"When I get bald-headed, I'm goin' to give boys money. Mister, have all bald-headed men got money?"

The annoyed man threw down his paper, arose, and exclaimed: "Madam, hereafter when you travel, leave that young gorilla at home. Hitherto, I always thought that the old prophet was very cruel for calling the bears to kill the children for making sport of his head, but now I am forced to believe that he did a Christian act. If your boy had been in the crowd he would have died first. If I can't find another seat on this train, I'll ride on the cow-catcher rather than remain here."

"The bald-headed man is gone," said the boy; and as the woman leaned back a tired sigh escaped from her lips. -Little Rock Gazette.

OUR FOLKS.

"Hie, Harry! Harry, halt,

And tell a soldier just a thing or two;
Had a furlough? been to see

How all the folks in Jersey do.

It's a year ago since I was there,

Aye, with a bullet from Fair Oaks;

But since you've been home, old comrade, dear,
Say, did you see any of our folks?

You did! oh, I am so glad!

For if I do look grim and gruff,

I've got some feeling. People think

A soldier's heart is mighty tough,

But when the bullets fly, and hot saltpetre smokes
And whole battalions lie afield,

One is apt to think about his folks.

And so you saw them--when and where?

The old man, is he lively yet?

And little sis, has she grown tall?

And then you know her friend, that Anna Ross-
Confound it, how this pipe chokes!

Come, Hal, and tell me, like a man,

All the news about our folks;

You saw them at the church, you say?

It's very likely, they are always there on Sunday.

What! no, no! a funeral, why

Harry, how you halt and stare!

And all were well, and all were out?
Come, truly, this can't be a hoax;
Why don't you tell me, like a man,
All the news about our folks?"

"I say all's well, old comrade, dear,
I say all's well, for he knows best,
Who takes his young lambs in his arms,
Ere the sun sinks in the west.

The soldier's strokes deal left and right,
And flowers fall as well as oaks;

And fair Anna blooms no more,

And that's the matter with your folks.
Bear up, old friend."

Well, nobody speaks, only the dull camp raven croaks,
Then soldiers whisper, "Boys, be still,

There's some bad news from Granger's folks."

He turns his back upon his grief,

And vainly sought to hide the tears

Kind nature sends to woe's relief,

Then answering said, "Ah, well! Hal, I'll try,
But in my throat there's something chokes;
Because, you see, I'd thought so long

To count her in among our folks.

All may be well, still I can't help thinking,
I might have kept this trouble off
By being gentle, kind and true;

But may be not! she's safe up there,
And when his hand deals other strokes,
She'll stand at heaven's gates, I know,
And wait, and welcome all our folks."

-Ethel Lynn.

"CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT.”

Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day.
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,-
He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold
and white,

Struggled to keep back the murmur,—.

"Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp, and

cold,

I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die,
At the ringing of the curfew-and no earthly help is nigh;

Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew strangely

white

As she breathed the husky whisper,

"Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton-every word pierced her young

heart

Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly, poisoned dart— Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;

Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour;

I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right,
Now I'm old I still must do it,

Curfew it must ring to-night."

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thought. ful brow,

And within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow.

She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, "At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die."

And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright

In an undertone she murmured,

"Curfew must not ring to-night."

She with quick steps bounded forward, sprung within the old church door,

Left the old man treading slowly paths so oft he'd trod before; Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow, Mounted up the gloomy, tower, where the bell swung to and fro; And she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of light, Up and up-her white lips saying—

"Curfew shall not ring to-night."

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark

bell;

Awful is the gloom beneath her, like a pathway down to hell.
Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled

her brow.

Shall she let it ring? No, never! Flash her eyes with sudden light,

And she springs and grasps it firmly

"Curfew shall not ring to-night."

Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a speck of light below, "Twixt heaven and earth her form suspended, as the bell swung to

and fro,

And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, But he thought it still was ringing fair young Basil's funeral

knell.

Still the maiden clung most firmly, and with trembling lips and white,

Said, to hush her heart's wild beating,

"Curfew shall not ring to-night."

It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once

more

Firmly on the dark old ladder, where for hundred years before Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had

done

Should be told long ages after, as the rays of setting sun

Should illume the sky with beauty; aged sires with heads of white, Long should tell the little children,

Curfew did not ring that night.

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him, and her brow,

Full of hope and full of gladness, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and

torn;

And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and

worn,

Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eye with misty light: "Go, your lover lives," said Cromwell,

"Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATOR AT CAPUA.

Ye call me chief; and ye do well to call him chief who for twelve long years has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him stand forth and say it. If there be three in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come on. And yet I was not always thus-a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage man! My ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled

among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Cyrasella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported; and when, at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal.

One evening, after the sheep had been folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra; and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war was; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, and I clasped the knees of that venerable man, until my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bid me go to rest and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. That very night the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoofs of the war horse; the bleeding body of my father flung amid the burning rafters of our dwelling!

To-day I killed a man in the arena; and, when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold! he was my friend. He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died—the same sweet smile upon his lip that I had marked when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes and bear them home in childish triumph. I told the pretor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and brave; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ah! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding clay! And the pre