"But here's your 'Old man of the Sea,' and 'Jack the Giant !'" (Lovingly

I tried the little maid to soothe.) "The interestin' one,” says she, "Is that high up one! Seems to me the fings you want just

has to be

Somefing you hasn't got; and that's the interestin' one!" says she.

B

A GHOST STORY.

MARK TWAIN.

EFORE attempting to recite this blood-curdling story, I would like to say, if there are any present who are at all afraid of ghosts, goblins, or any of those weird, uncanny creatures that inhabit the graveyards, a few minutes will now be given for any such to retire from the room.

Once upon a time, there lived a man and his wife all alone, in a little hut far away from any human being. The bears, and the wolves, and the owls, and the rabbits, and other wild and furious beasts seldom disturbed the tranquillity of their home.

They were very poor; notwithstanding their poverty the wife was possessed of a treasure which she would not part from for anything in the world; this valuable piece of property was nothing more or less than a golden arm, from the joint where it wobbled in the shoulder-blade to the tips of the fingers. Unfortunately, the wife was taken ill, and, not having any doctors to prolong her agonies, she passed quietly away. However, she was sorry to leave her husband who would be more lonely than ever. There being no neighbors nearer than several hundred miles, the unfortunate and bereaved man had to act as undertaker, pall-bearer, hearse, chief mourner, spectator, and grave-digger. The place where he buried her was a very lonely spot, at a considerable distance from the hut where they had lived together so many years.

After performing the last sad rites, the chief mourner wended his sorrowful way homeward. While grieving over his great loss, he could not refrain from thinking of the golden arm; the more he thought of it, the more determined he was to get it.

The day of the funeral was very stormy. It was night before he finally determined to go after the arm. The wind was howling through the trees. [Whistle and moan.] Bracing up his courage, pulling on his overcoat, and taking his hat from a peg in the wall, he lit his lantern, shouldered his shovel, and started to procure the treasure. He reached the grave, and, after a great deal of trouble, the body was dug up and the golden arm secured. By this time the wind was whistling and howling through the trees. [Here whistle and moan.] Now that he had the arm, his fears began to rise and he was anxious to get home. He started for the house, when, all of a sudden, whiff! and out went the light. Hark! What is that sound he hears in the sobbing and the moaning of the wind! [Whistle and moan, introducing the words following.]

"Who stole my golden arm?" The sound increased his alarm; and, to increase his speed, he threw away the lantern and shovel, in order to get away from the voice; but all to no purpose. The voice still seemed to follow him and to be getting closer and closer. [Whistle and moan.] "Who stole my golden arm?" Dashing the golden arm away, he tried, if possible, to increase his speed, but the voice still seemed to follow him. [Whistle and moan.] "Who stole my golden arm?" Exhausted and out of breath, he reached his hut, where he rushed in, and up-stairs; jumped into bed, and, covering up his head, lay shivering with fear.

Hark! he hears the front door open and shut with a bang! There is a sound of some one talking down-stairs! "Who stole my golden arm?" What is that he hears coming-pat-pat-up the stairs? It comes into the room! "Who stole my golden arm?" He feels the ghost bend over him! "Who stole my golden arm?" [Here give a sudden exclamation; a scream, short, sharp, and terrified.]

TH

THE BRAHMIN'S SON.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

`HE Brahmin's son was dead; the Brahmin's heart Stricken, as if a thunderbolt had fallen

Out of a clear sky, emptied of all light,

And suddenly black with r.idnight.

When he lay as dead

They took the body from his lifeless arms,
And bore it softly to the burial-place.

Haunted by memories he could not escape,

And grief that would not heal, the Brahmin sighed:

"I am not, cannot be, like other men;

For having their dead, as I have, they forget,
While I remember; and, not being wise
No more than I am, they contrive to find
(They say so) wisdom, which I cannot find.
I will seek Yama, therefore, King of Death,
And pray him to give back my dear dead son."
The Brahmin straightway rose and clothed himself
In the long vestments of his priestly caste,
And, having performed the ceremonial rite
And offered up the sacrificial flowers,
Went forth alone to seek the King of Death.
At length he reached the harmless hermitage
Where dwelt the oldest Brahmins-holy men.
Awed by the stern composure of their looks
The Brahmin stopped, like one who in a dream
Fears to go on, but feels he must go on.
Then, bowing lowly to these holy men,

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He said: "O Brahmins, Fathers of the caste,
Hear, and, hearing, help a most unhappy man,
Who, worn with fruitless wanderings to and fro
In search of Yama, rajah of the dead,

Beseeches ye to tell him where he is:

Direct him, Fathers, to the King of Death."
"What man art thou? And wherefore seekest thou
Yama, who comes unsought to every man?"
Few words sufficed to tell them what he was,
A Brahmin (as they saw), but one to whom
The wisdom of his caste had not been given.

He had, he said, one child,

A son, who was the comfort of his age.
Him did he dedicate to holiness.
"But he was taken from me in his bloom,
Taken without warning, leaving me alone!
Wherefore, I pray ye, Fathers, holy men,
Tell me where I may find the King of Death,
That I may pray him to give back my son."
They answered him together, with one voice:
"Thou canst not visit Yama's dread abode,
But if thy faith be sure, thy courage high,
Thou may'st do one thing. Many leagues from
Here, there is a valley, wherein dwells no man,
But the gods only, when their pleasure is
To clothe themselves in shape and live on earth.
There, on the eighth day of the month,
Comes Yama, from the dark realms of the dead,
To share the bright life of his brother-gods.
Go there, and there find Yama. Now depart.”
Through sunlight, moonlight, starlight, the Brahmin
Went hundreds of leagues toward the setting sun.
At last he reached the end of the world, and saw
The valley whereof the fathers had foretold,
Immeasurable, and in the midst of it

The great and glorious city of the gods.
Tier after tier in mountain terraces

It rose, resplendent

Towers, temples, palaces-and over all
The great gate of the palace of the gods.

Beside the fiery pillars of this gate,

With folded wings, two watchful spirits stood,
Guarding the entrance lest some evil thing
Should, unperceived, steal within the gate;
And when these spirits saw the Brahmin
Coming, they knew his life had been acceptable
To the high gods; and, though he was the first
Who, without dying, ever came that way,
They stayed him not, such fearlessness of death
Was in his eye, such certainty of life.

So paused the Brahmin, till the golden gate
Admitted him beyond.

A sense of awfulness
Fell on the Brahmin's soul and closed his lips.
From out the silence of that dreadful place
Came, or seemed to come, a low, mysterious voice:

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Thy prayers are answered. Thy son is in the
Garden of the East. Go to him; I permit it."
And he went, following, he knew not how, that
Heavenly voice. The unhappy Brahmin wandered
Up and down, saw nothing but his poor forsaken
Home beside the Ganges, and the mound of earth
That covered his dead boy-until at last

The film passed him, and he saw the boy.
Trembling, with outstretched hands, and a cry,
He ran to him, and clasped him in his arms.

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"O my sweet boy! O my beloved first-born! Hast thou forgot me? me, thy father? me, Whose loving heart was broken at thy death?” "I know thee not," the soul of his dead child Replied, escaping from his arms like mist. "My son! My son! hast thou indeed forgot Thy father, who loved thee more than his own life? Oh, look at me! Oh, come to me again!" Still The child came not, but said: "I know thee not; Depart, unhappy one! Get thee hence."