Blue and Gray.

Oh, mother! what do they mean by blue, And what do they mean by gray?" Was heard from the lips of a little child As she bounded in from play: The mother's eyes filled up with tears; She turned to her darling fair,

And smoothed away from the sunny brow Its treasures of golden hair.

"Why, mother's eyes are blue, my sweet,
And grandpa's hair is gray,

And the love we bear our darling child
Grows stronger every day."

"But what did they mean," persisted the child; "For I saw two cripples today;

And one of them said he fought for the blue,
The other he fought for the gray.

"Now he of the blue had lost a leg

The other had but one arm,

And both seemed worn and weary and sad,
Yet their greeting was kind and warm.
They told me of battles in days gone by,
Till it made my young heart thrill;
The leg was lost in the Wilderness fight,
The arm on Malvern Hill.

"They sat on the stone by the farmyard gate, And talked for an hour or more;

Till their eyes grew bright and their hearts seemed

warm,

With fighting their battles o'er;

And, pa ting at last with a friendly grasp,

In a kindly, brotherly way,

Each called on God to speed the time
Uniting the blue and the gray."

Then the mother thought of other days-
Two stalwart boys from her riven;

How they knelt at her side and, lisping, prayed "Our Father who art in Heaven;"

How one wore the gray and the other the blue,
How they passed away from sight,
And had gone to the land where blue and gray
Are merged in colors of light.

And she answered her darling with golden hair,
While her heart was sadly wrung.
With the thought awakened in that sad hour
By her innocent, prattling tongue:
"The blue and the gray are the colors of God,
They are seen in the sky at even,

And many a noble, gallant soul
Has found them passports to Heaven."
-Charles W. Morr

A Love Story from Real Life.

They are on the way home after the theater. The drama has satisfactorily settled the fate of the romantic hero and heroine. It was a peculiar sentimental play with all the frills.

Harry-Are you sure your wrap is warm enough? The wind is sharp on the front seat of the trolley car.

Mayme (resetting her back comb and giving him an upward glance out of the corner of her eye)-I'm all right. I think it's lovely out here. Do you know, your

profile looks exactly like the leading man's. Wasn't he fine?"

Harry-Well, maybe he was, but it seems to me he made himself a lot of trouble trying to tell Anita he wanted to marry her. Why, he might just as well have come out flatly with it in the first act instead of throwing on so much "dog." I'll bet she was disgusted with him.

Mayme (with wide-eyed seriousness)— Oh, no! A girl likes to feel that a man is willing to spend time and pains convineing her that he-he loves her. She doesn't like to have him ask her to marry him in the same tone of voice he'd use to ask a clerk for a postage stamp, I can tell you.

Harry-That's the way with women. They don't care whether there is any. thing back of it all, just so a fellow curls his mustache and makes eyes and twaddles poetry. I—

Mayme I never said anything about a mustache, and you know it. If you think your underhand jabs at Charley Davis are going to do you any good, you're mistaken. And it might do you some good, too, if you'd cultivate your mind with standard authors instead of reading the sporting page of the daily papers and letting it go at that. I'm sure I thought the hero's proposal tonight was just beautiful.

Harry-No doubt. It must have seemed real natural to you-after having Charley Davis mooning around as he has been the last few months. Of course, a common, ordinary man who can't talk like a 25cent novel has no attraction for you.

Mayme (with a detached kind of interest)-Oh, I don't know about that-only I confess I do have a weakness for an even temper. I never could stand a cranky disposition.

Harry-Thank you. I suppose you don't take into consideration the fact that you're doing your level best to-to make me mad. I actually get indignant, Mayme, to think that a girl as-as nice as you goes in for that sort of thing.

Mayme (sitting very straight)—What do you mean?

Harry-You know-the Charley Davis game-like the play tonight. I suppose if I scrambled around on my knees and waved my hands at the moon--where is the moon, by the way? There she is, just above the brewery there-you'd listen. If you'll sit sideways and twist your neck around, you can get a full view of fair Luna, and maybe you'll feel better. I'll do my best. Here goes: O most adorable of women, idol of my heart! This tiny hand

Mayme (snatching her hand away)For goodness sake, Harry Curtis, have you gone crazy? I—

A Mortal Love Story of Ancient Days.

When Queen Semiramis reigned in Babylonia there dwelt in the capital city a girl named Thisbe. In all the realm there was none so fair as she; and yet few knew of her great beauty. For her parents kept her carefully at home and seldom was she allowed to go beyond the wall that encircled the garden of her father. But in this garden she spent her time, and here she worked and played and dreamed all through the long spring and summer of her fifteenth year.

The wall about the garden was high and thick-too high for her to see over and too thick for sounds to penetrate from the world outside. But on one side she knew there was another garden, and often she wondered if another lonely maiden wandered there, plucking and pruning her roses, watching the clouds in the blue Babylonian sky, dreaming her dreams. So it was on that side of the garden that she lingered most, where she felt an unseen, unheard but sympathetic companionship. Often Thisbe searched for a place where some chink in the rough masonry would allow her to peep through into the mysterious garden on the other side; but the wall was strongly built and there seemed to be no flaws or holes in it.

But one day as she sat in a shaded corner where a gnarled old olive sent its crooked roots into the very stones, she imagined she heard a sound from the other side. It was more like a sigh than a word, but in the summer-noon stillness of the place it was strangely as if her own name had been whispered in her ear. She turned her head and listened, and the voice was clearer. "Are you Thisbe?" it said. And though the tones thrilled her and half frightened her, she answered "I am Thisbe!"

