Three years ago the baby came our humble home to bless;

And then I reckon I was nigh to perfect happiness; 'Twas hers-'twas mine; but I've no language to explain to you

How that little girl's weak fingers our hearts together drew!

Once we watched it through a fever, and with each gasping breath,

Dumb, with an awful, worldless woe, we waited for its

death;

And, though I'm not a pious man, our souls together

there,

For Heaven to spare our darling, went up in voiceless

prayer.

And when the doctor said 'twould live, our joy what

words could tell?

Clasped in each other's arms, our grateful tears together fell.

Sometimes, you see, the shadow fell across our little nest, But it only made the sunshine seem a doubly welcome

guest.

Work came to me a plenty, and I kept the anvil ring

ing;

Early and late you'd find me there a-hammering and singing;

Love nerved my arm to labor, and moved my tongue to

song,

And though my singing wasn't sweet, it was tremendous

strong!

One day a one-armed stranger stopped to have me nail

a shoe,

And while I was at work we passed a compliment or two; I asked him how he lost his arm. He said 'twas shot

away

At Malvern Hill. "At Malvern Hill! Did you know Robert May ?"

"That's me," said he. "You, you!" I gasped, choking with horrid doubt:

"If you're the man, just follow me; we'll try this mystery out!"

With dizzy steps, I led him to Mary. God! 'Twas true!

Then the bitterest pangs of misery unspeakable I knew.

Frozen with deadly horror, she stared with eyes of stone, And from her quivering lips there broke one wild, despairing moan.

'Twas he, the husband of her youth, now risen from the dead;

But all too late-and with bitter cry, her senses fled.

What could be done? He was reported dead. On his

return

He strove in vain some tidings of his absent wife to

learn.

'Twas well that he was innocent! Else I'd've killed him,

too,

So dead he never would have riz till Gabriel's trumpet blew!

It was agreed that Mary then between us should decide, And each by her decision would sacredly abide.

No sinner, at the judgment-seat, waiting eternal doom, Could suffer what I did while waiting sentence in that

room.

Rigid and breathless, there we stood, with nerves as tense as steel,

While Mary's eyes sought each white face, in piteous appeal.

God! could not woman's duty be less hardly reconciled Between her lawful husband and the father of her child?

Ah! how my heart was chilled to ice, when she knelt down and said:

"Forgive me, John! He is my husband! Here! Alive! not dead!"

I raised her tenderly, and tried to tell her she was right; But somehow, in my aching breast, the prisoned words stuck tight!

"But, John, I can't leave baby "-"What! wife and child!" cried I;

"Must I yield all! Ah, cruel fate! Better that 1 should die.

Think of the long, sad, lonely hours, waiting in gloom

for me;

No wife to cheer me with her love-no babe to climb my knee!

"And yet you are her mother, and the sacred mother

love

Is still the purest, tenderest tie that Heaven ever wove. Take her; but promise, Mary-for that will bring no

shame

My little girl shall bear and learn to lisp her father'

It may be, in the life to come, I'll meet my child and

wife;

But yonder, by my cottage gate, we parted for this life; One long hand-clasp from Mary, and my dream of love was done!

One long embrace from baby and my happiness was gone!

FRANK OLIVE.

MARK TWAIN AND THE INTERVIEWER.

HE nervous, dapper, "pert" young man took the

THEM

chair I offered him, and said he was connected with "The Daily Thunderstorm," and added:

"Hoping it's no harm, I've come to interview you." "Come to what?"

"Interview you."

"Ah! I see. Yes-yes. Um! Yes-yes."

I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my powers seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went to the book-case, and, when I had been looking six or seven minutes, I found I was obliged to refer to the young man. I said:

"How do you spell it ?" "Spell what?"

"Interview."

"Oh! my goodness! What do you want to spell it for?"

"I don't want to spell it; I want to see what it means."

"Well, this is astonishing, I must say. I can tell you what it means, if you—if you—”

"Oh! all right! That will answer, and much obliged to you, too."

"I-n, in, t-e-r, ter, inter-"

"Then you spell it with an I?"

"Why, certainly !"

"Oh! that is what took me so long!"

Why, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell it with ?"

"Well, I—I—I hardly know. I had the unabridged; and I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I might tree her among the pictures. But it's a very old edition."

"Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a picture of it in even the latest e-. My dear sir, I beg your pardon, I mean no harm in the world; but you do not look as-as-intelligent as I expected you would. No harm -I mean no harm at all.”

"Oh! don't mention it! It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter, and who could have no in ducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way. Yes yes; they always speak of it with rapture." "I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is the custom, now, to interview any man who has become notorious."

It must be

"Indeed! I had not heard of it before. very interesting. What do you do it with ?" "Ah, well-well-well-this is disheartening. It ought to be done with a club in some cases; but cus tomarily it consists in the interviewer asking questions, and in the interviewed answering them. It is all the vage now. Will you let me ask you certain questions