I

MY MULE.

OWN a mule. It is the first mule I ever had, and will be the last one. My mind is my mule.

I suppose many other people have mules of the same kind. I notice that in every phrenological picture-chart of the human head the mule has the top place among the hieroglyphics.

A mule, according to the prevalent opinion, does not regulate his movements strictly according to the will of his owner. The mule's business hours do not always correspond to those of his driver, and some inconvenience is often occasioned thereby to both parties. I think Mark Twain slanders the mule, and yet we must allow that the mule is troublesome at times.

Sometimes when I am most anxious that my mule shall go, he deliberately stands still. I try to spur him forward, but he refuses to budge. I have seen men in the pulpit and on the rostrum very much in the plight of the driver of a rebellious mule. They stormed, they hammered, but they could not get under way. I would rather be the gazing-stock on Broadway, hammering and clubbing a stubborn mule, than to stand before an audience in a vain attempt to force my mind into action when it doesn't want to go. I have tried it.

I have tried patting and coaxing, and I have tried jerking and spurring. Now, I make a desperate effort. I summon all my strength; I determine that my mind shall go. It does move as though it would go. It makes a few wild plunges, and away I go on a flight of imagination that I think must give me a fair start. I begin an ambitious sentence. Forward I am carried with a rush. I am going-going. I am not just sure where I am going -I add one word after another, and suddenly—the mule

stops. But down comes whip and spur, and with a bound I am off into another bold, emphatic sentence-yip--yip—

"Now it goes, now it goes,

Now it stands still."

The mule has stopped, and I get off very ungracefully. My mule is troublesome in another way. He gets started, goes like a whirlwind or tempest, and refuses to stop at my bidding.

Bed-time comes. I go to bed. I want to sleep. Whoa! whoa!--but on the mule goes and I can't get off. I shift from side to side. I determinedly resolve to think about nothing. I lie very still, I almost stop breathing, but it does not stop the thinking. I might as well try to stop the circulation of the blood by a mandate of the will. I am astride the mule, and the mule is going on the jump.

I pull back with all my might, but it avails nothing. Through the city, through the country, here and there and everywhere I am carried, in spite of my protesting that I don't want to go, till the mule is exhausted—I was exhausted long ago-and down he tumbles, and I drop into uneasy slumber in the scary dreamland just where the mule stops with me.

Again, mules are often seen, especially in pictures, with their heels at an angle of elevation which intimates that it is best to keep at a respectful distance. In other words, mules sometimes kick. This is the case especially when people take unbecoming liberties with their heels. My mental mule has heels, and it is difficult sometimes to keep them from flying in the faces of people that tempt them.

When some self-conceited creature, with an air of selfimportance that is almost unbearable, solemnly and majestically begs leave to inform you that you are seriously mistaken in some unimportant little opinion which you

have ventured to half express, thus rapping your mule provokingly over the heels, does he not kick instinctively?

I would not blame my mule for letting the heels fly up on such an occasion, if he would then resume his gravity and maintain his just equilibrium until another such provocation should be offered; but he always assumes an offensive attitude, and gets ready to kick whenever the aforesaid individual comes near.

In this, I think, he shows a bad spirit—a characteristic, unforgiving, mule spirit. And yet I would take this occasion to suggest respectfully to some people that they are not required to rap the heels of every mule that they see. There is no evidence of lack of good breeding, nor of want of mental capacity, nor of meager information in not disagreeing with every remark that any one may make in your presence. It is altogether proper not to contradict every assertion which your companion may casually make in conversation with you.

Again, my mule runs away sometimes without knowing just where he is going.

Dick's mule got scared at an old stump at the roadside one day and dashed away into the woods. (N. B.-There were no fences along the road.) It was an unpleasant excursion for Dick-over old logs, in dangerous proximity to huge trees, dodging under branches-until the mule was brought to a stand-still in a dense thicket of brush and briers. Dick was consoled with the thought, however, that it was a mule that did it, and so he calmly took his bearings and proceeded to extricate himself and the mule, and get back to the safe road from which he had been carried.

My mule does in a like manner sometimes. Occasionally I find myself going at a dizzy rate of speed away

from my life's highway-away from the plain road along which I have been traveling peacefully and pleasantly— away from the long-tried and cherished truths that have been the sign-boards of my life's journey-out of the woods of doubt and uncertainty-out and away I know not whither, until I am brought to a halt in a dense thicket through which I cannot go and from which I have to back out. Well, my mule does it, and there is some consolation in that thought, as I hunt the way back to the old road. My mule got scared at something he did not quite understand, and so he struck off on what turned out to be no road at all. That is all.

Thus I have learned to distinguish between myself and my mule, though we always go together.

THEODORE CROWL.

ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER.

WAS the eve before Christmas, "Good-night" had

'T been said,

And Annie and Willie had crept into bed;

There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their

eyes,

And each little bosom was heaving with sighs,

For to-night their stern father's command had been

given

That they should retire precisely at seven

Instead of at eight-for they troubled him more
With questions unheard of than ever before:
He had told them he thought this delusion a sin,
No such a creature as 66 Santa Claus" ever had been.

And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear How he scrambled down chimneys with presents each

year.

And this was the reason that two little heads
So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds.
Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten,
Not a word had been spoken by either till then,
When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep,
And whispered, "Dear Annie, is 'ou fast as'eep?"

Why no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies,
"I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes,
For somehow it makes me so sorry because
Dear papa has said there is no 'Santa Claus.'
Now we know there is, and it can't be denied,
For he came every year before mamma died;
But, then, I've been thinking that she used to pray,
And God would hear everything mamma would say,
And maybe she asked him to send Santa Claus here
With the sack full of presents he brought every year."
"Well, why tan't we p'ay dest as mamma did den,
And ask Dod to send him with p'esents aden ?"
"I've been thinking so too," and without a word more
Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor,
And four little knees the soft carpet pressed,

And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast.
"Now, Willie, you know we must firmly believe
That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive;
You must wait very still till I say the 'Amen.'

And by that you will know that your turn has come

then."

"Dear Jesus, look down on my

brother and me, And grant us the favor we are asking of thee.

I want a wax dolly, a tea-set, and ring,

And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring.