Speaker Series, Number 24.

BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST. NEW YORK,
‘The Detroit News Oe; Detrat, Mionigaa

 

 

 

 
  

   

  

a
Popular Dime Hand-Boo
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK.
Hich volume 100 12m0 pages, sent post-paid on receipt of price—ten cents

GAME AND PASTIME SERIES.

DIME BASE-BALL PLAYER FOR 1881—Containing the revised Cod?
Playing Rules applicable to the professional, amateur and college clu!
the country for 1881, together with a Review of the Season’s Work
professional, bay and amateur arenas, with the Batting and Pitchiné 4
erages aud the College Club Statistics; also the League Club Records for

CRICKET AND FOOT-BALL—A desirable Companion, containing com!
instructions in the elements of Bowling, Batting and Fielding; also thé
vised Laws of the Game; Remarks on the Duties of Umpires; the Marylee?)
Cricket Club Rules and Regulations; Bets, ete. =

DIME BOOK OF CROQUET--A complete guide to the game, with the
rules, diagrams, Croquet Dictionary, Parlor Croquet, ete.

DIME GUIDE TO SWIMMING—Embracing all the rules of the art for”
sexes.

YACHTING AND ROWING —This volume will be found very complete. *
guide to the conduct of watercraft, and full of interesting information lilt
the amateur and the novice.

RIDING AND DRIVING—A sure guide to correct. Horsemanship, with a
plete directions for the road and field; and a specific section of direction®
information for female equestrians. a

BOOK OF 100 GAMES—Out-door and In-door SUMMER GAMES, for Tol)
and Families in the Country, Picnics, ete., comprising 100 Games, Forfeit®

DIME CHESS INSTRUGTOR—A complete hand-book of instruction, #4
the entertaining mysteries of this most interesting and fascinating of a

HAND-BOOK OF PEDESTRIANISM—Giving the Rules for Training and’
tice in Walking, Running, Leaping, Vaulting, etc. A

HANDBOOK, OF SUMMER SPORTS—Comprising Walking, Running, JY
ing, Hare and Hounds, Bicycling, Archery, etc. With Complete Amé@
and English Athletic Rules. i

HANDBOOK OF WINTER SPORTS, Embracing Skating, (on the ice a”
roilers,) Rink-Ball, Curling, Iee-Boating and Football.

YOUNG PEOPLE’S SERIES.

1—DIME GENTS’ LETTER-WRITER—Embracing Forms, Models, Sugg?”
and Rules for the use of all classes, on all occasions. if?
2—DIME BOOK OF ETIQUETTE—For Ladies and Gentlemen: being a GU
True Gentility and Good-Breeding, and a Directory to the Usages of socie
3—DIME BOOK OF VERSES—Comprising Verses for Valentines, Mottoes,
lets, St. Valentine Verses, Bridal and Marriage Verses, Verses of Love. “#
4—DIME BOOK OF DREAMS—Their Romance and Mystery: with a con!
interpreting Dictionary. Compiled from the most accredited sources. | «
5— DIME FORTUNE-TELLER—Comprising the art of Fortune-Telling, B®
read Character, etc. 4
6—DIME LADIES’ LETTER-WRITER-—Giving the various forms of Let®
School Days, Love and Friendship, of Society, ete. of
DIME LOVERS’ CASKET—A Treatise and Guide to Friendship, Love, ©
ship and Marriage. CaS a complete Floral Dictionary, ete. P
8—DIME BALL-ROOM COMPANION—And Guide to Dancing. Givin€
of Etiquette, hints on Private Parties, toilettes for the Ball-room, etc. A
12—-DIME BOOK OF BEAUTY-—A delightful book, full of interesting inf)
tion, It deserves a place in the hands of every one who would be beaul#

FAMILY SERIES.

 

oat

 

1. DIME COOK BOOK. 4. DIME FAMILY PHYSICIAN. y

2. DIME RECIPE BOOK. 5. DIME DRESSMAKING AND

3. DIME HOUSEWIFE’S MANUAL. LINERY. 2
e The above books are sold by Newsuealers everywhere, or will b@ é
: th. BEADLE & AD®

post-paid, to any address, on receipt of prign: 40 cents eae!
ublishers, 98 William street, New York.

  
DIME BOOK

OF

RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

A VERY CHOICE COLLECTION OF THE

MOST “TAKING” THINGS

FOR THE

STAGE, PLATFORM AND SCHOOL.

HUMOROUS, VERNACULAR, PATHETIC,
ELOQUENT AND FORENSIC,

E NEW YORK:
. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
a 98 WILLIAM STREET.

 
   
   

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1882, by
BEADLE-AND ADAMS,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,

On D,vH a PrP wtHA aw

et he

a pes oe ed as fa tT be te od

 
 

CONTENTS:

PAGE.
_ The Irishman’s Panorama, - = °- James Burdette, 9
~The Lightning-rod Agent, - - - - Will Carlton, 10°
The Tragedy at Four Ace Flat, - - - Bret Harte, 13
Rath and Naomi, - - - - = Carl Pretzel, 15
Carey of Corson, - -  -  - — = Charles G, Leland, 17

a ene ee Te
Yoth Reed, - - - - + + Bayard Taylor, 21

The Brakeman at Church,
Passun Mooah’s Surmount,
Arguing the Question,

Jim Wolfe and the Cats, -
The Dim Old Forest,
er at Home,

Sergeant’s Story, -
Vid and Goliah,
Dreaming at Fourscore, -

Why should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud? -

Coming Mustache, -

© Engineer’s Story, -
A Candidate for President,
l Call, S

Au Accession to the Family,

When the Cows Come Home,

Donation Party,

| Tommy Taft, - -

|| AMichigander in France,
_ “* One to Spare,

©

23
Joe Jot, Jr., 26
- Spoopendyke, 27
- Mark Twain, 29
Alice Cary, 31
Mrs. M. V. Victor, 32
- Wyoming Kit, 35

- A Southwest ‘Sermon,’ 37
Eben E. Rexford, 39
Bob Ingersoll, 42
- Anon, 43
Bob Burdette, 45

- Annabel Dwight, 47
The Fat Contributor, 49
The Argonaut, 51
Spoopendyke, 52
Mrs. Agnes E, Mitchell, 54
Washington Whitehorn, 55
- Henry Ward Beecher, 58
- Detroit Free Press, 61

Anon, 63

Burlington Hawkeye,

- -

 
  

vili.

Mrs. Breezy’s Pink Lunch,
Rock of Ages,

Annie's Ticket,
The Newsboy,
Pat’s Correspondence,
Death of th’ Owd Squire, -
Mein Tog Shneid,
At Elberon, -
The Cry of Womanhood, -
The Judgment Day,
The Burst. Bubble,

The Swell,
The Water Mill,
Sam’s Letter,

Footsteps of the Dead,
Charity, -
An Essay on Cheek, -

CONTENTS.

J. Ceesar Pompey Squash’s Sermon,

Curfew Must Not Ring To-night,

 

     
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

PAGE.
Spoopendyke, 65
Old Hymn, 66
- Yankee Blade, 68
Boston Transcript, 69
- E. T. Corbett, 71 ~
W. M. Giffin, 72
Anon, 74
Carl Pretzel, 77
Mrs, M. V. Victor, 78
Rev. T, DeWitt Talmage, 80
Trans. of Epes Sargent, 82
- John B. Gough, 84
- Mrs, Rosa Thrope, 86
George W. Kyle, 89
D. C. McCallum, 91
Dundreary, 92
Eben E. Rexford, 93
Brudder Gardner, 94
Bob Burdctte, 95

r

   

 
ci NN ee Lat he OOS, i | pak ae a Sa Se

 

DIME BOOK

or

RECITATIONS AND READINGS,

 

THE IRISHMAN’S PANORAMA —James Burdette.

Ladies an’ Gintlemin: In the fereground over there ye’s
obsarve Vinegar Hill, an’ should yer be goin’ by that way some
day, ye meight be fatigued, an’ if ye are yer’ll foind at the
fut of the hill a nate little cot kept by a man named McCarty,
who, by the way, isas foine a lad as you'll mate in a day’s
march. I see by the hasp on the door that McCarty is out, or
Yd take ye’s in’ an’ introduce ye’s. A foine, ginerous, noble
feller is this McCarty. Shurean’if be had but the wan peratie
he'd give ye’s the half of-that, and phat’s more, he’d thank ye
for takin’ it. (James, move the crank! Larry, music on t:
bag-pipes})

adies an’ Gintlemin: We've now arrived at a beautiful
spot, situated abeut twenty miles this side o’ Limerick. To
the left over there yer’ll see a hut, by the side of which is s’ated
a lady and gintleman; well, as 1 was goin’ that way wan day
I heard the following conversation betwixt him an’ her. She
Says to him: “‘ James, it’s a shame for yer to be tr’atin’ me so;
d’ye moind the toime yer used to come to me father’s castle
a-beggin’?” “‘ Yer father’s castle—me? Well, thin! ye could
sthand en the outside of yer father’s castle, an’ stick yer arm
down the chimney and pick praties out of the pot an’ divil a
Partition betwixt you and the pigs but sthraw.” (Move the
¢rank, etc.)

Ladies an’ Gintlemin: We have now arrived at the beauti-
ful and classical Lakes of Killarney. There’s a curious legend
connected wid dese lakes that I must relate te you. It is that
every evenin’ at four-o’clock in the afternoon a beautiful swan
is seen te make its appearance, an’ while movin’ transcendent-
ally and glidelessly along, ducks its head, skips under the
Water, an’ you'll not see him till the next afternoon.

the crank, etc.)

ies an’ Gintlemin: We have now arrived at another
iful spot, situated about thirteen and a half miles this

‘

 
  

 

10 DIME BOOK OF

side of Cork. This is a grate place, noted for sportsmin
Wanst, while sthoppin’ over there at the hotel de Finney, the
following tilt of a conversation occurred betwixt Mr. Mul-
dooney, the waiter, and mesilf. I says to him, says I, ‘‘ Mully,
old boy, will you have the kindness to fetch me the mustard?”
And he was a long time bringin’ it, so I. opportuned him for
kapin’ me. An’ says he to me, says he, ‘‘ Mr. McCune” (that’s
me), ‘‘I notice that you take a great dale of mustard wid your
mate.” ‘‘I do,” says I. Says he, ‘‘I notice you take a
blame sight of mate wid your mustard.” (Move the crank,
etc.)

Ladies an’ Gintlemin: We now skhip acrost the broad At-
lantic to a wonderful sphot in America, situated a few miles
from Chinchinnatti, Ohoho, called the falls of Niagara. While
lingerin’ here wan day I saw a young couple evidently very
sweet on aich other. Av et took no notice of phat they
were sayin’, but I couldn’t help listenin’ to the followin’ ex-
traordinary conversation. Says he to her, ‘Isn't it wonder-
ful to see that tremindous amount of water comin’ down over
that terrible precipice?” ‘‘ Yis, darlint,” says she, ‘“‘ but
wouldn’t it be far more wonderful to see the same tremindous
body of water a-goin’ wp that same precipice?” (Move the
erank, etc.)

THE LIGHTNING-ROD AGENT.— Will Carlton.

If the weary world is willing, I’ve a little word to say,
Of a Pere dispenser that dropped down on me one
y ’

‘With a poem in his motions, with a sermon in his mien,

With hands as white as lilies, and a face uncommon clean.

No wrinkle had his vestments, and his linen glistened white,

And his new-constructed necktie was an interesting sight;

Which z almost wish his razor had made red that white-skinned
throat,

And a new-constructed necktie had composed a hangman’s

not,

Ere he brought his sleek-trimmed carcass for my women folks
to see,

And his rip-saw tongue a-buzzin’ for to gouge a gash in me.

But I couldn’t help but like him—as I always think I must
The gold of my own doctrines in a fellow-heap of dust;
When I fired my own opinions at this person round by round,
They drew an answering volley of a very similar sound.

I touched him on religion, and the hopes my heart had known;
‘He said he’d had experiences quite similar of his own.

 

 

  
 

< RECITATIONS AND READINGS. : At %

I told him of the doubtin’s that made dark my early years;
He had laid awake till morning with that same old breed of

fears.

I told him of the rough path I hoped to Heaven to go;

He was on that very ladder, only just a round below.

I told him of my visions of the sinfulness of gain;

He had_seen the self-same picters, though not quite so clear
and plain.

Our politics was different, and at first he galled and winced;

But Fava him so able, he was very soon convinced.

“—

And ’twas getting toward the middle of a hungry summer °

day;
There a dinner on the table, and I asked him would ho stay?
And he sat him down among us, everlasting trim and neat,
And asked a short, crisp blessing almost good enough to eat;
Then he fired up on the mercies of our Great Eternal Friend,
And gave the Lord Almighty a good first-class recommend;
And for full an hour we listened to the sugar-coated scamp,
Talking like a blessed angel—eating like a—blasted tramp.

My wife, she liked the stranger, smiling on him soft and

: sweet;

(It always flatters women when their guests are on the eat.)

And he hinted that some ladies never lose their early charms,

And kissed her latest baby, and received it in his arms.

‘iy sons and daughters liked him, for he had progressive
views,

And chewed the quid of fancy, and gave down the latest

news,
And I couldn’t help but like him, as I fear I always must
The gold of my own doctrines, in a fellow-heap of dust.
He was spreading desolation through a piece of apple-pie,
When he paused and looked upon us with a tear in his off-eye,
And said, ‘Oh, happy family! your blessings make me sad;
You call to mind the dear ones that in happier days I had;
wife as sweet as this one; a babe as bright and fair;
A little girl with ringlets, like that one over there.
I worshiped them too blindly !—my eyes with love were dim!
God took them to His own heart, and now I worship Him.
ut had I not neglected the means within my way,
Then they might still be living, and loving me to-day.

“One night there came a tempest; the thunder-peals were
dire;
The clouds that tramped above us were shooting bolts of fire;
n my own house, I, lying, was thinking, to my blame,
How little I had guarded against those shafts of flame,
When, crash!—through roof and ceiling the deadly lightning
F cleft,
_ And killed my wife and children, and only I was left.

, \

x

 
  

   

12 DIME BOOK OF

‘Since that dread time I’ve wandered, and naught for life
have cared,

Save to save others’ loved ones, whose lives have yet been
spared;

Since then it is my mission, where’er by sorrow tossed,

To sell to virtuous people good a pe a Dahan cost.

With sure and strong protection [’ll clothe your buildings o’er,

*T will cost you fifty dollars (perhaps a trifle more ;)

What little else it comes to, at lowest price T’ll put,

(You signing this agreement to pay so much per foot.”)

I signed it, while my family all approving stood about,

had dxobped a tear upon it (but it didn’t blot it out!)

That very an with wagons came some men, both great and
small:

They climbed upon my buildings just as if they owned ’em all;

They a ’em, and they hewed ’em, much against my loud

esires ;

They trimmed ’em up with gewgaws, and they bound ’em
down with wires;

They trimmed ’em and they wired ’em, and they trimmed and
wired ’em still, ;

And every precious minute kept a-running up the bill.

My soft-spoke guest a-seeking, did I rave and rush and run;

He was supping with a neighbor, just a three-mile further on.

“Do you think,” I fiereely shouted, ‘‘that I want a mile o’
wire

To save each separate hay-cock out o’ heaven’s consumin’ fire?

Do ieee to keep my buildin’s safe from some uncertain

3 ™m

I’m goin’ to deed you over all the balance of my farm?”

He looked up quite astonished, with a face devoid of guile,

And he pointed to the contract, with a reassuring smile;

_ With mild and sad demeanor he listened to my plea,

But he held me to that paper with a firmness sad to see;

And for that thunder-story, ere the rascal finally went,

I paid two hundred dallars, if I paid a single cent.

“and if any lightnin’-rodder wants a dinner dialogue
- With the restaurant departments of an enterprising dog,
4 Let him set his mill a-runnin’ just inside my outside gate,
And I’! bet two hundred dollars that he won’t have long to
wait.

 

 
 

RECITATIONS AND READINGS. 18

THE TRAGEDY AT FOUR ACE FLAT.—Bret Harte.

There was evidently trouble brewing, and trouble of abnor-

mal interest, for never before in the history of Four Ace Flat
had all hands knocked off work for a whole day. When Abe
Tucker was hung a committee took charge of the solemnities,
and the rest of the inhabitants attended to their business as
usual. Even when Bud Davis held four queens over the king
full of the Frisco man, with six hundred thousand in the pot,
the honest denizens of the Flat industriously stuck to their le-
gitimate vocation of gouging each other, and local tradition
Says that the fight between Mullins and the Kid did not draw
a half playing ring side.
. But to-day the whole Flat was at leisure, and it was rumored
In the morning that Buck Galloway would wear a plug hat
and possibly a vest when he appeared on the field. Bill Leff-
ingwell had bought a new blue flannel shirt that morning, and
it was said that he had greased his boots, all of which proved
to be true, though denounced as canards by the skeptics when
first mentioned in their presence.

