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She could scarcely read it through her tear-dimmed eyes. "No food, no fire-two days ago! And this fearful storm! Why haven't I seen to her? I might have known she wouldn't beg. Oh, I wish I had given her the money I spent on that thoughtless girl!"

The unfinished breakfast was left, and her husband, as anxious as she, with his man, both loaded with food and wood, tramped and shoveled a path through which she waded across with steaming coffee.

They found on the bed, with closed eyes, composed limbs, and hands folded across the breast, the loved Mamie. And by her the mother, turned to ice, kneeling, with clasped hands, up turned eyes, and tear-drops frozen upon her cheeks.

THE PUZZLED CENSUS-TAKER.-JOHN G. SAXE.

"NEIN" (pronounced NINE) is the German for "No."

"Got any boys?" the marshal said

To a lady from over the Rhine;
And the lady shook her flaxen head,
And civilly answered, “Nein !”
"Got any girls?" the marshal said

To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again the lady shock her head,
And civilly answered, “Nein !”

"But some are dead?" the marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again the lady shook her head,
And civilly answered, "Nein!”

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Husband, of course," the marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again she shook her flaxen head,
And civilly answered, “Nein!”

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'The devil you have!" the marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again she shook her flaxen head,
And civilly answered, “Nein!"

"Now, what do you mean by shaking your head,

And always answering Nine'?"

"Ich kann nicht Englisch!" civilly said

The lady from over the Rhine.

PAPA'S LETTER.

I was sitting in my study,
Writing letters, when I heard,
"Please, dear mamma, Mary told me
Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed.

"But I'se tired of the kitty,
Want some ozzer fing to do.
Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma?
Tan't I wite a letter too?"

"Not now, darling, mamma's busy;
Run and play with kitty, now.'
"No, no, mamma; me wite letter.
Tan if 'ou will show me how."

I would paint my darling's portrait
As his sweet eyes searched my face-
Hair of gold and eyes of azure,

Form of childish, witching grace.

But the eager face was clouded,
As I slowly shook my head,
Till I said, "I'll make a letter
Of you, darling boy, instead."

So I parted back the tresses

From his forehead high and white, And a stamp in sport I pasted 'Mid its waves of golden light.

Then I said, "Now, little letter,

Go away and bear good news."
And I smiled as down the staircase
Clattered loud the little shoes.

Leaving me, the darling hurried
Down to Mary in his glee,
"Mamma's witing lots of letters;
I'se a letter, Mary—see!"

No one heard the little prattle,
As once more he climbed the stair,
Reached his little cap and tippet,
Standing on the entry stair.

No one heard the front door open,
No one saw the golden hair,
As it floated o'er his shoulders
In the crisp October air.

Down the street the baby hastened
Till he reached the office door.
"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman;

Is there room for any more?

"'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa,
Papa lives with God, 'ou know,
Mamma sent me for a letter,
Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go?"

But the clerk in wonder answered,
"Not to-day, my little man."
"Den I'll find anozzer office,

'Cause I must do if I tan."

Fain the clerk would have detained him,
But the pleading face was gone,
And the little feet were hastening-
By the busy crowd swept on.

Suddenly the crowd was parted,
People fled to left and right,
As a pair of maddened horses
At the moment dashed in sight.

No one saw the baby figure-
No one saw the golden hair,
Till a voice of frightened sweetness
Rang out on the autumn air.
'Twas too late-a moment only
Stood the beauteous vision there,
Then the little face lay lifeless,
Covered o'er with golden hair.
Reverently they raised my darling,
Brushed away the curls of gold,
Saw the stamp upon the forehead,
Growing now so icy cold.

Not a mark the face disfigured,
Showing where a hoof had trod;
But the little life was ended-
"Papa's letter" was with God.

MY MOTHER AT THE GATE.-MATILDA C. EDWARDS.

Oh, there's many a lovely picture
On memory's silent wall,

There's many a cherished image
That I tenderly recall!

The sweet home of my childhood,
With its singing brooks and birds,
The friends who grew around me,

With their loving looks and words; The flowers that decked the wildwood, The roses fresh and sweet,

The blue-bells and the daisies
That blossomed at my feet-
All, all are very precious,
And often come to me,

Like breezes from that country
That shines beyond death's sea.
But the sweetest, dearest image
That fancy can create,

Is the image of my mother,
My mother at the gate.

There, there I see her standing,
With her face so pure and fair,
With the sunlight and the shadows
On her snowy cap and hair;
I can feel the soft, warm pressure
Of the hand that clasped my own;
I can see the look of fondness

That in her blue eyes shone;
I can hear her parting blessing
Through the lapse of weary years;
I can see, through all my sorrow,
Her own sad, silent tears,—
Ah! amid the darkest trials

That have mingled with my fate,
I have turned to that dear image,
My mother at the gate.

But she has crossed the river,
She is with the angels now,
She has laid aside earth's burdens,
And the crown is on her brow.
She is clothed in clean, white linen,
And she walks the streets of gold.
Oh! loved one, safe forever

Within the Saviour's fold,

No sorrowing thought can reach thee,
No grief is thine to-day;

God gives thee joy for mourning,
He wipes thy tears away!
Thou art waiting in that city
Where the holy angels wait,
And when I cross the river
I will see thee at the gate!

THE BELL OF ATRI.-H. W. Longfellow.

Atri in Abruzzo, a small town

Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown,
One of those little places that have run
Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun,
And then sat down to rest, as if to say,
"I climb no farther upward, come what may,"
The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame,
So many monarchs since have borne the name,
Had a great bell hung in the market-place,
Beneath a roof projecting some small space,
By way of shelter from the sun and rain.

Then rode he through the streets with all his train,
And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long,
Made proclamation, that, whenever wrong
Was done to any man, he should but ring
The great bell in the square, and he, the king,
Would cause the syndic to decide thereon.
Such was the proclamation of King John.

How swift the happy days in Atri sped,
What wrongs were righted, need not here be said.
Suffice it that, as all things must decay,
The hempen rope at length was worn away,
Unraveled at the end, and, strand by strand,
Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand,
Till one, who noted this in passing by,
Mended the rope with braids of briony,
So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine
Hung like a votive garland at a shrine.

By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt
A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt,
Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods,
Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods,
Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports
And prodigalities of camps and courts,-
Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old,
His only passion was the love of gold.

He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds,
Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds,
Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all,
To starve and shiver in a naked stall,
And, day by day, sat brooding in his chair
Devising plans how best to hoard and spare.

At length he said, "What is the use or need
To keep at my own cost this lazy steed,

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