And I whispered: "Don't worry, rather whistle and sing,
You poor little innocent vagabond thing.

Very soon now the storm will have passed from the sky,
Very soon, too, the sun will be shining on high,
And you shall go home in the morning.'

A broken-down man then was walking the street;
As I passed him I stayed for a moment my feet.
Cried the man: It is hard! So many have health
And beauty and youth and pleasure and wealth,
Whilst we are unnoticed by God or by man,
Accursed and degraded, and under the ban!"
My brother," said I, "I am seeking, like you,
For a something to eat, for a something to do;
Let us keep on our way, let us keep it together,
Through the cold and the mire and the pitiless weather,
Hoping still for the best; soon the night will be gone,
And after the night always cometh the dawn,

And we can go home in the morning."

We paused as we passed an old rickety shed;
We glanced well within-then we glanced overhead;
The sky with the darkness was all overcast,
The snowflakes whirled down and clung to us fast;
How I fondled my bird - it had no one to love it.
Said the man : This is bad grows worse and more of it;
But we entered the shed, and out under the lamp
Slowly drifted anigh us the form of a tramp.
To be out in the storm-blast! Ah, me! 't was a sin!
So I stepped from the shelter, invited her in,
And took the poor babe, without wasting of words,
And then, you'll perceive, I had two little birds!
And we all stood there hungry, haggard, and wan,
Awaiting in silence the coming of dawn,

So we could go home in the morning.

An hour ere dawn, being cold and a-shiver,
We moved all together a-down to the river.
Thus passing, the poor little bird from the west
Trilled a poor little song. It was doing its best
To help us along, and it tried hard to sing;
But being a famished and pitiful thing,

It skipped now and then a few bars, and a note
Died out now and then in its weak little throat.
The babe on my arm lay and listened awhile,
Then looked in my face with a wondering smile,
As out through my vest, that was ragged and torn,
Peeped the poor little bird, who thought it was morn,
And twittered, and looked at the child and its mother;
And the child and the bird grieved the one for the other,

And thought it was strange in a city of priests
Two such innocent things should be out on the streets.
Well, we passed on our way - a vagabond crew,
Yet I think in our hearts every one of us knew
That we should go home in the morning.

We came to the ferry-house, stately and tall,
And crowded for warmth in the shade of the wall.
Then I saw, 'mid the dirt and the filth at my feet,
A crust of nice bread lying out on the street;
I grasped it and gave to the woman; she smiled.
And said, "It don't matter now, me and the child,
We are going home in the morning."

It was very near daybreak, I noticed at last

A streak like the dawn afar off in the east.
Then we moved all together-they loosened the bar
We passed through the gates that were standing ajar;
Moved down the incline where, toward us afloat,
From over the river was drifting the boat.
We had nothing to pay -no passage
For the houseless and homeless there's nobody cares;
With the bird and the child and the vagabond crew
I sailed from the shore, and I very well knew
Where we all should rejoice in the morning.

no fares

WAYNE Douglas

DEAD IN HIS BED.

ONLY a man dead in his bed - that is all!
Stark, stiff, and rigid - white face to the wall.

Come out of yesterday somewhere, to here —
Well, no don't think he had friends anywheres near.

Wanted employment
No work to give him

that's what he said;
next thing, he's dead.

Can any one tell?

What did he die of, sir?
A fit, did they think it was?

Last night he was well.

What was his name?

Heart-disease? May be.
Don't know; did n't register, sir, when he came.

Laud'num, they say it was, there on the stand
No, stranger; don't reckon he held a fair hand.

Suicide? Yes, that's what the coroner said
Scooped out, was what put the thing into his head

Money? Guess not, sir. Why, he had n't enough
To pay for this hole in the sod, of the stuff.

Friends, did you ask? Oh, yes! Sometime or other -
Reckon, of course, the boy once had a mother.