At the Oriental saloon there was tripe on the free lunch

table, and at Palace Garden blue chips had gone to twenty
- dollars. i

And yet it was not a gala day. There was an earnestness in
the faces of men that destroyed any idea that a picnic ora
_ lynching matinee was in prospect. Besides, the constitution

of the Flat was rigorously in favor of postponing all pleasure

until night, and so it was manifest that there was trouble on
hand and trouble of a serious nature.
’ During the morning it was all gossip, but toward noon,
When Buck Galloway, in the much envied plug hat, and Bill
Leflingwell, resplendent in full blue shirt of dazzling bril-
liancy, with boots greased to a mirror-like resplendency,
Passed each other on the street without the customary saluta-
tion, all Four Ace Flat knew that the hour had come and
braced itself for the excitement.

. Pools took a new impetus. Money was placed rapidly, and

In the market loans were effected at the heavy percentage of
ur for one, which made it easy to keep the reckoning.

. ‘‘ Think she'll stay game?” asked Pete Wilder, as he exam-

ined his pistol and loaded it with grave solicitude.

. “For whatever yer got, she will,” responded Mr. David
_ Sampson, who, by reason of his having added some salt cod-

fish to his stock of liquors, had become a merchant and been

€lected mayor. ‘‘ She’ll stick like a tree.”

“And the aes demanded Pete, taking aim ata
Man who had refused him a thousand dollars. 3
~ “Pretty good shat,” criticised Mayor Sampson, as the-unac-

,

 
  

14 DIME BOOK OF

commodating capitalist dropped in his tracks; ‘‘took him
just under the ear. Yes, sir, 1 think the Englishman will stay
too.”

And they joined the crowd who were pressing toward the
outskirts of the town.

“You say along the outside of the weepin, Bill?” remarked
a tall handsome girl to Mr. Leffingwell, as she fastened her
hat with a steady hand. Life in the silver leads had left its |
impress on her face, which, in spite of the traces of dissipa- |
tion, had still soft lines of womanly loveliness in it. ,

‘Right along the outside and for the hip,” replied Mr.
Leffingwell, who was admiring his shirt with an animated
countenance.

‘‘Are we most ready, Buck?” inquired a large, fine-lookin,
Englishman of Galloway. ‘‘I don’t regret the act. But
may hold to-day in remorse as long as I live.”

“Oh, blow that!” retorted Mr. Galloway. “Aim low and
let remorse keep shop while you're gone.”

Out on the mountain side were congregated the wealth and
fashion of Four Ace Flat. Above them the trees waved mu-
sically in the summer air, and the broad stretches of sweet
grass smiled or looked sad as the great billows of clouds cast
shadows upon them.

The Englishman looked around him, and saw that he was
no favorite, The bold, beautiful face of the brave girl had
won such prejudice as the Flat thought it good judgment to
show on an occasion which demanded the bone and sinew of
fair play. And as he looked at her, whom he had never seen
before, the Englishman expressed a thrill of admiration.

Mr. Galloway raised his hat to Mr. Leffingwell, and here a
complication arose. Mr, Leffingwell’s hat was old and mis-
shapen, and Mr, Galloway peremptorily declined to accept the
yaising thereof as a return of his salutation. Mr. Leffingwell

rotested, but public opinion was against him, and it was at

ength decided that he could not, so to speak, put old cloth inte
a new garment, and therefore, forasmuch as Mr. Galloway had
taken off his new hat to Mr. Leffingwell, on the field of honor,
Mr. Leffingwell must return the courtesy by taking off his new
shirt to Mr. Galloway.

This delicate point having been satisfactorily settled, Mayor
Sampson improved the opportunity for a little oratory, saying,
in substance, that as how the English bloke had bu’sted a hole
in the gal’s side pardner, for which she had demanded satis-
faction, all he, Mayor Sampson, could add to the prelimina-
ries was goin’ in for keeps and may the best man win.

There was not a tremor as Bill Leflingwell placed her in po
sition. Her face was as calm as the air around her. and as she
gazed upon her foe, he whe had sent her husband home with —
no recognition for her in his eyes, a smile played around her

      

.
\

 

 
 

RECITATIONS AND READINGS. 15

fips, for she knew he would soon $0 down among the roots
and worms where she had planted the only thing she ever
loved. i

«‘What’s your weepins? You have the choice,” asked Bill
of Galloway.

“Tm dogged if I know,” replied Buck. ‘‘ He has got ’em
there, but he won’t let on to me.”

The Englishman had heard the question, and now advanced
with a large paper parcel. He was pale, but calm and obvi-

, ously under control.

“T have one like this,” he said quietly. ‘‘ At the word ‘fire’
let her open the bundle and I will mine. One of us will fall,
if not both.” 5 :

The girl took the package and ‘held it firmly. Leffingwell
had won the word, and at his ‘‘ One, two, three, fire!” both
papers fell to the ground.

he Englishman stood firm, but with a wild shriek that
ware every hiding echo in the Sierras the girl dropped—
!

“Tt’s a lucky thing your Englishman got out,” remarked
_ Bill to Buck, as they met at the Oriental during the evening.
“The boys would have grafted him if he’d stayed.”

“You bet!” replied Buck. ‘‘If I'd know’d what it was,
he’d have got it from me right there.” 1

“What was the weepin, anyway?” asked the bar-keeper,
who had not been able to atténd because of some financial
regulation imperatively demanded by the till in the absence of
the proprietor.”

‘“What-was it?” sneered Bill. ‘‘What was it? It war a
dog-goned live mouse! That’s what it war!”

RUTH AND NAOMI.—Reflections of Pretzel.

I dink dhere vas notting so supremely, so douching beaudi-
ful, so oxbressive of good affection und devotion as Ruth’s
languages to her mudder-by-law, Naomi. Dhey vas about to
leaf der home vhere dhey refeled in all der delights of tomestic ~
bliss. Dhey had trank from der same foundains of vasser
oud, of home und lofe.

Der leetle lambs vas shkipped und played around der homes,
in der kreen bastures und on der moundain side. Der fhlow-
ers dhey had tended plossomed yoost so beaudiful as efer, und
threw dheir rich berfumes ubon der morning air. Der dew
klittered und trempled of efery plade of grass, trinkin’ der
Sunpeams ub dot rested ubon ’em. Der prite heafens dot pent:
ofer dheir once habby homes mit soft tints und golden-crested.

_ Clouds, all det vas klorious in ouder vorlt vas hid from dheir

 
       
    
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
  
 
 
 
   
 
    
 
   
  
   
   
     

16 DIME BOOK OF

 
 

tear-dimmed eyeses—for der crushing plow of afflicktion had
halsied dheir imachinations like der tree vat got sthruck mit
lightnin’ in dwo places.

Alone, childless und vidowed, sad und sick at heart, dhey
knew not vhere to vhent. Naomi she say, ‘Go each to der
mudder’s house, und may been der Lord vould deal out kindly
mit you as you hafe dealed kindly oud mit me.”

Dhen der shendle Orpha keesed her mudder und vhent mit
her people und her gods oud. Dhey lifded dheir voices ub
und cryed liked dheir hearts vas break. How eloquendt vas
dhem tears! how lonely like der deuce, und how beaudiful
dhey vas in dot loneliness. But der goot-lookin’ Ruth clung
unto her, for she had nursed him from his Maker’s hands.
She had yoost vatched ofer him und guilded his feet-shtebs
droo der shlibbery valks of yooth to manhoot. His head vas
been billowed ubon her preast.

How ofden, too, in ber feadures she could drace his linea-
ments so fair, ubon whom she had lafished all her yoothful
affecktions. Dhey vas like gushin’ floods of sunlight to her
choyous heart. By her voice his voice vas der same kind dot
fell in witching kadenee ubon der charmed ear, und filled her
soul shuck full mit melody, und shtirred der foundain of her
lofe dot now vas lay buried from her sight in der cruel grafe
yard oud. 4

“Don'd told me, mudder, mine angel mudder,
To gone avay und leaf you now,
Alone togedder by yourself to vhent,
Mit sorrow und trouble on your brow. T

** Eferyvhere, no matter vhere I vhent,
You, too, shall go, und I vill share p
Der burden of all dot suffering, F
Of all dot sorrow und dot care.

** Mine house dot shall been your house,
Und your God shall too been mine;
We'll valk togedder efermore,
Und mine heart vill shduck to dhine.

**T don’d vill leaf you, nefer, nefer,
Dill der chilly Death did said,
Gif me your mudder dot you lofe,

Und he dooks you from me dead.

‘Und, mudder darling, vhen you vas dooken,
No matter vhere der gratevard be,
In der sassar.or vhere der fhlowers grow,
. Der same shall cover me.”

 
  

RECITATIONS AND READINGS

The night-mist dim ‘and darkling,

As o’er the roads we pass,
Lies in the morning sparkling

As dew-drops on the grass.
E’en so the deeds of darkness,

Which come like midnight dews,
A ras sparkling items

ext morning in the news.

Away in Carson City,

Far in the Silver Land,
There lives one Justice Carey,

A man of head and hand;
And as upon his table

The Judge a-smoking sat
There rowdied in a rougher

Who wore a gallows hat.

He looked upon the Justice,
. ' But the Justice did not budge
Until the youngster warbled,
“Say, don’t you know me, Judge?”
“| think,” said Carey, meekly,
“Your face full well I know—
I sent you up for stealing
A horse‘a year ago.”

“‘ Ay, that is it the hairpin
lam, and that’s my line;
And here is twenty dollars
I’ve brought to pay the fine.”
‘You owe no fine,” said Carey;
Your punishment is o’er.”
‘Not yet,” replied the rover;
«ve come to have some moré

‘« Fust-rate assault and batt’ry
I’m going to commit, :
And you're the mournful victim
That I intend to hit,
And give you such a scrampin’
As never was, nohow;
And so, to save the lawin’,
I guess I'l] settle now.”

 

 

   

 

  

CAREY OF CORSON.—Charles G. Leland.

  
   

    
 

DIME BOOK OF

Up rose the court in splendor;
‘“ Young man, your start is fair;
Sail in, my son, sail over,
And we will call it square!
Go in upon your chances—
Perhaps you may not miss;
I like to see young heroes
Ambitionin’ like this.”

The young one at the older
Went in with all his heft,
And, like a flyin’ bowlder, -
At once let out his left.
The Court, in haste, ducked under
Its head uncommon spry,
Then lifted the intruder
With a puncher in the eye—

A regular right-hander;
And like a cannon-ball,

The young man, when percussioned,
Went over to the wall.

In just about a second,
The Court, with all its vim,

Like squash-vines o’er the meadow,
Went climbing over him.

Yea, as the pumpkin clambers
Above an Indian grave,

Or as the Mississippi
Inunders with its wave,

And merrily slops over
A town in happy sport—

E’en so that man was clambered
All over by the Court.

And in about a minute
That party was so raw
He would have seemed a stranger
Unto his dearest squaw;
Till he was soft and tender,
This morsel once so tough,
And then, in sad surrender,
He moaned aloud, ‘‘ Enough!”

He rose, and Justice Carey
Said to him ere he went,

“T do not think the fightin’

You did was worth a cent;

é

 

 
 

RECITATIONS AND READINGS. 19

I charge for time two dollars,
As lawyers should, ’tis plain;
The balance of the twenty
I give you back again.

“‘T like to be obligin’
To folks with all my powers,
So when you next want fightin’
Don’t come in office hours;
I only make my charges
For what’s in legal time—
Drop in, my son, this evenin’,
And I'll not charge a dime.”

The young man took the guerdon,
As he had ta’en the scars;
Then took himself awayward
To the ’Ginia City cars.
*Tis glorious when heroes
Go in to right their wrongs;
But if you’re only hairpins,
Oh, then beware of tongs!

BABIES.—Mark Twain.

[Mark Twain’s remarks at the banquet of the Army of the
Tennessee were in response to the following toast :]

“‘The Babies: As they comfort us in our sorrows, let us
not forget them in our festivities.”

Now, that’s something like. We haven't all had the good
fortune to be ladies; we have not all been generals, or poets,
or statesmen; but when the toast works down to the babies,
we stand on common ground—for we’ve all been babies. It is
a shame that for a thousand years the world’s banquets have
utterly ignored the baby, as if he didn’t amount to anything!
If you, gentlemen, will stop and think a minute—if you will
go back fifty or a hundred years, to your early married life,
and recontemplate on first baby—you will remember that he
amounted to a good deal—and even something over. :

You soldiers all know that when that little fellow arrived at
family head-quarters you had to hand in your resignation. He
took entire command. You became his lackey, his mere
body-guard; and you had to stand around, too. He was nota
Commander who made allowances for the time, distance,
Weather, or anything else: you had to execute his order
Whether it was ble or not. And there was only one form
of marchingin his manual of tactics, and that was the douvlée-

 
  

20 DIM= BOOK OF

quick. He treated you with every sort of insolence and dis-
respect, and the bravest of you did not dare to say a word.
You could face the death-storm of Donelson and Vicksburg,
and give back blow for blow; but when he clawed your whis-
kers, and pulled your hair, and twisted your nose, you had to
take it. When the thunders of war sounded in your ears, you
set your faces toward the batteries and advanced with steady
tread; but when he turned on the terrors of his war-whoop,
you advanced in—the other direction, and mighty glad of the
chance, too. When hecalled for soothing-syrup, did you ven-
ture to throw out any remarks about certain services being un-
ow to an officer and a gentlemen? No; you got up and
got it! If he ordered his pap-bottle, and it wasn’t warm, did

ou talk back? Not you; you went to work and warmed it.

ou even descended so far in your menial office as to take a
suck at that warm, insipid stuff yourself to see if it was right!
—three parts water to one of milk, a touch of sugar to modify
the colic, and a drop of peppermint to kill those immortal hic-
coughs. I can taste that stuff yet!

And how many things you learned as you went along! Sen-
timental young folks still take stock in that beautiful old say-
ing, that when the baby smiles.in his sleep it is because the
angels are whispering to him. Very pretty, but ‘‘ too thin ”—
simply wind on the stomach, my friends. If the baby pro-
posed to take a walk at his usual hour—half-past two in the
morning—didn’t you rise up promptly and remark (with a
mental addition which wouldn’t improve a Sunday-school
much) that that was the very thing you were about to propose
yourself? Oh, you were under a good discipline. And as
you went fluttering up and down the room in your ‘‘ undress
uniform,” you not only prattled undignified baby-talk, but
even tuned up your martial voices and tried to sing, ‘‘ Rock-
‘a-by-Baby on the Tree-top,” for instance. What a spectacle
for an Army of the Tennessee! And what an affliction for
the neighbors, too, for it isn’t everybody within a mile around
that likes military music at three o’clock in the morning. And
when you had been keeping this sort of thing up two or three
hours, and your little velvet head intimated that nothing
suited him like exercise and noise, and proposed to fight it out
on that line if it took all night—‘‘Go on! What did you do?”
You simply went on till you dropped in the last ditch.

I like the idea that a baby doesn’t amount to anything!
Why, one baby is just a house and a front yard full by itself;
one baby can furnish more business than you and your whole
interior department can attend to; he is enterprising, irrepres-
‘sible, brimful of lawless activities; do what you please, you
can’t make him stay on the reservation, Sufhicient unto the
day is one baby. As long as you are in yourright mind don’t
‘you ever pray for twins. Twins amount to a permanent riot;

 

  
 
  
   
 
  
  
   
   
   
 
     
  
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
    
  
   
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 

RECITATIONS AND READINGS, 21

‘and there-ain’t any real difference between triplets and insur-
rection. : -

_ Among the three or four million cradles now rocking in the
land are some which this nation would preserve for ages as
sacred things if we could know which ones they are. For in
One of these cradles the unconscious Farragut of the future is
at this moment teething. Think of it! and putting a word of
dead earnest, unarticulated, but justifiable, profanity over it,
_ too; in another, the future renowned astronomer is blinking at

the shining Milky Way with but a languid interest, poor little
chap, and wondering what has become of that other one they

Call the wet-nurse; in another, the future great historian ist

lying, and doubtless he will continue to lie till his earthly

Mission is cnded, in another, the future President is busying

himself with no profounder problem of State than what the

Mischief has become of his hair so early; and in a mighty

array of other cradles there are now some 60,000 future ofiice-

Seekers getting ready to furnish him occasion to grapple with

that same old problem a second time! And in still one more

Cradle, somewhere under the flag, the future illustrious com-
“mander-in-chief of the American armies is so little burdened

With his approaching grandeurs and responsibilities as to be

giving his whole strategic mind, at this moment, to trying to

nd out some way to get his own big toe into his mouth—an
achievement which (meaning no disrespect) the illustrious
guest of this evening also turned his attention to some fifty-six
years ago! And if the child is but the prophecy of the man,
there are mighty few will doubt that he succeeded.

