things-they are the biggest part-ugh--they make me sick."

"Mein poy, you trinks dem fast to-day! Looks, Pillya man he trinks all dese pad dings mix up in vater, ant call peer. Ach! he gets redt in hees faces-he gets pig in hees poddy-he gets shaky in hees hands, he gets clumsy on hees toes, he gets veak in hees eyes, he gets pad in hees breat, he gets mean in hees manners. Vy? Pilly, you sees vy. All dese dings on mein dable ees vy!”

Happy Billy! Few boys get so good a temperance lecture, such home thrusts, such practical experiments as fall to your lot. Billy was satisfied on the beer question.

“He ees all goot now," said Zende. “I hafs no more droubles mit mein Pilly.”

- A Strange Sea Story.

THE SPELLING BEE AT ANGELS.-BRET HARTE.

REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES.

Waltz in, waltz in, ye little kids, and gather round my knee, And drop them books and first pot-hooks, and hear a yarn

from me. I kin not sling a fairy tale of Jinny's* fierce and wild, For I hold it is unchristian to deceive a simple child ; But as tiom school yer driftin' by I thowt ye'd like to hear Of a “Spellin' Bee" at Angels that we organized last year. It warn't made up of gentle kids--of pretty kids-- like you, But gents ez hed their reg'lar growth, and some enough for

two. There woz Lanky Jim of Sutter's Fork and Bilson of La

grange, And“ Pistol Bob,” who wore that day a knife by way of

change. You start, you little kids, you think these are not pretty

names, But each had a man behind it, and—my name is Truthful

James. Thar was Poker Dick from Whisky Flat and Smith of Shoot. Three-Fingered Jack-yes, pretty dears—three fingers -you

have five, Clapp cut off two--it's sing’lar, too, that Clapp ain't now

alive. "Twas very wrong, indeed, my dears, and Clapp was much to

blame; Likewise was Jack, in after years, for shootin' of that same. The nights was kinder lengthenin' out, the raius had jest

begun, When all the camp came up to Pete's to have their usual

fun; But we all sot kinder sad-like around the bar-room stove, Till Smith got up, permiskiss-like, and this remark he hove: "Thar's a new game down in Frisco, that ez far ez I kin see, Beats euchre, poker and van-toon, they calls the 'Spellin'

Bee.'" Then Brown of Calaveras simply hitched his chair and

spake: " Poker is good enough for me," and Lanky Jim sez "Shake!" And Bob allowed he warn’t proud, but he “must say right

thar That the man who tackled euchre hed his education sqar." This brought up Lenny Fairchild, the school-master, who

said, He knew the game and he would give instructions on that

head. “For instance, take some simple word," sez he, “like 'sepa

rat Now who can spell it ?" Dog my skin, ef there was one in

eight. This set the boys all wild at once. The chairs was put in row, And at the head was Lanky Jim, and at the foot was Joe, And high upon the bar itself the school-muster was raised, And the bar-keep put his glasses down, and sat and silent

gazed. The first word out was “parallel," and seven let it be, Till Joe waltzed in his double “1” betwixt the "a" and "e"; For, since he drilled them Mexicans in San Jacinto's fight, There warn't no prouder man got up than Pistol Joe tha!

nightTill " rhythm" came! He tried to smile, then said, “ they

had him there," And Lanky Jim, with one long stride, got up and took his

chair. O little kids! my pretty kids, 'twas touchin'to survey These bearded men, with weppings on, like school-boys at

their play.