Rather rough on him, pard; but where's it to end,

When you're panned out of cash and can't count on a friend?

Down to the calaboose that's where they took him;
Good enough place, when a man's money 's forsook him!

Funeral? Just you see that express at the coroner's!
County can't pay for no hearse, nor no mourners.

Well, stranger, you've got me! Can pray
Can pray if you will
Rather late in the day, when a man's dead and still.

Strikes me, it don't count, to this, under my spade;
And as for the rest of him- stranger, that's played.

No offence, sir; beg pardon, but strikes me as fair,
And a pretty sure way to get answer to prayer,

Better give a poor devil a lift while he's here,
Than wait till he's passed in his checks over there!

A. L. BALLOU.

GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY?

SHE stood at the bar of justice,
A creature wan and wild,
In form too small for a woman,

In feature too old for a child.

For a look so worn and pathetic

Was stamped on her pale young face,

It seemed long years of suffering

Must have left that silent trace.

Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her
With kindly look, yet keen,

"Is-?" "Mary McGuire, if you please, sir.”
"And your age?" "I am turned fifteen."

"Well, Mary

"" And then from a paper

He slowly and gravely read,

"You are charged here- I am sorry to say it
With stealing three loaves of bread.

"You look not like an offender,

And I hope that you can show
The charge to be false. Now, tell me,
Are you guilty of this, or no?”
A passionate burst of weeping
Was at first her sole reply;
But she dried her tears in a moment,
And looked in the judge's eye.

"I will tell you just how it was, sir;
My father and mother are dead,
And my little brothers and sisters
Were hungry, and asked me for bread.
At first I earned it for them

By working hard all day,

But somehow the times were hard, sir,
And the work all fell away.

"I could get no more employment;
The weather was bitter cold;
The young ones cried and shivered
(Little Johnnie's but four years old).
So what was I to do, sir?

I am guilty, but do not condemn ;
oh, was it stealing?

I took

The bread to give to them.'

Every man in the court-room

Graybeard and thoughtless youth — Knew, as he looked upon her,

That the prisoner spake the truth. Out from their pockets came kerchiefs, Out from their eyes sprung tears, And out from old faded wallets Treasures hoarded for years.

The judge's face was a study,
The strangest you ever saw,

As he cleared his throat and murmured

Something about the law.

For one so learned in such matters,

So wise in dealing with men,

He seemed on a simple question
Sorely puzzled just then.

But no one blamed him, or wondered, When at last these words they heard, "The sentence of this young prisoner

Is for the present deferred."
And no one blamed him, or wondered,
When he went to her and smiled,
And tenderly led from the court-room,
Himself, the "guilty" child.

SCANDAL-MONGERS.

Do you hear the scandal-mongers
Passing by,

Breathing poison in a whisper,
In a sigh?

Moving cautiously and slow,
Smiling sweetly as they go,

Never noisy-gliding smoothly as a snake,
Supping here and sliding there

Through the meadows fresh and fair,
Leaving subtle slime and poison in their wake.

Saw you not the scandal-monger

As she sat

Beaming brightly 'neath the roses
On her hat?

In her dainty gloves and dress
Angel-like, and nothing less,

Seemed she-casting smiles and pleasing words about.
Once she shrugged and shook her head,

Raised her eyes and nothing said,

When you spoke of friends, and yet it left a doubt.

Did you watch the scandal-monger

At the ball?

Through the music, rhythm, beauty,
Light, and all,

Moving here and moving there,
With a whisper light as air,

Casting shadows on a sister woman's fame

Just a whispered word or glance

As she floated through the dance,
And a doubt forever hangs upon a name.

You will find the scandal-mongers
Everywhere;

Sometimes men, but often women,
Young and fair;

Yet their tongues drip foulest slime,

And they spend their leisure time

Casting mud on those who climb by work and worth!

Shun them, shun them as you go

Shun them, whether high or low

They are but the cursed serpents of the earth.