JOHN REED.—Bayard Taylor.

There’s a mist on the meadow below; the herring-frogs chirp
and cry;

It’s chill when the sun is down, and the sod is not yet dry-

The world is a lonely place, and yet I don’t know why.

I see, as I lean on the fence, how wearily trudges Dan

With the feel of the spring in his bones, like a weak and el-
derly man; \

I’ve had it many a time, but we must work when we can.

But day after day to toil, and ever from sun to sun,

ough up to the season’s front and nothing be left undone,
ending at twelve like a clock, and beginning again at one.

The frogs make a sorrowful noise, and yet it’s the time they

mate;
~There’s something comes with the spring, a lightness or else a
_ weight;
's ee comes with the spring, and it seems to me
it’s fate. ;

 
  

    

“22 - DIME BOOK OF

It’s the hankering after a life that you never have learned to
know;

It’s the discontent with a life that is always thus and so;

It’s the wondering what we are, and where we are going to go.

My life is lucky enough, I fancy, to most men’s eyes,
For the more a family grows, the oftener some one dies,
And it’s now run on so long, it'couldn’t be otherwise.

And sister Jane and myself, we have learned to claim and —
ield;
She rules in the house at will, and I.in the barn and field,
So, nigh upon thirty years! —as if written and signed and
sealed.

I couldn’t change it if 1 would; I’ve lost the how and the
when

One day my time will be up, and Jane be the mistress then,

For single women are tough and live down the single men.

She kept me so to herself, she was alvane the stronger hand,

And my = showed well enough when J looked around in the
lan :

But I’m tired and sore at heart, and I don’t quite understand.

I wonder how it had been if I’d taken what othérs need,
The plague, they say, of a wife, the care of a Mg breed?
If Edith Pleasanton now were with me as Edit

te a0 a son well grown were there in the place of

And I felt myself i in him, as I was when my work began?
I should feel no older sure, and certainly more a man.

A daughter, besides, in the house; nay, let there be two or
three!

We never can overdo the luck that can never be,

And what has come to the most might also have come to me.

I’ve thought, when a neighbor’s wife or his child was carried
awa

That to have no loss was a gain; but now—I can hardly say;

He seems to possess them still, under the ridges of clay.

And share and share in a life is, somehow, a different thing
From property held by deed and the riches that oft take wing;
I feel so close in the breast!—I think it must be the spring.

I'm drying ‘f, like a brook when the woods have been cleared
aroun

You're mot must always run, you are used to the sight azd
sou

But it shrinks till there’s only left a stony rut in the ground,

 

 
 

 

  

RECITATIONS AND READINGS. © 23

‘There’s nothing to do but take the days as they come and go,
And not to worry with thoughts that nobody likes to show,
For people so seldom talk of things they want to know.

There’s times when the way is plain, and everything nearly

right,

And then, of a sudden, you stand like a man with a clouded
sight;

A bush seems often a beast, in the dusk of the falling night.

I must move; my joints are stiff; the weather is breeding
rain,

And Dan is hurrying on with his plow-team up the lane.

Tll go to the village store; I'd rather not talk with Jane.

THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH.—Burlington Hawkeye.

On the road once more, with Lebanon fading away in the
distance, the fat passenger drumming idly on the window
pane, the cross passenger sound asleep, and the tall, thin pas-
senger reading “‘General Grant’s Tour Around the World,”
and wondering why ‘‘Green’s August Flower” should be

rinted above the doors of ‘‘ A Buddhist Temple at Benares,”

‘© me comes the brakeman, and seating himself on the arm of
the seat, says;

‘“«T went to church yesterday.”

“Yes?” I said, with that interested inflection that asks for
more. ‘‘And what church did you attend?”

“‘Which do you guess?” he asked.

“‘Some union mission church?” I hazarded.

“No,” he said; ‘‘I don’t like to run on these branch roads
very much. I don’t often go to church, and when I do, I
want to run on the main line, where your run is regular and
you go on schedule time and don’t have to wait on connec-
tions. I don’t like to run ona branch. Good enough, but I
don’t like it.”

“Episcopal?” I guessed.

“Limited express,” he said, ‘‘all palace cars, and $2 extra
for seat, fast time, and only stop at big stations. Nice line,»
but too exhaustive fora brakeman. All train men in uniform,
conductor’s punch and lantern silver-plated, and no train-boys
allowed. Then the pects are allowed to talk back at the
conductor, and it makes them too free-and-easy. No, I couldn’t

‘

Stand the palace cars. Rich road, though. Don’t often hear
of a receiver being appointed for that line. Some mighty nice
~ people travel on it, too.”
““Universalist?” I suggested.
“Broad gauge,” said the brakeman; ‘‘does too much com-

  
   
 

    

DIME BOOK OF

plimentary business. Everybody travels on a pass. Conduc-
tor doesn’t get a fare once in fifty miles. Stops at flag stations
and won’t run into anything but a union depot. Nosmoking-
car on the train. Train orders are rather vague, though, and
the train men don’t get along well with the passengers. No, I
don’t go to the Universalists, but I know some good men who
run on that road.”

“Presbyterian?” I asked.

“Narrow gauge, eh?” said the brakeman; “pretty track,
straight as a rule; tunnel right through a mountain rather than
go around it; spirit-level grade; passengers have to show their
tickets before they get on the train. Mighty strict road, but
the cars are a little narrow; have to sit one in a seat, and no
room in the aisle to dance. Then there is no stop-over tickets
allowed; got to go straight through to the station you're tick-
eted for, or you can’t get on at all. When the car is full, no
extra coaches; cars built at the shop to hold just so many, and
nobody else allowed on. But you don’t often hear of an acci-
dent on that road. It’s run right up to the rules.”

“Maybe you joined the Free Thinkers?” I said.

“Serub road,” said the brakeman; ‘‘dirt road-bed and no
ballast; no time-card and no train-dispatcher. All trains run
wild, and every engineer makes his own time, just as He
pleases. Smoke if you want to; kind of go-as-you-please
road. Too many side tracks, and every switch wide open all
the time, with the switchman sound asleep and the target-lamp
dead out. Get on as you please and get off when you want
to. Don’t have to show your tickets, and the conductor isn’t
expected to do anything but amuse the passengers. No, sir.
I was offered a pass, but I don’t like the line. don’t like to
travel on the road that has no terminus. Do you know, sir,
I asked a division superintendent where that road run to, and
he said he hoped to die if he knew. I asked him if the gen-
eral superintendent could tell me, and he said he didn’t believe
they had a general superintendent, and if they had, he didn’t
know anything more about the road than the passengers. I
asked him who he reported to, and he said ‘ Nobody.’ Lasked
a conductor who he got his orders from, and he said he didn’t
take orders from any living man or dead ghost. And when I
asked the engineer who he got his orders from, he said he’d
like to see anybody give him orders; he’d run the train to suit
himself, or he’d run it into the ditch. Now, you see, sir, I’m
a railroad man, and I'don’t care to run on a road that has no
time, makes no connections, runs nowhere, and has no super-
intendent, It may be all right, but I’ve railroaded too long to

understand it.”
“Maybe you went to the Congregational church?”
‘*Popular road,” said the brakeman; “an old road, too—
one of the very oldest in this country. Good road-bed and

 
C-
1s

o eR?

_ ——w ee we ae he

 

RECITATIONS AND READINGS, 25

comfortable cars. Well-managed road, too; directors don’t in-
terfere with division superintendents and train orders. Road’s
mighty popular, but it’s pretty independent, too. Yes, didn’t
One of the division superintendents down East discontinue one
of the oldest stations on this line two or three years ago? But
it’s a mighty pleasant road to travel on. Always has such a
pleasant class of passengers.”
“Did you try the Methodist?” I said.

. ‘Now you're shouting!” he said, with some enthusiasm.
“Nice road, eh? Fast time and plenty of passengers. En-
gines carry a power of steam, and don’t you forget-it; steam-
gauge shows a hundred and enough all the time. Lively road;
when the conductor shouts ‘ All aboard,’ you can hear him at
the next station. Every train-light shines like a head-light.
Stop-over checks are given on all through tickets; passenger
can drop off the train as often as he likes, do the station two
or three days, and hop on the next revival train that comes
thundering along. Good, whole-souled, companionable con-
ductors; ain’t a road in the country where the passengers feel
More at home. No passes; every passenger pays full traffic
rates for his ticket. _Wesleyanhouse air-brakes on all trains,
too; pretty safe road, but I didn’t ride over it yesterday.”

‘«Perhaps you tried the Baptist?” I guessed once more.

‘‘Ah, ha,” said the brakeman, ‘‘she’s a daisy, isn’t she?
River road; beautiful curves; sweep around anything to keep
close to the river; but it’s all steel rail and rock ballast, single
track all the way, and not a side track from the round-house
to the terminus. Takes a heap of water to run it though,
double tanks at every station, and there isn’t an engine in the
Shops that can pull a pound or run a mile with less than two
gauges. But it runs through a lovely country; those river-
Toads always do; river on one side and hills on the other, and
it’s a steady climb up the grade all the way till the run ends
where the fountain-head of the river begins. Yes, sir; I'll
take the river-road every time for a lovely trip, sure connec-
tions and a good time, and no prairie dust blowing in at the
windows. And yesterday, when the conductor came around

» or the tickets with a little basket punch, I didn’t ask him to

ypass me, but I paid my fare like a little man—twenty-five

}cents for an hour’s run and a little concert by the passengers
throwed in. I tell you, pilgrim, you take the river-road when
you want—”

But just here the long whistle from the engine announced a
Station, and the brakeman hurried to the door, shouting:

‘* Zionsville! The train makes no stops between here and
Indianapolis!”

 

 
DIME BOOK OF

PASSUN MOOAH’S SURMOUNT.—Joe Jot, Jr.

Fellow-brudders, great and small!
Fellow-sisters, one and all!

Dar is much dat does perplex us,
And to-night I takes my texus
Rebelations, turteenth chap. ;
Listen while de words do drap!
Gospil road am orful ruff;
Saytum he am up to snuff,

An’ he’ll cotch you, shuah enuff.”

Brudren, now for sebben ee
I hab slung de Gospil heah,

But I observate dis chu’ch
Doesn’t hearken to it much,

For I notice dat de peepil

Isn’t followin’ de steeple;

An’ you all am goin’ down

An’ won’t git de glory crown :—
Gospil troof am mighty tough;
Saytum he am up to snuff,

He'll done cotch ye, shuah enuff.

T'll tells you dat in dis yer flock
Dere’s black sheep ob de worstest stock.
I don’t speak in perticuler

Ob any cullud pusson yer. -

But I tells you what am fax

Dat to foller in der trax

You would find yerself kerwhoop
Near some pusson’s chicking-coop:—
Gospil road’s not wide enu

For der foot dat’s like a trough;
Saytum’s sharp and mighty tuff.

Den some folks are given to sassin’
Even your onrespected passun,

Who hab always tried to walk

Jis’ as straight as he would talk;
Always libin’ mighty much

To de rulems ob dis chu’ch,

An’ he’s wrassled wid de sin

Which dis congregation’s in,

An’ dere tellin’ lies about him

Till good folkses ’gin to doubt him:—
Gospil road am mighty ruff;
Saytum he am up to snuff;
He's aroun’ yere, shuah“enuff.

   

   
  

 
    
   
 
 
 
 
   
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
   

RECITATIONS AND READINGS,

Do you ’speck to git to Hebben

By yure lyin’ an’ deceibben?

Do you ’speck wid sich religion

To git wings jis’ like a pigeon?

Sum o’ you’d make mons’rous fowls,
Sum o’ you would look like owls,
Sum like gooses, ‘less you stop

An’ begin to lettin’ up:—

For ole Saytum’s up to snuffi—

He’s done got you, shuah enuff.

Jis’ like eggs some pussons is—
You can take one in your fis’,
But you can’t mos’ always tell
What dar is inside de shell,
But de minit dat you smell ’um,
Golly, den you always tell ’um!
Now, dere’s bad eggs in dis lot,
An’ I’se gwine to tell you what,
Dere’ll be mighty few ob dem

F In de New Jirusalem :-—

For de Gospil road am ruff;
Saytum he am up to snuff,

An’ he’ll got you, shuah enuff.

| Darkies, min’ what you're about,

4 Better look a little out!

Some day Gabriel blow his bellows,
What become den ob you fellows—
You who come to chu’ch to holler,
Dough you nebver gib a dollar,

Nor your passun’s words don’t swaller?
Saytum he am up to snuff.

He'll done cotch you, shuah enuff.

 

 

ARGUING THE QUESTION.—Spoopendyke.

3 _ ‘‘ Dere’s no use beatin’ bout de bush now, Brudder Johnsin.
~ Dis yere case am clearer dan mud,” said Brother Washington
slapping his hat upon the floor, and tipping his chair back
against the wall.
** Now, Brudder Washin’ton, I’s would jist like to be in-
2 form’d how you gits your facts,” said Brother Johnson.
. “How does you git your facts? Dat’sde quest’on. Here you
€re a-tumblin’ round dis yere old place all day, and what kin
& provisional creature like you know ’bout de ’fairs of de great
public of dis yere Union?”

 
 

 

    
     
   
   
28 DIME BOOK OF

‘‘ Brudder Johnsin, you has got no idea of argument, or you
wouldn’t talk in dat pervaracatin’ style,” said Brother Wash-
ington. ‘‘De more a man trables round, de more he gits
mixed. Dere’s nothin’ like sittin’ still and watchin’ de up-
heavin’ of der great vents. I’s studied dese ’fairs, and I knows.
Now, I’s made up my mind weam going to see some mighty tur-
bulous times. Dis yere new Pres’dent’s going to raise ’ticular
Cain, or Andrew Jackson Washin’ton hasn’t libed forty-nine
years for nothin’. What’s de use ob dese yere newspapers
talkin’ "bout sym’thy, sym’thy, and all dat rubbish? Dey
knows better. Dar ain’t no sort ob sym’thy "bout it. Dat ar
new Pres’dent just goin’ to do ’bout’s he pleases, now mind
what I tell ye, chile. I’s watched t’ings and I knows. That
there Cabinet's goin’ to get de grand bounce, and you just
dream ’bout it, Brudder Johnsin.”

‘Mr. Washin’ton, you’se all got t’ings mixed. Dar’s bound
to be a universalist feelin’ in dis yere matter. Dat new Pres’dent
ain’t no fool like you niggers, No, sar! He’s goin’ to stick by
de people in dis yere ’fair. I knows what I’s talkin’ ’bout,
Mr. Washin’ton, and I ain’t goin’ to have my ’pinions sub-
scribed by nobody, Mr. Washin’ton.”

‘*P’r’aps you know more ’bout dis politics business dan I
do, Mr. Johnsin,” replied Brother Washington, jumping to
his feet and waving his arms. ‘‘ P’r’aps you think ’case I’m
black I don’t mount to nothin’. I’s just goin’ to caucus you
into my way o’ thinkin’, Brudder Johnsin. You wasn’t
brought up proper, nohow, Mr. Johnsin. Your early eddica-
tion has been negligint, sar! Yes, sar! I’s de nigger dat can
teach you twice as much as you'll ebber know. Yes, sah! I
ain’t no field hand, Mr. Johnsin. I was brought up in de fam-
ily, sar, like a respected colored person. I’s superb to your
sort altogether, Mr. Johnsin.”

‘“You’re nothin’ but a Southern nigger, Mr. Washin’ton,
and us Northern gentlemen can’t suspect your ’pinions,” said
Brother Johnson. ‘‘ Your antidotes ain’t worth mentionin’,
sar. I came from free niggers, sar. Way back, sar. Way back.”

‘‘Do you know, Brudder Johnsin, dat you has ’sulted me,
sar?”

‘*T’s comported ob dat fact, Brudder Washin’ton.’

“T s’pose you know what it means to ’sult me, Mr. John-
sin?”

‘‘No, sir, I don’t s’pose nothin’.”