All through that long summer afternoon she stayed under the olive tree listening to the voice and answering eager questions. The voice belonged to Pyramus, who was the son of her neighbor. He too was forced to spend his days in the garden, and he too had often sought to know his fellow captive on the other side. And so as the days passed by they came to know each other well, this boy and girl, though neither had yet seen the other's face. But at the place where they had met they picked and tore at the wall until at last one day they had opened a little hole and could look into each other's eyes.

Of course they loved each other; what power could have averted such a natural state of things? And as the autumn came, stronger and stronger came the wish to meet face to face without the cruel bar of the intervening wall. They

did not dare to tell their parents of their love, for Thisbe knew that she was being kept for another whom she had never seen. And so they did what boys and girls have always done and will always do, in spite of walls of stone or walls of stern parental rule—they arranged a secret meeting.

Beyond the city gates there was a wellknown place called the Tomb of Ninus. Few ever visited it by night, for it was at the edge of a lonely wood, but all knew where it was, since it was a famous mausoleum. Near the tomb was a cool spring and over the spring leaned a white mulberry tree. Under this tree the lovers were to meet as soon as night had fallen. And they pressed their lips to the wall in farewell, promising that the next kiss should be a sweet reality.

It was scarcely dark when Thisbe stole from the house that night. She was wrapped in a heavy veil that none might know her, and fear and love combined to quicken her feet as she hurried through the city gates, across the open fields and toward the trysting place. The moon looked from behind the clouds as Thisbe reached the tomb and shone on the rustling leaves of the white mulberry tree. When she came to the spring Pyramus was not yet there, so she drew her veil closer about her and shrank back into the shadow. And scarcely had she seated herself when a lioness came to the spring to drink!

When the frightened girl caught sight of the great beast she arose in terror and fled into the forest. Her heavy veil impeded her steps and she cast it aside. Then she ran on until at last she found a hollow rock, into which she climbed and lay trembling. But she might have saved her haste, for the lioness did not pursue. The animal had just slain some ox or sheep and her jaws were dripping from the slaughter. When she had slaked her thirst she walked slowly into the forest. Thisbe's veil lay across the path. The lioness paused in idle curiosity, sniffed it and pulled it about as a playful kitten might, tossed it aside and went her way.

In the meantime Pyramus had reached the fountain. He called Thisbe's name, but she was too far away to hear his cautious tones. Then his eyes caught the great footsteps in the trodden sand and the color left his cheeks. He turned and traced the lion's tracks until he finally came upon Thisbe's veil. He stooped and picked it up-it was torn and on it were great stains of blood!

Then it seemed to Pyramus that all was over. He told himself that he had led Thisbe to her doom-he had told her to come to this place, where she had been slain by wild beasts. His grief was more than he could bear, and in a wild burst of

anguish he drew his sword from its sheath and plunged it into his breast. "Let my guilty blood mingle with the pure torrent of thy life, O Thisbe!" he cried as he held her veil against his wound and sunk to the ground. And as he lay there gasping out his life Thisbe stole forth from her hiding place and found her lover.

On her knees by his well-nigh lifeless form she called his name, and before he died he opened his eyes and saw her face to face. It was the first time they had ever met so! He smiled into her eyes and closed his own forever, and she reached out her hand and clasped his sword. And so they found them when the morning dawned-dead in each other's arms who had never embraced in life. And so they kept their tryst!

But the berries on the mulberry tree were no longer white. They were stained with the blood of Pyramus and Thisbe; since that night they have always kept that crimson hue.

Why is it that the world's greatest love stories are those that end in death? The names of Pyramus and Thisbe must ever call to mind those other ill-starred lovers whom all the world loves best-Romeo and Juliet, Othello and Desdemona, Abelard and Heloise, Tristan and Isoldetheir name is legion! Modern novels and plays must "end right" to be successful, but in real life these things do not always end right. "And they lived happily ever after" is a pleasant ending, but not always true. "And they died for their

love" is what makes these old stories immortal.-Edwin Meade Robinson,

A Serious Joke.

During the Civil War several northern soldiers were talking together one day just before the advance on Corinth. A tall, raw recruit stepped up to them with a bundle of soiled clothes in his hand.

"Do you know where I could get this washing done?" he asked.

Two of the group were practical jokers. A bright thought flashed into their heads. "Oh, yes; we know!" they said. "Just go up there with your bundle," pointing to the headquarters of General Grant, "you will see a short, stout man "-describing the general-"who does washing. Take your bundle to him."

The recruit walked off in the direction indicated. He gained entrance to headquarters and stood in the general's pres

ence.

"What can I do for you?" asked General Grant.

"I was directed here by a couple of soldiers. They told me that you did washing, and I have a bundle here."

General Grant probably enjoyed the

A bachelor is not usually credited with a knowledge about the proper treatment of children, but sometimes they step in where angels fear to tread. A confirmed specimen, who is pretty well on in years and not very fond of children, went to see a married sister the other day, and found her trying to amuse her little boy, aged five years.

Not long after he arrived she stepped out of the room to attend to some household duty or other, leaving him alone with the child. The latter eyed him dubiously for some minutes. He was a spoiled child if ever there was one, and had no idea of making promiscuous acquaintances. The bachelor tried to make the little one laugh, but all he got for his antics was a sour look.