steps. He turns back, he sinks in deeper. The sand comes up to his ankles; he pulls himself out and throws himself to the leftthe sand half leg deep. He throws himself to the right; the sand comes up to his shins. Then he recognizes with unspeakable terror that he is caught in the quicksand, and that he has beneath him the terrible medium in which man can no more walk than the fish can swim. He throws off his load if he has one, lightens himself as a ship in distress; it is already too late; the sand is above his knees. He calls, he waves his hat or his handkerchief; the sand gains on him more and more. If the beach is deserted, if the land is too far off, if there is no help in sight, it is all over.

He is condemned to that appalling burial, long, infallible, implacable, and impossible to slacken or to hasten; which endures for hours, which seizes you erect, free, and in full health, and which draws you by the feet; which, at every effort that you attempt, at every shout you utter, drags you a little deeper, sinking you slowly into the earth while you look upon the horizon, the sails of the ships upon the sea, the birds flying and singing, the sunshine and the sky. The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, to creep; every movement he makes inters him; he straightens up, he sinks