‘Well, sar, it means dat if you wasa little younger, sar, I'd
dust de floor wid you, sar. Yes, sar, I’d scrape down de walls
wid your ug.y old carcass and frow you out to de chickins.
But your age won’t submit me to do it, and I spares you. Go,
and don’t do leastwise any more, Mr. Johnsin. I may not be
sO Magninamous next time, sar,” and Brother Washington
turned and started for the door.

  

   

RECITATIONS AND

““You jis’ come back here, yo
shouted Brother Johnson. ‘‘V’s j
day in de week, you ’possom- ati
yere, I say,” but Brother Washi
and, strange to say, Brother Johns
low him

 
  
 
 

 

JIM WOLFE AND THE {

(AS RELATED BY OLD SIMON WH
CALAVERAS COUD

 

We was all boys then, and didn’
to shirk school an’ keep up a revivy
time. This yer Jim Wolfe I was
tice, an’ he was the best-hearted
forcivin’ an’ onselfish, I ever see
more bullier boy than what Jim
would; an’ sorry enough I was W
oie an’ Henry was allers peste
bills on his back, an’ puttin’ bumb
an’ sometimes we'd jist creowd i
standin’ his growlin’, an’ then we:
acrost him, so as to keep him sti
teen, he was, an’ long, an’ lank, an
an’ sixteen, an’ tolerabul lazy an \

So that night, you know, that m
pullin’, they started us off to be
could have full swing, an we run;
fun.

Wall, our winder looked out |
about ten o’clock a couple of o
chargin’ reound on it, an’ carryin

There was four inches 0’ snow
that there was a right smart crus
hy g shinin’ bright, an’ we could

 

 
 

 

ght.

“Fust they’d stand off, e-yow-y
they was a-cussin’ one another, }
backs, an’ bush up their tails, a
then all of a suddin the gray cat
off the yaller cat’s back, an’ spin
ona barn door. But the yaller
an’ clinch, an’ the way they'd g
the way they’d make the fur fly,
Wall. Jim he jist got disgusted
  

BOOK OF

S got no idea of argument, or you
catin’ style,” said Brother Wash-
trables round, de more he sits
sittin’ still and watchin’ de Up-
8 studied dese ’fairs, and I knows.
pam going to see some mighty tur
Pres’dent’s going to raise ’ticular
pshin’ton hasn’t libed forty-nine
He use ob dese yere newspapers
hy, and all dat rubbish? Dey
ort ob sym’thy "bout it. Dat ar
do *bout’s he pleases, now mind
hed tings and I knows. That
de grand bounce, and you just
sin.” :
] got t’ings mixed. Dar’s bound
syere matter. Dat new Pres’dent
No, sar! He’s goin’ to stick by
knows what I's talkin’ bout
goin’ to have my ’pinions sub.
in’ton.”?
out dis politics business dan I
‘other Washington, jumping to
“*P’r’aps you think ’¢ase ’m
I’s just. goin’ to caucus you
rudder Johnsin. You wasn’t
xr, Johnsin. Your early eddica-
Yes, sar! I’s de nigger dat can
wll ebber know. Yes, sah! I
n. I was brought up in de fam-
od person. I’s superb to your

 
 

 

thern nigger, Mr. Washin’ton
n’t suspect your ’pinions,” said
tidotes ain’t worth mentionin’
ar. Way back, sar. Way back.”
hnsin, dat you has ’sulted me,

 

Brudder Washin’ton,”

| Means to ’sult me, Mr. John-
in’.”

ou wasa little younger, sar, ’'d
8, sar, I'd scrape down de walls
frow you out to de chickins,
0 do it, and I spares you. Go,
e, Mr. Johnsin. I may not be

”

ar,” and Brother Washington

  
 

 
   

RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

‘*You jis’ come back here, you lampoonin’ old badger,”
shouted Brother Johnson. ‘‘I’s just as young as you, ebery
day in de week, you ’possom-eatin’ black coon. Come back
yere, I say,’’ but Brother Washington failed to turn back,
and, strange to say, Brother Johnson made no attempt to fol-
low him

JIM WOLFE AND THE CATS.—Mark Twain.

(AS RELATED BY OLD SIMON WHEELER, OF ANGEL’S CAMP,
CALAVERAS COUNTY, CAL.)

We was all boys then, and didn’t care for nothin’ only heow
to shirk school an’ keep up a revivin’ state o’ mischief all the
time. This yer Jim Wolfe I was talkin’ about was the ’pren-
tice, an’ he was the best-hearted feller, he was, an’ the most
forgivin’ an’ onselfish, I ever see—well, there couldn’t be a
more bullier boy than what Jim was, take him heow you
would; an’ sorry enough I was when I see him for the last
time.

Me an’ Henry was allers pesterin’ him, an’ plasterin’ hoss
bills on his back, an’ puttin’ bumble-bees in his bed, an’ so on,
an’ sometimes we'd jist creowd in an’ bunk with him, not-
’standin’ his growlin’, an’ then we’d let on to git mad an’ fight
acrost him, so as to keep him stirred up like. He was nine-
teen, he was, an’ long, an’ lank, an’ bashful, an’ we was fifteen
an’ sixteen, an’ tolerabul lazy an’ wuthless.

So that night, you know, that my sister Mary gin the candy-
Pullin’, they started us off to bed airly, so as the comp’ny
could have full swing, an’ we rung in on Jim tew have some
fun.

Wall, our winder looked out onter the ruff of the ell, an’
about ten o’clock a couple of old tom-cats got to rairin’ an’
chargin’ reound on it, an’ carryin’ on jist like sin.

There was four inches o’ snow on the ruff, an’ it froze so
that there was a right smart crust of ice on it, an’ the moon
‘was shinin’ bright, an’ we could see them cats jist like day-

t.

Fust they’d stand off, e-yow-yow-yow, jist the same as if
they was a-cussin’ one another, you know, an’ bow up their
backs, an’ bush up their tails, an’ swell around, an’ spit, an’
then all of a suddin the gray cat he’d snatch a handful of fur
off the yaller cat’s back, an’ spin him around jist like a button
on a barn door. But the yaller cat was game, an’ he’d come
an’ clinch, an’ the way they’d gouge, an’ bite, an’ howl, an’
the way they’d make the fur fly, was peowerful.

Wall, Jim he jist got disgusted with the row, an’ ‘lowed he’d

   

 
 

  
   
   
  
   
  

 

DIME BOOK OF

climb out there an’ shake ’em off’n that ruff. He hadn’t reely
no notion o’ doin’ it, likely, but we everlastingly dogged him,
an’ bullyragged him, an’ owed he’d allers bragge shcosr he
wouldn't take a dare, an’ so on, till bimeby he jist histed the
winder, an’ lo and behold you! he went—went exactly as he
was—nothin’ on but his shirt. You ought toaseen him! You
ought to seen him creepin’ over that ice, an’ diggin’ his toe-
nails an’ finger-nails in, for to keep him from slippin’; and,
*bove all, you ought to seen that shirt a-flappin’ in the wind,
and them long ridicklous shanks of his’n a-glistenin’ in the
moonlight.

Them comp’ny folks was down there under the eaves, an’
the whole squad of ’em under that ornery shed 0’ dead Wash- —
*ton Bower vines—all settin’ round two dozen sassers o’ bilin’
hot candy, which they’d sot in the snow to cool. An’ they
was laughin’ an’ talkin’ lively; but, bless you, they didn’t
know nothin’ ’bout the panorammy that was goin’ on over
their heads.

Wall, Jim, he jist went a-sneakin’ an’ a-sneakin’ up unbe-
knowns to them tom-cats—they was a-swishin’ their tails an’
yow-yowin’ an’ threat’nin’ to clinch, you know, an’ not payin’
any attention—he went a-sneakin’ an’ a-sneakin’ right up to
the comb of the ruff, till he got ’in a foot an’ a half of em, an’ —
then all of a suddin he made a grab fur the yaller cat! But,
by gosh, he missed fire, an’ slipped his holt, an’ his heels flew
up, an’ he flopped on his back, an’ shot off’n that ruff jist like
a dart!—went a-smashin’ an’ a-crashin’ deown thro’ them old
rusty vines, an’ landid right in the dead center of all them
comp’ny people!—sot deown jist like a yearthquake in them
two dozzen sassers of red-hot candy, an’ let off a howl that
was hark from the tomb! Them gals—wall, they left, you
know. They see he warn’t dressed for comp’ny, an’ so they
left—vamoosed. All done in a second; it was jist one little

- war-whoop an’ a whish of their dresses, and blame the one of
’em was in sight anywhere!
Jim, he war a sight. He war gormed with the bilin’ hot
molasses candy clean deown to his heels, an’ more bu’sted sas-
sers hangin’ to him than if he was a Injun princess; an’ he
came a-prancin’ up-stairs jist a-whoopin’ an’ a-cussin’, an’ every
jump he gin he shed some sassers, an’ every squirm he fetched

e dripped some candy! An’ blistered! why, bless your soul,
that pore creetur couldn’t reely set deown comfortable fur as
much as four weeks.

 

  

 
 

_RECITATIONS 4ND READINGS.

THE DIM OLD FOREST.—Alice Cary.

Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on memory’s wall,

Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth the best of all.

Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;

Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below;

Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant hedge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;

Not for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest;

Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip—
It seemeth to memory best.

I once had a little brother,

With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that dim old forest

He lieth in peace asleep.

Light as the down of the thistle,
ree as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago.

But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother
A bed of yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face.

And, when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,

He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep at the gates of light.

Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on memory’s wall,

The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

 
82. DIME BOOK OF

RASHER AT HOME.—WMrs. M. V. Victor.

Mrs. Rasher! I’m proud and happy to welcome you. To
what propitious circumstance am I indebted for the honor of
this visit? It is three years since you have delighted your
husband by a visit to his place of business. Does the smell
offend you? Your nose is turned up a little. Will you sit
down, my dear, upon this half barrel of mess? No? Will

‘ou sit down on this hog’s-head? No? You’ve been to the

ank with the check I gave you? Well, I trust they did not
refuse to cash so trifling a sum. Have your revenge? Whaia

the matter my dear? Isn’t the check all right? I do not s3# |

any mistake about it. Oh-ho! drawn backward! I declare,
that was careless of me! You should have noticed it this
morning, that I might have corrected it. Of course the clerk
could not make you change for the two-hundredth part of a |
cent. Let’s look at it—€00 002; a bad mistake, really! On
purpose to mortify and disappoint you? Now, Marier, you
couldn’t suspect me of that, and besides ‘‘there’s no outwit-
ting a woman,” you know—of course not, Marier! You see it
sharpens a fellow’s wits to shut him up in a dark closet with-
out any breakfast. I’m very sorry for the mistake and the
trouble it’s put you to. Was your dear friend Fitz Simmons
along with you, as usual? She must have been disappointed, —
not to get her portion of the spoils. Don’t look so cross, wife;
sit down and make yourself comfortable. Will have to puta
little grease on your temper to make it run smoother. Haven’t
felt so well in a long time as I do to-day. Business looking up
again. Sold a thousand barrels to-day. I’ve got five thou-
sand dollars to deposit as I go home. I could let you have a
little as well as not; but if I should give it to you to-day,
there wouldn’t be any excuse for shutting me up in the closet
again, and I rather like to be shut up by a woman! Quite a
sell, wasn’t it?—the thousand barrels, I mean. Check-mated
you, my love! Ha! ha! You look warm—won’t you have a
draft of something cooling? I’ve got some bottled stout under
the desk there, though I wouldn’t recommend it, as it might
make you stouter than you are. Will I or will I not give you
money to finish your shopping? I guess I’ve punished you
enough for that little trick you served me this morning. Just
step into my private office and let me get it for you. If you.
won't sit on a hog’s-head, perhaps you will on this chair.
What am I doing? Oh, nothing but locking you in, my love.
I'll send Pat home with the carriage, and you can make your-
self comfortable till five o’clock. Fitz is waiting for you at
Taylor’s? I only hope she hasn’t money enough to pay for
the lunch she has probably ordered. You haven’t had yours,
I suppose; but as you ate both your breakfast and mine, you
won't need any. Faint away? I’ve got a water-pot I can
sprinkle you with through this little window, and then you'll

 
RECITATIONS AND READINGS. . 83

have on a watered silk. You've heard of the wise advice,
“keep your powder dry,” and if you should faint, I’d be
obliged to dampen yours, and you’d be a dough-face, no matter
What party you belonged to. I’m going out now to see a man,
in the next block, on business. I'll look in on you in about
half an hour.

How are you enjoying yourself, Marier? Hope you’re com-

- fortable. If you'll only say you’re hungry I’ll get you a side

of bacon out of the back room. I can’t cook it for you, as
I’ve no conveniences, except in one way—the style called the
“domestic broil.” It’s the way I had my breakfast cooked.
As silence gives consent, I suppose I may get it for you, so
here goes. Good land, my love, it’s lodged right in your lap!
Why didn’t you catch it? You've greased your cloak dread-
fully. You ain’t as spry as you used to be, wife. If you’d
been in the dark, as I was this morning, you wouldn’t have
been to blame for the accident. You’ve made a pretty mess of
it, catching it ker-souse in your lap. You're in a nice pickle,
— confess. Never mind; don’t cry about it. Eat and be
led.

You will come out? Then why don't youcome? You might
Squeeze through the window, but it’s only twelve by fourteen
inches, and you'd be likely to stick. Don’t kick, my love; the

r is extra thick, and your shoes are thin! you might hurt |
the door, and you're too tender-hearted to do that. If you
want to be storing your mind with useful information, you can
be reading that pamphlet on the ‘‘ Raising of Hogs.” We
— ours, mostly, on an elevator, which is the quickest way

own.

My love, you must be hungry, or you wouldn’t be eating up
the fingers of your gloves. ther than have you bite your
own ten nails, ’ll give you some ten-penny ones to practice on.
Bite ‘em softly, Marier, for one of my clerks is coming this
way. Mr. Baker, Mrs. Rasher has called upon me, and has
not been to lunch yet. Please step round to our restaurant
and order my waiter to bring in something nice. What will
you have, my love? (speaks through window.) Pork dumplings,
_ Sausage, ham and eggs, ham sandwich, pork and beans, roast

; Be, pig’s feet, head-cheese, fried bacon?—you can have one or
, according to your taste. The waiter has never heard,
about carrying coals to Newcastle, I presume. ‘ Nothing at
all?” Well, Baker, you can bring me a dish of pork dump-
bes; I’ve been so busy to-day, I’ve not thought of lunch be-
‘ore,

Sorry you won’t take anything, Marier; this porter is fine.
I'm going to drink your health in a minute, as soon as I get
this confounded bottle open. It’s like the Paddy I hired to-
day—the Cork sticks to it. Now, then, Mrs. Rasher, here’s to
your success in putting on the garments which belong to a.
Smaller and less worthy person.

 
   

34 DIME BOOK OF

I do believe that woman has not spoken for three-quarters of
an hour. I never knew her to keep silent so long when she
was wide awake. It’s most time to be shutting up shop. I
must peep in and see what’s the matter with her. Whew! if
I keep her in much longer, I shall be like the man with the
lion—I sha’n’t dare to let her out. She looks like a concen-
trated earthquake. Shocking! shocking! Marier, it’s nearl
time to be going. Have you hada pleasant afternoon? Spea
to me, my dear, and quit looking at me. I have to dodge to
keep from being hit. Marier, do you remember when we were
courting, and I brought you that sweet little music-box that
played six tunes? Marier, do you remember when you fell in
the river that Fourth of July, and I jumped in and supported
you till aid arrived? Crosser and crosser? I can’t melt her
icy silence by the most ardent appeals.
Vell, Mrs. Rasher, it’s five o’clock, and now if you'll say
that you are sorry for locking me up in the closet this morn-

ing, and promise never to do so again, I’ll let youout. No

answer.

Marier, it’s half-past five. The clerks have gone and the
porter is waiting to close the store. Dinner will be ruined be-
fore we reach home. Say you're sorry, and will be a good
girl, and [’'ll let you out.

My love, it’s dark. If you won't say you're sorry, you'll
have to stay here. J’m going home. If the store should burn
up in the night, you’d be in a bad fix. Good-night, dearest.

Did you call me, Mrs. Rasher? Let you out? Well, say
you're sorry, that you repent, resign, capitulate, ere up beat,
cave, and will bea good girl. ‘‘I do say it all, Rasher, if
you'll only not keep me in this horrid place all night.” Well,
my dear, that’s all I ask; come out and be happy. Pat is
waiting for us, with the carriage, at the door, and if we drive
fast, we may yet ‘‘save our bacon!” Here’s two hundred and
fifty, I'll save for you, before I put the rest in the safe. You
can go shopping to-morrow to your heart’s content.