They'd laugh with glee, and shout to see each other lead the

van, And Bob sat up as monitor with a cue for a rattan, Till the chair gave out “incinerate," and Brown said he'd

be durned If any such blamed word as that in school was ever learned. When “phthisis” came they all sprang up, and vowed the

man who rung Another blamed Greek word on them be taken out and hung. As they sat down again I saw in Bilson's eye a flash, And Brown of Calaveras was a-twistin' his mustache, And when at last Brown slipped on “gneiss” and Bilson

took his chair, He dropped some casual words about some folks who dyed

their hair. And then the Chair grew very white, and the Chair said

he'd adjourn, But Poker Dick remarked that he would wait and get his

turn; Then with a tremblin' voice and hand, and with a wanderin'

eye, The Chair next offered "eider-duck,” and Dick began with “I," And Bilson smiled-then Bilson shrieked! Just how the

fight begun I never knowed, for Bilson dropped and Dick he moved

up one. Then certain gents arose and said “they'd business down in

camp, And "ez the road was rather dark, and ez the night was damp, They'd -” here got up Three-fingered Jack and locked

the door and yelled : 'No, not one mother's son goes out till that thar word is

spelled!" But while the words were on his lips, he groaned and sank

in pain, And sank with Webster on his chest and Worcester on his

brain. Below the bar dodged Poker Dick, and tried to look ez he Was huntin' up authorities ihet no one else could see; And Brown got down behind the stove, allowin' he

cold," Till it upsot and down his legs the cinders freely rolled, And several gents called “ Order!” till in his simple way Poor Smith began with “O” “R”—“or”—and he was dragged

away. () little kids, my pretty kids, down on your knees and pray! You've got your eddication in a peaceful sort of way;

was

care

their way

And bear in mind thar may be sharps ez slings their spellin'

square, But likewise slings their bowie-knives without a thought or You wants to know the rest, my dears? Thet 's all! In me

you see The only gent that lived to tell about thet Spellin' Bee!" He ceased and passed, that truthful man; the children went With downcast heads and downcast hearts—but not to sport

or play, For when at eve the lamps were lit, and supperless to bed, Each child was sent, with tasks undone and lessons all un

said, No man might know the awful woe that thrilled their

youthful frames, As they dreamed of Angels' Spelling Bee and thought of Truthful James.

--Scribner's Monthly.

WARDEN, KEEP A PLACE FOR ME.

PELEG ARKWRIGJIT.

AN INCIDENT OF PRISON LIFE IN THE KINGS COUNTY PENITEN

TIARY.

Discharged again! Yes, I am free,
But, warden, keep a place for me!
For freedom means that I must go
Out in the wind and rain and snow,
To fight with hunger, shame and cold-
A woman gray and worn and old;
To clothe myself in rags again,
And seek some wretched, narrow den.
And after that what must be done?
Steal? Beg? Hard lines for any one.
To work is easier. I would try,
But there's no work for such as I.
A fine thing, truly, to be free-
But, warden, keep a place for me!
For I'll come back. It's seven years
Since first I entered here in tears.

Drunk and disorderly" I came,
And felt the burden and the shame,
The prison taint, the outlaw's dread
When first behind his hopeless tread

The gates clang to with dreadful sound,
And the dark prison walls close round.
But when I went away, I said:
"If I can earn my daily bread,
I'll work my fingers off before
I'll wear a convict's dress once more.”
'Twas easy said I meant it too-
Work? Is there work enough to do
For those who spend their weary lives
Like toiling bees in busy hives,
And starve at last? When willing hands
That never broke the law's commands
Are idle by the thousands, how
Can jail-birds keep a virtuous vow?
No work, but all the same I found
The time for meals would come around;
No work, but time enough to think,
And that's the easy road to drink.
Who cared, who cares, that I was then
“ Drunk and disorderly” again?
Who cares that ever with the best
I was a woman like the rest ?
Who cares that one day in my life
I was a happy, joyous wife?
None care, and I care less than they,
And curse the man and curse the day.
How did I know that he would be
A drunken scoundrel, dragging me
Down in the mire ? Alas, the life
He led me! Oh, the bitter strife
'Twixt love and hate! He went away
And left me with my little May-
My little child! My little pearl !
My pretty brown-eyed baby-girl !
Bah-that was only childhood's grace!
She grew up with her father's face,
Her father's selfish, wicked heart;
Grew up to take an evil part;
Grew up to soil her mother's name,
And cover it with double shame.

But I've a little baby dress-
The one soft vein of tenderness
That's run through all these hateful years—
I've wet it many a time with tears,
And many a time at dead of night
I've clasped it to my bosom tight.