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Every night when I kiss her,

Tryin' hard not to cry,

She says in a way that kills me-
'Be better in mornin'-bye!'

"She can't get through the night, parson,
So I want ye to come an' pray,
And talk with mother a little-
You'll know jest what to say;
Not that the baby needs it,

Not that we make any complaint
That God seems to think He's needin'
The smile uy the little saint."

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I walked along with the Corporal
To the door of his humble home,
To which the silent messenger

Before me had also come;

And if he had been a titled prince,

I would not have been honored more Than I was with his heartfelt welcome To his lowly cottage door.

Night falls again in the cottage;
They move in silence and dread
Around the room where the baby
Lies panting upon her bed.
"Does baby know papa, darling?"
As she moves her little face

With answer that shows she knows him;
But scarce a visible trace

Of her wonderful infantile beauty

Remains as it was before

The unseen, silent messenger

Had waited at their door.

"Papa-kiss-baby! I's-so-tired!"
The man bows low his face,
And two swollen hands are lifted
In baby's last embrace.

And into her father's grizzled beard
The little red fingers cling,
While her husky, whispered tenderness
Tears from a rock would wring.
"Baby-is-80-sick-papa

But-don't-want-you-to-cry;' The little hands fall on the coverlet"Be-better-in-mornin'-bye!"

And night around the baby is falling,
Settling down dark and dense;
Does God need their darling in Heaven
That He must carry her hence?
I prayed, with tears in my voice,
As the Corporal solemnly knelt,
With grief such as never before
His great warm heart had felt.

O frivolous men and women!

Do you know that round you and nigh, Alike from the humble and haughty,

Goeth up evermore the cry:

"My child, my precious, my darling!

How can I let you die?"

Oh! hear ye the white lips whisper : "Be-better-in-mornin'-bye!"

REV. LEANDER S. COAN.

THE FIRE-BELL'S STORY.

ONG-Dong-the bells rang out

DONG

Over the housetops; and then a shout
Of" Fire!" came echoing up the street,
With the sound of eager, hurrying feet.
Dong-Dong-the sonorous peal

Came mingled with clatter of engine wheel
And whistle shrill, and horse's hoof:
And lo! from the summit of yonder roof
A flame bursts forth, with a sudden glare.
Dong-Dong-on the midnight air

The sound goes ringing out over the town;
And hundreds already are hurrying down,
Through the narrow streets, with breathless speed,
Following whither the engines lead.
Dong-Dong-and from windows high

Startled ones peer at the ruddy sky,

And still the warning loud doth swell

From the brazen throat of the iron-tongued bell,
Sending a shudder, and sending a start
To many a home, and many a heart.
Up in yon tenement, where the glare
Shines dimly forth on the starlit air

Through dingy windows; where flame and smoke
Already begin to singe and choke,
See the affrighted ones look out
In helpless terror, in horrible doubt,
Begging for succor. Now behold

The ladders, by arms so strong and bold,

Are reared; like squirrels the brave men climb
To the topmost story. Indeed, 'twere time-
"They all are saved!" said a voice below,
And a shout of triumph went up. But no-

a Not all-ah! no!"-'twas a mother's shriek; The cry of a woman, agonized, weak,

Yet nerved to strength by her deep woe's power:
"Great God, my child !"—even strong men cower
'Neath such a cry. "Oh, save my child!"
She screamed in accents, sorrowful, wild.
Up the ladders, a dozen men

Rushed in generous rivalry then,
Bravely facing a terrible fate.
Breathless the crowd below await.
See! There's one who has gained the sill
Of yonder window. Now, with a will,
He bursts the sash with his sturdy blow;
And it rattles down on the pave below.
Now, he has disappeared from sight-
Faces below are ashen and white,
In that terrible moment. Then a cry
Of joy goes up to the flame-lit sky-
Goes up to welcome him back to life.
God help him now in his terrible strife.
Once more he mounts the giddy sill,
Cool and steady and fearless still;
Once more he grasps the ladder-see!
What is it he holds so tenderly?
Thousands of tearful, up-turned eyes
Are watching him now; and with eager cries
And sobs and cheerings, the air is rent
As he slowly retraces the long descent,
And the child is saved!

Ah! ye who mourn
For chivalry dead, in the days long gone,
And prate of the valor of olden time,
Remember this deed of love sublime,

And know that knightly deeds, and bold,
Are as plentiful now as in days of old.

GEORGE L. CATLIN.

PHILOSOPHY OF LAUGHTER.

THE

THE doctors say 'tis good for health,
To laugh and ha, ha, ha;

So casting nauseous drugs away,
We'll take a ha, ha, ha.
The panacea's found at last,

A hearty ha, ha, ha;

A universal remedy,

And gratis, too, ha, ha.

Dyspepsia's cure, then sing aloud,

The triumphs of ha ha!

The "Blues" will march off" double quick

At tune of ha, ha, ha.

But oh! if cheerfulness prevail,

And all shall ha, ha, ha;
Physicians' bills will be so short,
That they won't ha, ha, ha!

But no, the M.D.'s need not fear
This general ha, ha, ha;
There's many sad, mistaken folks,

Who never will ha, ha.

First, there's morose and gloomy ones,

They will not ha, ha, ha;

"Tis "awful wicked," such a "sin"

They say, to ha, ha, ha.

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