And now that we’re riding together for the first time in the
new carriage, can you tell me why I am like Broadway? Be-
cause I am constantly being crossed. Excuse me, wife.
couldn’t help it. I didn’t mean to say anything disagreeable
to-night. I wonder if Fitz is safe home. Here we are—in
time for dinner, Salve Lardwm—all right.

  

   

 
 

RECITATIONS AND READINGS. 85

THE SERGEANT’S STORY.— Wyoming Kit.
(TOLD IN THE GRAVEYARD OF A FRONTIER MILITARY POST.)

“T tell you, pard, in this Western wild,
As a general thing the dirt’s jist piled
In a rather promiscuous sort of way
On top of a soldier’s mortal clay;
An’ a person’d think by that marble shaft,
An’ the flowers a-wavin’ above the ‘graft,’
That a major-general holds that tomb—
But the corpse down there wore a private’s plume.

‘‘T remember the day they swore Mead in;
He was pale complected, an’ rather thin;
He’d bin what they call a trampin’ beat,
An’ enlisted fur want o’ sumthin’ to eat.
It’s always the case that a new recruit
Is the butt o’ tricks from the older fruit;
An’ the way the boys tormented the cuss
Was real down wicked an’ scandalous!

‘He took it all with a sickly smile,
An’ said if they’d wait till afterwhile,
Till he got fed up in some sort o’ trim,
It mightn’t be healthy to fool with him.
An’ I knowed by the look o’ the feller’s eye—
Fur all he was backward an’ rather shy—
That behind his skeleton sort 0’ breast
A heart like a lion found a nest!

‘‘ One night as the guard, at twelve o’clock,
Relieved the sentinel over the stock,
The corp’ral seen a kind of a glare
From toward the officers’ quarters, there.
The alarm was raised, an’ the big gun fired,
An’ the soldiers, not more’n half attired,
Come a-rushin’ out on the barrack ground
With a wild an’ excited sort of a bound!

‘«The colonel’s head-quarters was all afire!
An’ the flames a-mountin’ higher and higher!
An’ what with the yells 0’ men, an’ shrieks
O’ the officers’ wives, with their whitish cheeks,
An’ the roar 0’ the flames an’ dey’lish light,
Iiluminatin’ the pitch-dark night!
*Twar sich a sight as I’ve often thought _
You could see in hell, when it’s b’ilin’ hot!

“Av then, with a wild, despairin’ yell,
The colonel shouted, ‘My God! Where's Nell?’
His wife responded, ‘She’s in her bed!’
Then fell to the ground, like a person dead!

 
Daas

“It might’n be out 0’ place to state—

‘

DIME BOOK OF

Up through the roof the mad flames roared,
An’ the blindin’ smoke in a dense mass poured
Through every crevice an’ crack, till the clou¢
Hung above like a death-black shroud!

As kinder accountin’ fur this Mead’s fate—
That Nell war an angel, ten year old,

An’ she had a kind of an angel trick

Of readin’, an’ sich like, to the sick;

An’ many’s the dainty her hands ’d bear
To Mead, one time, in the hospital, there.)

With a heart as pure as the virgin gold! |

‘My God! it was ’nough to raise the hair
On the head of a marble statue! There
Stood a crowd of at least two hundred men,
None darin’ to enter that fiery pen—
Men that war brave on an Injun trail,
Whose courage was never known to fail—
But to enter that buildin’ was certain death;
So they stood there starin’, an’ held their breath.

‘Then all at once, with an eager cry,

 

An’ a bull-dog look in his flashin’ eye,

This Mead rushed up to the wailin’ band,
An’ a paper thrust in the colonel’s hand:
‘My mother’s address,’ he said, an’ then

He sort 0’ smiled on the crowd 0’ men,

An’ jist like a flash o’ lightnin’ shot

Through the door right into the seethin’ pot!

‘ With a yell of horror the crowd looked on,
Fur they felt with him it was ‘Good-by; John,’

* But a half a minute after the dash

«

An up-stairs window burst with a crash!
An’ there stood Mead, like a smilin’ saint,
The gal in his arms in a death-like faint!
He yelled fur a rope, an’ let her down

To terra firmy—w’ich means the groun’!

‘Then he tied the rope to the winder sash
Fur to foller down—but there came a crash,
An’ the blazin’ roof, with a fearful din,
Throwed the boy to the ground as it tumbled in!
We carried him ’way from the fearful heat,
A-hopin’ the noble heart still beat;
But the old post surgeon shook his head,
An’ said, with a sigh, that Mead was dead!

5S Tei

/

manne PES oe om
 

RECITATIONS AND READINGS, 87

* 2 * * .

‘*It wasn’t long afore little Nell
Got over the shock, an’ as soon as well
She circulated among the men,
With a sheet 0’ paper an’ ink an’ pen,
An’ axed each one fur to give his mite
In remembrance 0’ Mead’s brave work that night!
Aun’ as the result this monument stands,
Among flowers planted by Nellie’s hands.

*« An’ every evenin’ she walks up here,
The boys all say, fur. to drop a tear!
An’ [ve seen her, too, on her knees right there,
With her face turned upward, as if in prayer!
You'll see that line up above’s to tell
As how the stone was ‘Erected by Nell,’
An’ down at the bottom, there, you’ll see
Some Bible quotin’:
“ “HE DIED FOR ME,’”

 

5 DAVID AND GOLIAH.

e (tus STORY AS TOLD BY A aah) PREACHER IN THE S0UTH-
WEST.

Last week, my brethrin, as I wasa-readin’ my Bible, I found
_ &story of a big fight (1 Samuel, xvii.). It was powerful inter-
 &stin’ ‘and I studied it almost all the week. There was two
§rmies a-campin’ out on two mountains right fornenst each
°ther, and a holler and, reckon, some good bottom land anda
Medder lot lyin’ between ’em. In one of the armies there was
*big feller—a whoppin’ great big feller—and every day he
Went down into the medder lot and looked up the hill to
Vother camp and just dared ’em. He told’em to pick their
t man and send him down and he’d fighthim. And he just
tted around in his soger close and waited for ’em to send
> their man. And such soger close I never heard tell on
Ore,
_ He had a brass cap and brass trowsers, and a coat made like
Nail-bags where they are all ironed and riveted together. But
fellers in t’other camp jest clean flunked. They daren’t
feht the big feller, nary one on’em. They jest all sneaked
Way, and the big feller he went back to camp. But he didu’t
Wit thar, the big feller didn’t. He was sp'ilin’ fora fight, .
ad he was bound to have it. He jest went down into the
a bottom land, into the medder lot, every day, mornin’ and
| ‘Yenin’, and dared ‘em and dared ‘em. I tell you he pestered

 
88 . DIME BOOK OF

em mightily. The old feller, Saul, the Gineral, he felt |
more chawed up and meaner than the sogers, and when he |
couldn’t stan’ it'no longer, he told the boys that if any on ’em |
would go down an’ lick the big feller he’d give him his gal
and a right smart chance of plunder. But they was all sO | —
skeer’d that even that didn’t start one of ’em. The big feller |

went down and dared ’em and pestered ’em more’n a month— —
forty days, the Bible says.

I don’t know what they’d ’a’ done if it hadn’t ’a’ been that@ | _

peart little feller had come down to camp one day to fetch
some extra rations to his three big brothers that their old dad |
sent to’em from home. Kind old pap he was, and sharp, too,

for hé sent along a big present to the boys’ Cap’n. Well, jest |

as the little feller drove up, they was all gwine out to fight, |

and the little feller left his traps with the driver, and legged it |

after the sogers, and told his big brothershowd’y. Right thal |
the old big feller came out and dared ’em again, and the

were all so skeer’d that they jest run like mad. The little fel |

ler heered him and then went back into camp and heered all

the sogers talking about him, and what the old Gineral would -
give to have him licked..He asked ’em a heap of question’ |
about it all, and his big brother he got mad at him, and twit- |
ted him about keeping sheep, and gave him a right smart of
sass. He was plucky, but you see he had to stan’ it ‘caus?

*twas his big brother, Big brothers are mighty mean some -

times.

they told the old Gineral about him, and he told them to tell |
the little feller to come and see him. The Kittle feller was |
mighty plucky, and he jest up and told the old Gineral Saul |
that he’d fight the big feller! The Gineral looked at the hand: |

some little feller—he was real handsome—and ses he, kinder |

But the little feller talked’a heap with the other sogers, and | F

softly: ‘‘I reckon,” and shakin’ his head, ‘‘it’s too big a job; |
‘you're only a chunk of a boy, and he’s an’ old fighter.” The | _

little feller spunked up and told the old Gineral that he’d had |
one b’ar fight and he had killed the b’ar. He said there wa |
an old lion and a b’ar got among his dad’s sheep, and wad |
gwine off with a lamb. e broke for ‘im, and as soon as bé@ | ~
met up with the old b’ar, he lamm’d him till the b’ar turned |
on him for a hug; but he got one hand into the long hair uD’
der his jaw, and he lamm’d him with the other’n till he was |
dead. Hed killed the lion and the b’ar, and he know’d bé |
was enough for the old big feller. .
Then the little feller talked raal religious to the old Gineral: |
You see, he’d got religion afore that, and he know’d that tb@ |
Lord would help a feller, if he was all right, and got into 4 |
tight place. He told Gineral Saul that the :
ighty supple, and looked out for him when the old lion and | _
Dar tried to get their paws into him; and he knowed He'd se |

 

ord had made hi? |
“a

We SBR we

7~

a Se ne SU

a
bf
d-
Dy
ty
t, |
it |
roy
I
d
8
i |
f
et
ye .
d k
by
$
|

RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

_ him through the fight with the old big feller, for he was jest

arin’ ’em and pesterin’ ’em to make game of religion. When
the old Gineral see’d. he was so plucky and religious, too, he

| knowed them’s the kind that fit powerful, and he told him to
| 80 in, and he made a little prayer for him hisself. Then the
Old Gineral put his own soger close on. the little. feller, and
_ Strapped his sword onto him. But they were a heap too big,

and he shucked ’em off directly, and made for a dry branch
down in the bottom. There he hunted five little rocks, smooth

_ 48 a hen egg, put ’em in a little bag where he carried his snack

when he was a-tendin’ the sheep, got his sling fixed all right, ‘

} 4nd hurried to meet the old big feller in the medder lot.

When be see’d him comin’ he was powerful mad they’d sent
down sich a little feller, and jawed awful. But the little fel-
ler jest talked back religious, and kept his eyes peeled. And

reckon the big feller couldn’t ’a’ be’n a-lookin’. I’ve

Studied a heap on it, and I just know the big feller

Couldn’t ’a’ be’n a-lookin’; for the little feller got out his

Sling and drew away and shied a little rock at him, and

popped him and down he tumbled. Then the little
feller rushed up and mounted him, jest as an old hunter
‘Oves to get on a b’ar after he’s shot him; and he out with the
big feller’s long sword and off with his head. Then it was
them Philistine sinners’ turn to be skeer’d, and they broke for

_ the brush; and all of them chil’en of Israel fellers jest shouted

and chased ’em clean over the mountain into a yalley, and

then com’d back and got ali their camp plunder.

My brethrin, that’s the best story of a fight I ever read
Bt and you can’t buy no better story-book nor this very
ible, , ‘

DREAMING AT FOURSCORE.—Hben H. Reaford.

She sits in. the open deorway,
While the sun goes down the West,
With her kerchief folded smoothly
Across her aged breast.

Her hair is whiter than silver;
Once brown, and always fair;
The, sunshixe falls on its meshes,
_ And works its wonders there.

Her cheeks are wrinkled and faded
Where the roses used to blow;
Such roses are all too tender
For old age’s frost and snow.

 
1g

’ When a shadow, worse than

DIME BOOK OV

Her hands in her lap are folded
And her ball has rolled away

From her knitting-work, and the kitten
Is ready for reckless play.

Her eyes are afar on the landscape,
But she sees no living thing;

She is looking back into her girlhood,
Into her life’s far spring.

And as she looks back to the springtime
Of a long and useful life,

She thinks of its lights and shadows,
Of its doubts, and hopes, and strife.

She thinks, as she sits in the sunshine
Of this golden afternoon,

Of the beautiful moonlight evenings
Far back in a happy June,

And look at the far, white stars,
And hark for a well-known footstep,
And the fall of the meadow bars.

When she used to stand by the gateway, — j }

 

And then she thinks of the morning
When, clad in her bridal white,

She went from the hope of her girlhood,
Under skies that were strangely bright,

To the pleasant and lowly homestead
Where a new, sweet life begun,

‘When they started out on the journey
Which ends but when life is done.

She thinks of the little children
That came to their pleasant home,

And were so much like sunshine
That she never thought of gloom.

And then there comes o’er the picture
A shadow which hides the sun,

And she sees the grave of their youngest,
The last and the fairest one,

The years roll on with their changes, - z
And the children are taller gro : -
» 1 others,

Falls over the threshold stone.

 
 

se

RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

She stands again by her husband,
When his bark of life sets sail
For the land of the great hereafter,

Beyond this earthly vale.

She hears him say, as she presses,
The last kiss on his brow,

** We've been happy a long time, darling,
And I hate to leave you now.”

She thinks of the dreary sorrow
Which wrapped her own life in,

When they laid him down in the churchyard,
Away from all care and sin.

They had worked and toiled together
For many a pleasant year,

And without him life was lonely,
But God gave her heart good cheer.

She read His word, and believed it,
And found sweet solace there,

And often talked with her husband
By the means of faith and prayer.

Her children had grown, and their pathways
Lay all ways, near and far;

But one, who was most like his father,
Had kept his mother there.

She loved to look at his features
When his daily toil was done,
And think of that far-off season
When her work of life begun.

And of him who had gone before her
So many years ago,

To sing the songs of Heaven,
And know what the angels know.

The sunshine drifted about her
Like a blessing from the skies,

And she woke from her sleepless dreaming
With a start that was half surprise.

The sleek white kitten had tangled
Her yarn in an endless coil,

And curled itself in the sunshine |
For a rest from its merry toil.
DIME BOOK OF

She took up her life and her knitting
And began where she laid them down,

While the sunshine wove im her tresses.
Gold threads.for the vanished brown.

She looked away toward the churchyard,
Where the grass grew green and tall,
Which: sprung from the sods, that. covered

The one she loved best of all,

And thought ere long they would lay her
Away neath the grass-green sod,

And two lives be re-unite
Forevermore with God.

RUM.—Bob Ingersoll.

‘Tam aware there is a prejudice against any man engaged |
in the liquor business. I believe from the time it issues from |
the coiled and poisonous worm in the distillery, until it”
empties into the hell of death, dishonor and crime, that alco-

hol is demoralizing to eae that touches: it, from its

source to where it ends. I do not believe anybody can con-
template the subject without being prejudiced against the
crime. All we have to do is to think of the wrecks on either
side of the stream of death, of the suicides, of the insanity, of
the poverty, —— and destruction coming from alcohol;
of the little children tugging at the breasts of weeping, despair-
ing, starving mothers begging for bread; of the men of genius
it has wrecked; of the men struggling with imaginary ser-

pents produced by this devilish thing; and when we think of |

the jails and almshouses, of the asylums, of the prisons, andof |
the scaffolds on either bank, I donot wonder that every thought-
ful man is prejudiced against the vile stuff called alcohol.
“‘Intemperance cuts down youth in its vigor, manhood in
its strength, and age in its weakness. It breaks the father’s
heart, bereaves the doting mother, extinguishes natural affec-
tion, destroys conjugal love, blots out filial attachmen ‘
blights paternal hope, and. brings premature age in sorrow an!
dishonor to the grave. It produces weakness, not strength,
sickness, not health; death, not life. It makes wives widows, —
children orphans, fathers fiends, and all paupers. It feeds
rheumatism, nurses gout, welcomes epidemics, invites cholera, | _
imports pestilence, engenders. consumption, and covers the |
land with idleness, misery and crime. It produces controver- —
sies, fosters quarrels, cherishes riots. It crowds our peniteD- |
tiaries and furnishes victims for the scaffold. ’

y
‘

 
RECITATIONS AND READINGS, 43

‘* Alcohol is the blood of the gambler, the inspiration of the
burglar, the stimulus of the highwayman, and the support of
the midnight incendiary. It suggests the lie and counte

| Nances the liar, condones the thief, esteems the blasphemer. It
- Violates obligations, reverences fraud, turns love to hate,

Scorns virtue and innocence. It incites the father to butcher
helpless offspring, and the child to sharpen the parricidal

“Alcohol burns up men, consumes women, destroys life,
Curses God, and despises Heaven. It suborns witnesses,
nurses perfidy, defiles the jury-box and stains the judicial er-
mine. It bribes voters, disqualifies votes, corrupts elections,
Pollutes our institutions and endangers the Government. It
_ degrades the citizen, debases the legislator, dishonors the

Statesman, and disarms the patriot. It brings shame, not
honor; terror, not safety; despair, not hope; misery, not hap-
Piness; and with the malevolence of a fiend calmly surveys
its pane desolation, and reveling in havoc, it poisons feli-
City, destroys peace, ruins morals, wipes out national honor,
Curses the world, and laughs at the ruin it has wrought. It
does that, and more—it murders the soul. It is the sum of all
Villainies, the father of all crimes, the mother of all abomina
tions, the devil’s best friend, and God’s worst enemy.” ;

Hiv PSs

_ WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

(These verses were repeated by Abraham Lincoln on the 22d day of
March, 1864, to Frank B. Carpenter, Mr. Lincoln remarking at the time

that he had committed them to memory while a young man, but

never known the author.)

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall molder to dust, and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved,

The mother that infant’s affection who proved,
The husband that mother and infant who blest,
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised

- Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

 
DIME BOOK OF

The hand of the King, that the scepter hath borne,
The brow of the Priest, that the miter hath worn,
The eye of the Sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap,

oo
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep,

The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of Heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes—like the flower or the weed,
That withers away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes—even those we behold

To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been;

We see the same sights our fathers have seen;

We drink the same stream, we view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;

From the death we are shrinking our fathers would

__ To the life we are clinging they also would cling—
But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing.

They loved—but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned—but the heart of the haughty is cold;

They grieved—but no wail from their slumber will coméi |

They joyed—but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died—ay, they died!—we things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

And make in their dwellings a transient abode,

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. _

. Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

’Tis the wink of an eye—'tis the draught of a breath;
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death;
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud.

Oh. why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

 

 

  
    

er MD ek ee a er a

   
  
i;

10;

 

RECITATIONS AND ‘READINGS. 45

THE COMING MUSTACHE.—Burdetts of the Hawkeye.

A boy asks questions. If there was any truth in the theory
of transmigration, when a boy died he would go into an inter-
Togation point. A boy knows where the first snowdrop lifts
and where the last Indian paint lingers. His pockets are cabi-
nets. He drags from them curious fossils that he don’t know
the names of. He knows where the herbs grow that have
marvelous medicinal properties, and he nearly sends the rest
of the family to the graveyard by making practical tests upon
them. The boy has his superstitions, and he carries in his
Pocket one particular marble—be it brummie, agate or blood
alley—which when he loses, he sees panic and bankruptcy
coming, and retires before the crash comes with his pockets
full of shillings and a creditors’ meeting in the back room. He
has a charm to cure warts on the hand; he has a marvelous in-
Stinct for the woods. As he grows older he wants to be a mis-
Sionary or a pirate, and so far as there is any preference, he
Would rather be a pirate—a profession in which there are
More opportunities for making money and fewer chances: of

eing devoured raw. He hates company, for it carries him to
the second table and leaves him no pie. He never walks down-
Stairs, but adopts the single-rail, narrow-gauge passenger
tramway and soon cures the other members of the family of
the practice of setting the water-pitcher on the baluster post.
He asks with alarming frequency for a new hat, and wears it
In the air or on the ground ten times more than on his head.

‘oor Tom loves as he makes mischief. _He musses his sister’s
ruffle and gets severely reprimanded.

But some neighbor’s Tom comes in and makes the mast
helpless, hopeless, abject, chaotic wreck of that ruffle that it
Can be distorted into, and all the reproach he gets is, ‘‘ Must he
£0 so soon?” But poor Tom gets weary and drops off into the
Wonderland of a boy’s dreams, and no mother who has not
dragged a sleepy boy off the lounge at nine o’clock and led

im up-stairs can understand the Herculean grasp with which
&square sleep takes hold of a boy, how fearfully limber and
Imp it makes him, and how it develops innumerable joints
that work both ways. He never relates his dreams till every
One else in the family has told theirs, and there and then he
Comes in like a back county with the necessary majority. In
time Tom comes to desire a tail-coat and glove-fitting boots.
Before he has worn his father’s arctics—on his feet, and his
mother’s slippers—on his jacket. It dawns upon Tom that he
tas hands—a pair, a good hand. And when he goes to the
first church sociable with his sister, on account of the absence
Of some other Tom, he finds that he has eleven hands, and he
Wonders where the eleventh one came from. Now his mother
Rever cuts his hair-with.a pair of scissors that have cut miles
and miles Of calico, and vast eternities of paper, and snarls

     
   
  
   
  
   
 
   
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
46 DIME BOOK OF

and tangles of string, and have snuffed candles, and pared ap-

ples, and trimmed lamp-wicks, and pried up carpet-tacks, and

trimmed the family nails, and have

annual struggle of cutting stove-pipe lengths in two. Now he
knows that man’s upper lip was destined by nature to be a
mustache pasture. How exquisitely reserved he is; with what

delicate action does he make the first preliminary investigation

in order that he may detect the first symptoms of a velvety

resistance. And when he has found that it is there and only

needs to be brought out, how he walks down to the barber's

shop, gazing anxiously into the window, and—walks past.

At last, when he musters up courage enough to go inside
and climbs into the chair, and is just on the point of whisper-
ing to the barber that he would like a shave, in comes some
modern Esau, with beard as long as Tom’s arm, and frightens
it out of him, and he has his hair cut again, for the third time
that week, so short that the barber holds it in his teeth, cuts it
with a file, trims it with a smoothing-plane, and parts it with
a straight edge and a scratch awl. Nobody ever did know how
a boy gets hold of his father’s razor, and when the boy gets it
he hardly knows what to do with it. In the course of a few
minutes the blade buckles on him and cuts every one of his
four fingers. Then he cuts the strop with it, and would cut it
oftener if the strop lasted longer. ‘Then he knocks it against
the side of the mug, drops it on the floor and steps on it; but
is pleased to find that none of the nicks in it are as large as
saw-teeth. Then he wonders that a man’s nose is so put upon

_his face that.a man cannot get at his own with a razor without
standing on his head. He slashes his nose, cuts the corners of
his mouth, and makes a disagreeable cut on his lip that makes
it look as though it had just come out of a free fight with a
straw-cutter. But he learns just before he cuts his upper lip
clear off and his mustache comes on again. Although with
out color, it can be felt—very soft felt. And then Tom has to
endure in quiet every sort of attack from the other members
of the family about his face being dirty; that he had better
use a spoonful of cream and a piece of the cat’s tail to lather
his upper lip; and the taunts of his sister and younger brother,
who ask him and ay to the company seupdctivtly: ““Tom’s

ut it grows—short in the middle and
very no longer at the ends. Don’t laugh at it; encourage it;
coax it along; draw it out; speak kindly of it. Even after it
has grown long enough to be felt it causes trouble. It is more
obstinate than a meerschaum pipe in taking color.

raisin’ a mustache.”

 

one their level best at the © }
RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

THE ENGINEER’S STORY.—Annabdel Dwight.

Yes, sir, Iam the driver
Of Number 68—

And I could tell some stories
Out of my memory.

For.ten years I’ve been running
Along this same old line.

I’ve knocked about the world some,
And am not over fine.

But, sir, one.day last. summer
A bit of Heaven fell
Across my track. At Grover
The road: curves in a dell.
We never stop at Grover;
And this day as we made
The curve I saw a woman
Across the sleepers laid—
Fainting; and we were running
At twenty miles an hour.
There warn’t no time for planning;
Some strange and mighty power ~
Just put me through my paces.
I whistled sharp for brakes—
But, Lord! that warn’t.much use, sir-
My tough head fairly aches
Recalling it. I didn’t
Feel weak and frightened then ;
I crept out.on the pilot, ?
Leaving the fireman, Ben,
Inside the cab. I caught her—
The girl, you know—and threw
Her off the rails; but tumbled,
And nothing more I knew
Until my eyes I opened
In just the finest place
Iever saw. The curtains
Were made of lovely lace;
‘And ev’ry thing was stunning.
I thought I must have di
And drifted safely over
Upon the other side.

I was weak as.a baby—
My hands so clean and fine,

That I was mighty doubtful
About them being mine.

They told me I'd been crazy ©
And sick for three long weeks.

 
DIME BOOK OF

My. beard was growing roughly
Over my haggard cheeks.

The girl 1’d saved was daughter
Of stylish people. They

Had nursed me up, they told me,
Because they could not pay

The debt they owed me. Stranger,
I can’t begin to tell

« One-half their flatt’ring speeches—

Perhaps it’s just as well.

That girl—I grew to love her.
She filled my life and heart.
I cursed my stupid folly,
For J could have no part—
A sooty engine-driver—
In this girl’s dainty life.
The heavens might fall, but never
Would she become my wife.

And when I went away, sir,
I bade them all good-by,
And thanked them for their kindness.
The girl was standing nigh—
All fair, and sweet, and dainty.
My heart was filled with pain—
Hot with the grief and passion
That seemed so wildly vain.
J trembled like a coward—
My sickness left me weak.
My little, lovely darling!
She kissed me on my cheek.

Well, sir, that just upset me.

I hugged her close, and cried
Like any year-old baby;

And when at last I tried
Totella good straight story,

Her father spoke right out:

‘My, man, you’ve won her; take her!”
Yiooked at him in doubt,
And then at little Janie,
Who, blushing shyly, said:
‘ Papa can never pay you—
e gives you me instead!”

Yes, sir, we now are married.
My home is Heaven to me.
A happy man, the driver
Of Number 63!

 
 

RECITATIONS AND. READINGS. 4

A CANDIDATE FOR PRESIDENT.—The Fat Contributer.

The hour has struck. I can hesitate no longer. The high-
est interests of the nation demand that I present myself before
the American people as a candidate for President. I have
waited for some one else to bring me out, but no one seems to
have thought of me. And I don’t think very much of myself,
but a man don’t want to think much of himself to be a candi-
date for President nowadays. If he had any self-regard at the
outset, he would think very little of himself by the time the
campaign was over.

I am one of the people—I might say, one of the boys. I
came up from obscurity, and I have brought a good deal of ob-
scurity up with me. I never had any politics—or much else—
but I am ‘‘ Liberal” to a fault, ready to receive votes from any
quarter, although I am not prepared to give quarters for any
votes.

As for a platform, suit yourselves, gentlemen. The lecture
platform would probably suit me as well as any other. Hav-
ing stood on nearly every platform in the country, it would be
difficult for you to get up a platform I couldn’t stand on. In
the ae of a platform, give me four aces, and I’ll ‘‘stand”
on that.

I am the especial friend of the laboring man. No man likes
to see a man work better than Ido. Infact, I had rather see
a man work than work myself. I am not only averse to work-
ing more than eight hours, but I am opposed to working a sin-
gle blamed hour!

I am in favor of paying the national debt. It is, in fact, the
only debt I am in favor of paying. And rather than not see
it paid during my administration, I engage to pay it out of my
own pocket.

As far as the civil service is concerned, all I can say is, if
the country will do a civil service by me and elect me, I am
ready to do a civil service by the country. No one can speak
not no fairer nor that. ;

Retrenchment is my motto. If you can’t put a retrench-
ment plank in the platform, the in a board. I am ready to
work without any salary, but I shall insist upon my board.

Iam inclined to free trade, preferring to feel free to trade
whenever I please, but if a tariff plank is necessary to my
election, put iin! I shall get ona tar-iff I ain’t elected.

Pledge me as strong as you please to the temperance folks.
The temperance pledge don’t hurt anybody.

I am not only in favor of women's rights, but of women’s
rights-and-lefts, if they prefer to wear them. I am in favor of
women voting, provided they vote for me; and I see no reason

why a woman shouldn’t hold office, except perhaps the diffi- —

culty of getting hold of it.

 

 

    
 

 

 
DIME BOOK OF

I may be asked how I would treat the Indians. I wouldn't |
“treat” them at all. They have been treated too much and |
too often. My private opinion is, that it -will bea treat when |
there isn’t an Injun left this side of the happy hunting-grounds. |

No relation can hold office under my administration, no mat-
ter whether he is my relative or the relative of some other
man,. I shall appoint none but old bachelors, childless wid-
owers and orphans. I have a few relatives of my own hold-
ing offices now, but they shall be promptly kicked out as soon —
as [am elected, One brother-in-law has a little coal office on
the dock; he must give it up. A third cousin drinks too —
much occasionally and gets office foot. He can’t get office un- —
der me. You see Iam determined to reduce the “relative”
expenses of the Government.

engage not to receive any git, unless it be the highest of-
fice in the gift of the people. If I am ever called ‘‘our pres-
ent Chief Magistrate,” I won’t be a Chief Magistrate of pres-
ents, Not being a man of commanding presence, anyhow,
there would probably be few presents that qt could command.

What few natural gifts I may have, however, I shall beg to re-
tain, as they are no: worth making any fuss about,

I stand by the old Constitution that has been tried. No
man has tried his old constitution more than I have tried mine.
laccept the amendments, every-one of them. When it comes

to amends, I can shout Amen! as loud as any one.

Lunderstand there is an ambitious man named George Fran-
cis Train, who aspires to be President on his promise to free
Treland. I engage not only to free Ireland, but to make Irish
whisky free into the bargain. I shall at least be able to tie
George Francis on the popular vote, unless one or the other of
us is prevented from going to the polls. I believe I could even
tie the Davenport Brothers.

I shall inaugurate a wholesale emancipation business as soon
as I am inaugurated. I engage to emancipate women from

_ the thralldom of Fashion, to give the ‘‘boys” their rights, and |
abolish the cruel edict which excludes children in arms from
the elevating. and purifying influences of the theaters. I
pledge myself to free everybody and to free postage; to free
:SOu, free pews in churches, free press, free passes, free drinks,
-and freebooters.

 
RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

ROLL-CALL.—The Argonaut.

| “Corporal Green!” the Orderly cried.
- ABS “« Here!” was. the answer, loud and clear,
, From the lips of the soldier who stood near;
And ‘‘ Here!” was the word the next replied.

- “ Cyrus Drew!”—then silence fell—
This time no answer followed the call;
Only his rear man had seen him fall,
Killed or wounded, he could not tell.

There they stood in the failing light,
These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plain to be read as open books

While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hillside was splashed with blood,
_ And down in the corn where the poppies grew,
Were redder stains than the poppies knew;
And crimson-dyed was the river’s flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side
That day in the face of a murderous fire,
That swept them down in its terrible ire,

And their life-blood went to color the tide.

“ Herbert Kline!” At the call there came
Two stalwart soldiers into the line,
Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,

Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

“* Ezra Kerr!”—and a voice answered, ‘‘ Here!”
‘« Hiram Kerr!”—but no man replied. ;
They were brothers, these two; the sad wind sighed,
And a shudder crept through the cornfield near,

“ Ephraim Deane!—then a soldier spoke;
“« Deane carried our regiment’s colors,” he said;
“« Where our ensign was shot I left him dead,
Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

-** Close ta the roadside his body lies;
J paused a moment and gave him drink;
He murmured his mother’s name, I think,
And death came with it, and closed his eyes.”

"Twas a victory, yes, but it cost usdear— —
For that company’s rell, when called at night, .
Of a hundred mea who went into the fight,
Numbered but twenty that answered ‘‘ Here!"

 
DIME BOOK OF

AN ACCESSION TO THE FAMILY.—Spoopendyke.

‘Well, well, well,” said Mr. Spoopendyke, with a grin that | —
involved his whole head, and an effort at a tip-toe tread that |
shook the whole house. *‘ And so it’s a girl, my dear.” F

Mrs. Spoopendyke smiled faintly, and Mr. Spoopendyké
picked up his heiress. ;

“It’s the image of you,” she said, regarding with somé
trepidation Mr. Spoopendyke’s method of handling the infant

,'. “I don’t see how you make that out,” said Mr. Spoopen
e lyke, gravely. <‘‘I don’t know when my nose looked like thé
vhumb part of a boiled lobster claw. Do I understand you
that my eyes bear any resemblance to the head of a screw?” |
é ‘ mean the general features,” murmured Mrs. Spooped’
yke.

“The general features seem to be all mouth,” retorted Mr.
Spoopendyke, examining his acquisition. ‘‘If our gene
features are at all alike, my visage must remind you of a3
earthquake. Hi! kitchee! kitchee! What makes her fold uP
her legs like that?” — |

‘She can’t help it,” reasoned Mrs. Spoopendyke. ‘‘ They'll |
straighten out in time.”

‘No time like the present,” quoted Mr. Spoopendyke, and |
he took his daughter’s feet and commenced pulling her limbs.
‘I don’t want any bandy-legged first in this family while ’m
at the head of it.’

Naturally the baby began to cry, and Mr. Spoopendyke e&
sayed to soothe it. j

‘Hi! kitchee! kitchee! kitch-ee-ee!” he chirruped. ‘‘ Great
Scott! what a cavern! Any idea how much this mouth weighs?
Hi! kitchee! kitch-e-e! You'll have to get that mouth roofed
in before cold weather. What’s the matter with her, anyway?

“Perhaps you hurt her. Let me take her, please,” pleaded
helpless Mrs. Spoopendyke.

‘(She's doing well enough. Hi! you! Hold up! Havent

,you anything to catch this mouth in? It’s spilling all over the
neighborhood. Hi! Topsy, Genevieve, Cleopatra, dry uP
I’m going to have trouble breaking this young one’s temper, 1
ean see that. Here! bend the other way once!” and Mr —

'-Spoopendyke tried to straighten up his offspring without avail.

‘Tet her come to me, do, please,” moaned Mrs. SpoopeD-
dyke, and Mr. Spoopendyke was forced to hand her over. j

“Well, that’s quite a baby,” said he, nursing his knee and —
eying the infant. ‘What ’re those bumps over its eyes for?

hat preponderance of intelligence do they represent?”
You mustn’t talk so,” remonstrated bere: Spoopendyke-
‘*She’s the handsomest child you ever saw.” -_

‘* Well, she’s got to stop RE ae nails before she goes any, |
further with this procession. Here, take your hands out 0 |

| your mouth, can’t you. Why don’t you put her hands down?” |

,

 
  

oS

__ ‘* Why, all babies do that,” explained Mrs. Spoopendyke.
_ “You can’t stop that.”
“Ym going to try,” said Mr. Spoopendyke, ‘‘and I don’t
Want to be interfered with in bringing this child up. Here,
ou, Maud 8. Bonesetter, put your hands in your pockets!

  

i RECITATIONS. AND READINGS.

hat f
hat |

 

 

 

nursery.”
» And Mr. Spoopendyke started off to find his friend Speckle-
: one:

kame on’t let me see any more nail chewing, or you and I'll get 1
3 mixed up in anargument. She gets that from your family,
ie Mrs. Spoopendyke.”
ome “Say, dear, don’t you want to go and order some things?”
he asked Mrs. Spoopendyke.
aa _ “*No,” rejoined her husband; ‘‘I want to see this youngster.
e Where’s her chin? Do babies always have their upper jaw set
o tight on their shoulders? Kitchee! kitchee! Her scalp comes
; Clear to the bridge of her nose. I don’t believe she’s quite
fr Tight. Where's her forehead? Great Moses! Her head is all
al ~ On the back part! Say, that baby’s got to be pressed. That's
a No shape!” ,
“Get away!” exclaimed Mrs. Spoopendyke, indignantly.
rf “‘She’s a perfect angel. There’s nothing in the world the mat-
1) ter with her.”
- _ “Of course you know,” growled Mr. Spoopendyke. ‘‘ You
4 don’t want anything more than a fog-horn and a misspent ap-
7 propriation to be an orphan asylum, If I had your’faith and
a the colic I’d make a living as a foundling’s home!  She’ll be i}
old enough to spank in a week, won’t she?” j i
2 “No, she won't!” said Mrs. Spoopendyke. ‘‘ She'll never H
be old enough for that.” 4
| ., I'll bet she will,” grunted Mr. Spoopendyke; ‘‘if she isn’t,
9 she'll get it before she matures up to that period. That's all.
Let me take her. Here, let’s have her.”» sa
ee But Mrs. Spoopendyke eer refused.
14 ** Keep * io dod-gasted baby, then!” roared Mr. Spoopen-
dyke. ‘If you know more about babies than I do, then keep
t her. The way you coddle her one would think she was a new
s mete for the complexion. If you had one more brain and a
ta andle, you’d make a fair rattle-box! Fit you up with a
[ broken sofa and a grease spot, and you'd do for a second-hand

  
aie rere ees

sae einen ietae EL cee —

i
Oe

eee

eee

a er neste

Soe et

B4 . ? DIME BOOK OF

WHEN THE COWS COME HOME.—Mrs. Agnes E. Mitchell.

When klingle, klangle, klingle
Way down the dusky dingle,
The cows are coming home,
How sweet and clear, and faint and low,
The airy tinklings come and go,
Like chimings from the far-off tower,
Or patterings of an April shower
That makes the daisies grow!
Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolingle-lingle,
Way down the darkening dingle,
The cows come slowly home.
(And old-time friends and twilight plays,
And starry nights and sunny days,
Come trooping up the misty ways,
When the cows come home.)

With jingle, jangle, jingle,
Soft tones that sweetly mingle,
The cows are coming home.
Malvine, and Pearl, and Floramel,
De Kamp, Red Rose and Gretchen Schell,
Queen Bess, and Sylph, and Spangled Sue,
Across the fields I hear her ‘‘ lo0-00,”
And clang her silver bell.
Go-ling, go-lang, golingle-dingle,
With faint, far sounds that mingle,
The cows come slowly home.
(And mother songs of long-gone years,
And baby joys and childish fears,
And youthful hopes and youthful tears,
When the cows come home.)

With ringle, rangle, ringle,
a3 twos, and threes, and single,

e cows are coming home,
Through violet air we see the town,
And the summer sun a-slipping down;
And the maple in the hazel glade
Throws down the path a longer shade,

And the hills are growing brown.
To-ring, to-rang, toringle-ringle,
By threes, and fours, and single,
The cows come slowly home.

(The same‘sweet sound of wordless psalm,
The same sweet June day rest and calm,
The same sweet smell of buds and balm,

When the cows come home.)

 
RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

With tinkle, tankle, tinkle,

Through fern and periwinkle,

The cows are coming home.
A-loitering in the checkered stream,
Where the sun-rays glance and gleam,
Clarine, Peach-bloom and Phebe Phillis,
Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies,

In a drowsy dream.

To-link, to-lank, tolinkle-linkle,

O’er banks with buttercups a-twinkle,

The cows come slowly home.

(And up through memory’s deep ravine
Come the brook’s old song and its old-time sheen,
And the crescent of the silver queen,

When the cows come home.)

With klingle, klangle, klingle,
With loo-o0, and moo-oo, and jingle,
The cows are coming home.
And over there on Merlin Hill,
Hear the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will;
And the dewdrops lie on the tangled vines,
And over the poplars Venus shines,
And over the silent mill.
Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolingle-lingle,
With ting-a-ling and jingle,
The cows come slowly home.
(Let down the bars; let in the train
Of Iong-gone songs, and flowers, and rain,
For dear old times come back again
When the cows come home.

THAT DONATION PARTY.— Whitehorn.

About once every year I run over to my native village, when
a Bt the blues, and have a quiet talk with my old friend and
3 dviser, the village parson. I only have to go once’a year,
nd we have a kind of a moral interview, as it were. It is of
ncalculable benefit, as it brings out a good deal of good in me
that might otherwise go to waste and the world might ‘suffer
ry it.
_ You have no idea how good these interviews make me,
Perhaps because you don’t have a chance to find out. I only
Wish you had. i
__, Well, I went there the other day to pay him my annual
_ Visit, und found him sitting on a ‘saw-buck in his woodshed.
He did not greet me warmly. He allowed me to take his hand
| 88 if he was afraid I might run off with it. Care sat on his

 
56 : 20% DIME BOOK OF

brow about as heavily as he sat on the stick of wood. He ¥
tered no smile, and I said, ‘‘ My dear old friend, have you

against a theological stump in writing you next sermon? Fo} |

I see there is something more weighty on your conscience tha! | *
‘the sins of the world.” -

“Not that,” he replied, kicking the sawdust with his foot |
“not that. You see I am the survivor of a donation part) | —
which befell at my house last night.” -

“A very pleasant gathering, of course,” I said, ‘highly dé | ~
lighting and everybody in the best of spirits.” ;

“« Well, yes, everybody in good spirits except my family aD® | ~
I. You see, these little things have their drawbacks, ®|_
the'boy observed when his father drew back to lick him,” Dé}
replied, as he scratched his head where it did not need it.  &

“‘Of course,” I said, ‘everybody was here, and that mad® Pb

up for a good deal. Lots of presents, no doubt. Provisiod§

and clothes enough to last a year.” : a
“Well, I'll tell you,” he answered. ‘‘ Everybody was heréi |

the supply of people was profoundly ample. When they

found everybody in town was here they sent out in the cout | —

try for some more, and got’em. They took us by surpris® |
and we are not over the surprise yet. I am a meek man; if Vy
was not I would not be a preacher. JI believe you and I, Mr
W., are two of the meekest men in this State.”
J assented to this meekly, with a cough. ;
“Tt was unexpected; they flooded the house. If I had tha! |
much of a congregation on Sunday I would be proud, and |
would preach longer. They were very happy; they had 2?
cause to be otherwise. They had come todo mehonor. You |
ought to have seen the pile of victuals they brought, and pre* |
ents for the ne No, I don’t need another donation party
for a year. I will try to do without it. ;
“Our folks went to work to ge supper, and resurr ted 4
everything in the house which had been laid away for a raid
day, and my calendar is very damp. They eat up everything |
What kind of a place is Kansas to live in, if they do hav?
grasshoppers? *
‘‘Fourteen of the Griggins family donated their presence '? |
the occasion, besides two pounds and a half of sausage. +
pumpkin which the Joneses brought they did not miss at |
home, and I am very thankful. The match-box which
Tubses presented me with, along with a neat speech by Masté
Tubs, was composed entirely of tin. Iwas afraid it was D” |
s, but I am gure there was no deception about it. T»®

ilgus brought half a peck of corn meal which they |

would have sifted, but it would not have been quite 7:

k if they had done so. The Browns donated fully thre |
bundred dried beans, maybe more than that, and fondly hop@” | —
_ I was fond of them. One dozen eggs which the GrabDi® | —

bas

~

 
 

RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

brought, besides the whole family, and all of them fond of
Victuals, would have been good enough if the hen had not set
On them for six weeks: the shells were perfect. A pound of
utter which the Boddles brought down in a three-horse
Wagon gloried in the pride of its strength, and nobody had the
Power to wrestle with it. The nutmeg grater which the Fer-
fusons brought would grate a nutmeg as well as any other
tater. There was no discount on that, and it would have
n cheap at five cents. . The Boggses came in, eleven strong,
€ad apologized because the other one could not come; hoped
We would not think it was because he had any disrespect for

€ pastor, which was not the case, and begged us to accept a
quart of milk which they brought in a Vinegar Bitters bottle.

“Mrs. Bangs brought a couple of tallow candles, her own
Make, She said she desired us, without many words, to ac-
Cept them without any reserve whatever, as that day she'd
Made nearly a hundred of them, and she’d never miss them,
never.

“Mr. Swiggs, the carpenter, brought a bootjack of wooden
Construction, more valuable, he said, because it was made from
& tree that was something over forty years old, and that no
oan who owned it would ever need to go to bed with his boots

n.

“‘ Squire Pidgeons, three miles out, was too large-hearted to

ring only one pocket full of onions, so he brought two pock-
€ts full, and then was generous enough to distribute the scent
around without regard to sex.

“The Wiggenses sent around a barrow full of stove-wood,
Saying they didn’t mind a little wood, as they had many cords,
2nd were sorry it was not as dry as they would like it to be,
and so was I.

““The Hoppers sent a head of cabbage about as large as a
three-year-old head, and word that they were afraid they could
Not come, as they had company, but they came afterward,
and brought the company, seven strong.

“The young man who poked his elbow through the mirror
Said, if I wished, he would pay for it, but I told him not to
Mind it. When the rocking-chair went over and the back
Came off I received ample apologies, and assurance that it
Never was on very good in the first place. e

““When the clock got knocked off the mantlepiece they

elped me to gather all the pieces up, and one lady actually
Said it was a shame that it had not been fastened there more
Securely, and that things were so apt to fall when they were
O0se.

“‘A great many dishes were broken at the table, but not all,
Net all. I feel very glad of it. They might have all gone. I
thought'so by they way they started ts go.

“ The young men sliding down the stair railing broke it off,

    
    
   
   
   
  
 
    
  
 
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
   
 
 

>

  
58 DIME BOOK or

but no one was injured. They said that any kind of a carpe?)
ter who knew anything about his business at all could put *} l
new railing up, and they kindly left me the address of one. .| 5
“When the lamp was knocked off the stand and the 0] a
went over the Brussels carpet, it did not take fire. It was &*
tremely lucky. a
““The breaking of a pair of very costly vases I did not 84 }t
anything about—and neither did they, and as far as the hou] J
is concerned they left that, and it is still there. oe
“They left at a late hour, and promised to raise my qu®
ter’s salary before long, which was due a year ago, and prov
ised also to come back and give me another donation party
fore long,” and he groaned a visible groan. y
I did not talk religion and such to him that day, and firm’)
concluded that I would give up my ideas of ever becoming, 4
reacher. I don’t think I will. His wife is sick abed, and he® |
ike to be there himself. “4

2 ee ee a een

per Sle

- MOMMY TAFT.—Z. W. Beecher.

On the first day of March it'was, that Tommy Taft had bee
unquietly sleeping in the forenoon, to make up fora disturbed
night. The little noisy clock—that regarded itself as the = :
sence of a Yankee, and ticked with immense alacrity al’.
‘struck in the most bustling and emphatic manner—this indv® |
trious and moral clock began striking whir-r-r, one; whirtt
two; whir-r-r, three (Tommy jerked his head a little as
something vexed him in his sleep); whir-r-r, four; whirt4
five; whir-r-r, six (‘‘ Keep still; will ye? Let me alone, % |
woman! Confound your medicine!”); whir-r-r, seven; whirt
eight; (‘‘God in heaven! as sure as I live,” said Tommy, 4
bing his eyes as if to make sure they saw aright); whirt? |
nine; whir-r-r, ten! Then holding out his arms with the si |

licity of a child, his face fairly glowing with io”: and | an

‘ing now really noble, he cried: ‘‘ Barton—my boy Barton~
knew you wouldn’t: let the old man die and not help him!
knew it! I knew it!” ae

After the first surprise of joy subsided, Tommy pushed
Barton from the edge of his bed. “Stand up, boy; tu |.
round! There he is! Now I’m all right. Got my Pit ES

‘aboard; sealed orders; ready to sail the minnit the hawsers ’

‘0. ” 4

—seres

opm FB

cf
i
it
i
AY

Cope
Se Nabe f, YC ies glee eae tennl ey

After a few words about his return from the West, ?, |.
health and prospects, the old man returned to the subject U™ | —
seemed to lie nearest his heart. ‘They've all had a hand *,
me, Barton. Thero’s twenty firms in this town that is will? F

Seg

 
“or that port.

 

RECITATIONS AND READINGS. 59

P give a feller sailin’ orders, when they see he’s out'ard bound.
ut Tam an old salt—I know my owners!” said Tommy, with
affectionate wink at Barton. ‘‘ Ah, my boy, you're back
Sain; it’s allright now. Don’t youlet me go wrong. Iwant
YOu to tell me just where you're goin’, and I'll bear right up
You know, Barton, I never cheated you when
9% wasaboy. I took care of ye, and never told you a lie in
hy life, and never got you in a scrape. You won't cheat an
Wd man now, will yer
_ tt was all that Barton could do to maintain his self-posses-
“ion. ‘Tears and smiles kept company on his face. ‘‘My dear
tld Tommy, we won’t part company. We're both bound to~
fe same land. God will, I fervently hope, for Christ’s sake,
Srgive all our sins, and make us meet for everlasting life.”

“Amen!” roared out the old man. ‘‘Go on. You really
believe in it? Come here, Barton, sit down on the edge of the
ee look me in the face, and no flummery. Do you really be-
4€ve that there’s another world?”

“T do, Tommy, I believe it in my very soul.”

“That’s enough. I believe it, too, jest as sartain as if a
thipmate had told me about an island I'd never seen, but he

. Now, Barton, give me the bearin’s of ’t. D’ye believe
‘hat there’s a Lord that helps a poor feller to it?”

“T do. Christ loves me and you, and all of us. He saves
{ll who trust in Him.”

“He don’t stand on particulars, then? He won't rip up all
* feller’s old faults, will He? Or how’s that? Don’t you ease
YD on me, Barton, just to please me, but tell me the hardest
nt. I believe every word you say.”

Barton’s own soul had traveled on the very road on which
Tommy was now walking, and remembering his own experi-
face, he repeated to Tommy these words: ‘‘ ‘Who 7% a God
like “unto Thee, that pardoneth iniquity, and passeth by the
ansoression of the remnant of his heritage? He retaineth
hot His anger forever, because he delighteth i mercy. He

ill turn again; He will have compassion upon us; He will
Subdue our iniquities; and Thou wilt cast all their sins into
the depth of the sea.’””—Micah vii. 18, 19.

t “Now that’s to the p’int, Barton. The Lord will tumble a}
€ller’s sins overboard like rubbish, or bilge-water and the like,
When a ship is in the middle of the ocean? Well, it would
Puzzle a feller to find ’em ag’in after that. Is that all? I’m

Teport to Him?”

“Yes, Tommy; you are to report to God.”

“Barton, would yé jest as lief do me a little favor as not?”

“What is it, Taft?”

.. Would ye mind sayin’ a little prayer for me? It makes no
difference, of course; but jest a line of introduction in a for-
Sign port sometimes helps a feller amazingly.”

 
  

      
       
   
 
  

i od ate

 

    
  
 
       
     
       
     

60 DIME BOOK oF

   

Barton knelt by the bedside and prayed. Without reflectins |

  
   
  

  
   
       
     
   
       
   
     
 
   
       
 
     
   
   
   
       
 
     
    

at the moment on Uncle Tommy’s Peevoee wants, Barto? A

was following in prayer the line of his own feelings, whe?|
suddenly he felt Tommy’s finger gently poking his head. “J ry
say, Barton, ain't you steerin’ a p’int or two off the course? 7} ;
don’t seem to follow you.” A few earnest, simple petition’ are
followed, which Taft seemed to relish. ‘‘Lord, forgive Tom | *18
my Taft’s sins!” (‘‘“Now you've hit it,” said the old mab é
softly.) ‘‘Prepare him for Thy kingdom.” (‘‘Yes, and Bal i

ton, too!”) ‘‘May he feel Thy love, and trust his soul in ThY |
sacred keeping.” ~ (‘‘ Ah, ha! that’s it; you're in the right spd! | 1a
now.”) ‘‘Give him peace while he lives.” (‘‘ No matter abo a
that; the doctor’ll give me opium for that! Go on!”) ‘ etr
at his death save his soul in Thy kingdom, for Christ’s sake ee
“Amen. But didn’t you coil it away rather too quick! ~ Ho
Now, Barton, my boy, you’ve done a good thing. I’ve bee | be
waitin’ for you all winter, and you didn’t come a minnit to? -
‘

  

soon. I’m tired now, but I want to say one ae Bartod, |
when I’m gone, you won’t let the old woman suffer? She3-
had a pretty hard time of it with me. I knew you woul

  

  
  

One thing more, Barton,” said the old man, his voice sinkin! n
almost to a whisper, as if speaking a secret from the bottom @ | &
hig soul. ‘‘ Barton, you know I never had much money. Y
never laid up any—couldn’t. Now, you won’t let me come 08 © a
to the town for a funeral, will ye? t shoul hate to be burie® |
in a pine coffin, at town expense, and have folks laugh tb . i
didn’t dare open their heads to me when I was round town!” | }
Barton could not forbear smiling as the old man, growing — i
visibly feebler every hour, went on revealing traits which ‘
sturdy pride had covered when he was in health. :

  

“« And, Barton, I wish you’d let the children come when J’®
buried. They’ll come, if you'll jest let ’em know. Alway® |
trust the children. And” (pain here checked his utterance fot —
a moment)—‘‘let’s see, what was I saying? Oh, the childred. |
I don’t want nothin’ said. But if you’d jest as lief let th? |
children sing one of their hymns, I should relish it.” F

The color came suddenly to his cheek, and left as suddenly
He pressed his hand upon his heart, and leaned his head ful-
ther over on his pillow, as if to wait till the pang passed.
seemed long. Barton roseand leaned over him. The old ma? ©
opened his eyes, and with a look of ineffable longing, whis
pered, ‘‘ Kiss me.” :

A faint smile dwelt about his mouth; his face relaxed and
seemed to express happiness in its rugged features, But the ~
old man was not there. Without sound of wings or foo |
he had departed on his last journey.

  

  

  
  
   
 

RECITATIONS AND READINGS, 61

| A MICHIGANDER IN FRANCE.—Detroit Free Press.

» rhe sun rose bright and fair the first morning we were in
? nce. On our arrival at Boulogne, my wife suggested that
tionS| We should get a carriage, go into the country, and see sunny
[on Trance. Going to the stand I hailed a driver:
mas} . ‘‘Do you speak English?”
Bat “Oh, yaas.”
TY “All right; drive us out into the country; take us out ono’.
spo! | Yoad and back another—any direction you please.” :
bout The driver said ‘‘ Yaas,” as before and we rattled up the
And} Street, with its cobbly pavement. Suddenly we turned from
ake. | the harbor and drove up a street to the summit ofa hill. The
iriver stopped and waved his hand, evidently inviting atten-
ck! | tion to the splendid panorama of town and country that la
ec) | below. Having enjoyed the prospect for some time, I sud-
to0 | denly recollected that I was not paying the driver for stand-
ot, | ing still, so I said: ‘“ All right, old man; that’s very fine. You
1e3 | Can go ahead now.”
ld. At last a turn brought us out on the front street again, but
! | | Xearer the sea than where we started. The driver looked
‘| Smilingly on us.
I “Look here!” said I, glancing at him, ‘‘ are you going into
o8 | the country or are you not?”
a7 “Oh, yes,” said he; and he began to rattle off something
at | inFrench. It now began to dawn upon me that he knew as
” | little English asI knew French. I went back into the carriage
1g in despair. ‘‘ Drive on!” I yelled; ‘“‘ move—proceed—get’ out
i3 of here.”
I got out my “ Tourists’ French Pronouncing Handbook,
m | for the Use of Travelers who have Only an Imperfect Knowl-
8 | €dge of the French Language—Sixth Edition.” The first
~~ column gave the English, the next the corresponding French,
. | and the third the pronunciation. I ran down the column,
&@ | ‘Yeading aloud:
. “** What is it usual to give?
““* Put my pertmanteau in the cab.

«Tell the driver where to take me.
“* Thanks for your attention.’

 

L #3
1 ‘That's the last,” I said to my wife. ‘It now goes into the’

journeys by railway. I wish I could tell him where to go.”
Can’t you find the word ‘country’ anywhere?” asked my
Wife.
“‘The nearest I come to it is this:

* ‘ Phrase.—The inhabitants of countries.
i “French.—Des habitans de different Pays.
‘* Pronounced. Dais ahbeetang de deefairang Paiee.’

© “Pll try Pays on him,” I said. I steppedout. We were in
- & seeluded street.

   
  
  
 

‘

  

“*See here,” said I. He looked resigned. _

    
 

 

 

 
Star ES ER A

 

63 : DIME BOOK OF

- Would you mind driving to the paiyee?—le paiyee, you |)

know—les pelgeodu paiyee—des paiyee—see! Some of the
t. ’ ’

‘ must be rig a
We anxiously watched his puzzled face for signs of intelli-
gence. «|

‘« Savai voo le sh’maing?” asked the driver.

“Tt’s your inning this time, old man. You've got me there —

I don’t savai voo worth a cent, I regret to say.” ;
Here a grand idea struck me. I went to a lone tree that

stood near, and, calling his attention to it, gave a magnificent

sweep of my arm toward the horizon. :
“Oh, wee, wee,” said he, with pleasure beaming from his

countenance, and I once more got into the one-horse shay:
We rattled along the stony street, and partly ascended anothet
hill, until we came to a trim little park, with many tree —
shrubs and flowers. The cabman stopped and descended from

the seat, beaming at me for approval.
“*Voolai voo allai o park?”

‘You'll have to talk better English than that if you waut

me to answer you.”

With a loud voice he called to a person on the other side of

the street, an acquaintance.

The party came across, and the driver, with many expressiv¥@ |
gestures, and pointing scornfully at me several times, spoke 0

the new arrival. Addressing me, the stranger said: ‘‘L@
cochai—he not know what you want him to do.”

“You've hit it the first time. I want him to drive us int? |

the country—away out.”

He translated that to the coacher, who rapidly and indig’

nantly answered. Then to me the stranger expounded: ‘Bt
say—le cochai—why you not tell me zat before? He willing
to drive anywhere, but he sink you might tell him what yow
pleasure is—to drive.” 1

“Great heavens! Why, I’ve been talking of nothing els?
for the last two hours.”

  
  

‘won FS PAE OESPEEA A

Pe a ee —

a

Once more we left the little is and climbed slowly up the

hill past the oldtown. By and by we passed a chateau or tw?
surrounded by high walls and dense foliage, and then we

gan to ascend from the valley. ‘‘ You turn back now,” I said :

to the driver.

““Yaas,” said he, coming to his old word again, but keeping

steadily on. 4
“T believe,” said I, as a chill came over me, “that old i
becile will drive on till we meet some one who speaks Frei
and English, if it takes till this time next year.”
I stopped him, and going to the horse’s head, led the ani-
mal into the road and turned to the left, and then, pointing

_ down it, got in again. It was a delightful, leafy count be

which brought us to a fine old chateau of stone and red bri

’

 

 
you
hem

elli-

hat
ent

his
Ly:
1er
eS,
mh

RECITATIONS AND READINGS. 68:

With quaint turrets and many little balconies, and: a moss-
Stown roof that had once been red tile. Here the road stop-
i I hurriedly caught the horse by the head, and tried to
tm him round before the inmates came out, but was too late.
Portly and exceedingly French gentleman stepped from one
of the windows to the awn, while several servants, quieting a
re appeared at the iron gate. The portly individual called.
feared it was for the dog. But two rather pretty young
dies answered him by stepping from the window recess,
Where they had been concealed and evidently laughing at us. ,
! they also spoke in French.
1 “Well, this is at least a relief,’ I said. ‘‘The first good-

Soking girls I’ve seen in France. If that one: in white knew
bow to do up her hair she would be decidedly. handsome.”

he young lady referred to instantly replied: ‘‘ Thank you,
; and in return for your suggestion I shall be happy to ex-
Plain to my father to what cause we are indebted for the
leasure of this visit.”

I collapsed. ‘My husband,” said my wife, ‘‘thought this
Toad led to the sea. If you would kindly tell the driver that
We want to go back to Boulogne by way of the cliffs it would

a great service to us.”

They directed the coacher. Silence reigned as we went

back. © “TI wonder,” said I, at last, ‘‘if they would hang a

on in France for throwing a coacher like ours over the

y dad

My wife looked dreamily at the sun, setting in the English
nnel, and mildly replied: ‘It’s a good thing they don’t

hang a person in France for making silly blunders, or I fear I

Would soon be a widow.”

NOT ONE TO SPARE!

(A father and mother, in straitened circumstances, with seven chil-

m, were offered by a wealthy but childless neighbor a comfortable

Tovision, on condition that they would give him one of their children.
beautiful poem tells the result.)

‘* Which shall it be? Which shall it be?’
I looked at John—John looked at me,

ear, patient John, he loves me yet,
As well as though my locks were jet),
And when I found that I must speak,
My voice seemed strangely low and weak.
‘Tell meagain what Robert said!”
And then T Yistentngr bent my head:
‘‘ This is his letter: ‘I will give
A house and land while you shall live,

 

 
   
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
     
   
   
   
   
   
   

DIME BOOK OF

If, in return, from out your seven,
One child to me for aye is given.’”
I looked at John’s old garments, worn,
I thought of all that John had borne

Of poverty, and work, and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share;
I thought of seven mouths to feed,
Of seven little children’s need,
And then of this.—‘‘ Come, John,” said I,
“‘ We'll chose among them as they lie
Asleep;” so, walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band—
First to the cradle lightly stepped,

Where Lilian, the baby, slept,

A glory ’gainst the pillow white;

Softly the father stooped to lay

His rough hand down in loving way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said: ‘‘ Not her, not her.”
We stooped beside the trundle-bed,

And one long ray of lamplight shed
Athwart the boyish faces there,

In sleep so pitiful and fair;

I saw on Jamie’s rough, red cheek

A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
“« He’s but a baby, too,” said I,

And kissed him as we hurried by.

Pale, patient Robbie’s angel face

Still in his sleep bore suffering’s trace.
“Not for a thousand crowns, not him,”
He whispered, while our eyes were dim;
Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son,
Turbulent, reckless, idle one—

Could he be spared? ‘‘ Nay, He who gave
Bid us befriend him to his grave;

Only a mother’s heart can be

Patient enough for such as he.

And so,” said John, ‘‘I would not dare
To send him from her bedside prayer.”
Then stole we softly up above

And knelt by Mary, child of love.
“Perhaps for her ’twould better be,

I said to John. Quite silently

He lifted up a curl that lay

Across her cheek in willful way,

And shook his head, ‘‘ Nay, love, not thee,”

The while my heart beat audibly.
Only one more, our eldest lad.
Trusty and truthful, good and glad—

 
   

RECITATIONS AND READINGS,

So like his father. ‘‘No, John, no—
T cannot, will not, let him go.”
And so we wrote, in courteous way,

We could not drive one child away;
And afterward toil lighter seemed,
Thinking of that of which we dreamed,
Happy in truth that not one face

Was missed from its accustomed place;
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting the rest to One in Heaven!
“ott

MRS. BREEZY’S PINK LUNCH.—Spoopendyke.

“Tm going to give a pink lunch,” said Mrs. Breezy, folding

Bethe evening paper and gazing into the glowing coals in the

fi “You are going to what?” asked Mr. Breezy, looking up

a “ea a partially cut number of the ‘‘Supreme Court Re

i; 7”

“Give a pink lunch,” said Mrs. Breezy.

“A pink what?” asked Mr. Breezy, looking at his wife with

amazed stare.

“Lunch! lunch!” said Mrs. Breezy. ‘It’s the very latest

hing, and it must be just too charming for anything. Mrs.

Astor gave one last week—”

“Oh, she did,” said Mr. Breezy, in an amused voice.

“Yes, she did!” said Mrs. Breezy, ‘‘and the papers gave a

Ng account of the whole affair.”

My Of course, they will give an account of yours, too,” said
- Breezy.

“Mr. Breezy, I am not so fond of getting into the papers as

You are,” said Mrs. Breezy. ‘‘It will matter very little to me

ether they mention my lunch or not. A man who hangs

°n to the coat tails of reporters as you do, Mr. Breezy, shouldn’t

Y a word about getting into the papers. You who see that

*Yery reporter you can find has a copy of your speech before

Ye delivered, so that it will be sure to get into the papers.
Su who rave when they alter or leave out even a word of

a long, dull addresses. You are the last manin the world,
'. Breezy, to talk about getting into the papers.”

io how about the—the pink lunch?’
ing.

_. “‘ Never mind the pink lunch,” said Mrs. Breezy. ‘‘I know

care nothing about it, and I was very foolish to mention
i. Here Iam trying to be like other people and attempting

} in SE us a standing in society, but you take no more interest

it nel, efforts than a cow. You are so dull that you cannot see

“helps you in business—”

asked Mr. Breezy,

 

 

   

\

  
 

 

66- DIME BOOK OF

“«Does it?” asked Mr. Breezy, yawning.
“To be sure it does,” said Mrs, Breezy. ‘‘If men would
only pay more attention to the efforts their wives make to help

them along they would show much better sense, but we poor | _
women amount to nothing. We are something to be indulged ~

and petted and given compliments, but as for asking our ad-
vice about anything—no, never! Shall I tell you why you
never ask our advice, Mr. Breezy?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Breezy, opening an eye and then closing it

gain. :
“Well, Mr: Breezy, it is because you are too awfully con —

ceited. You always think you know-everything in heaven, oD
earth and in—well, under the earth, but you don’t, Mr. Breezy.
As a rule, you go through the world stumbling at every step,
when. some poor little despised woman could often keep you
from blundering if you would only let her. While you poor
slow creatures are making up your minds to do a thing wé
would have. got through with it and commenced something
else. You superior creatures call it intuition. A very fine
sounding name, but the real one is common sense, a faculty
eee oe out of every ten of your sex know nothing
about.

“No,” ejaculated Mr. Breezy, settling still further in his big _

chair and putting one foot on a smaller chair.

“Mr. Breezy, can you ever manage to sit for five minutes,
in my company without going to sleep?” asked Mrs. Breezy.

“No,” murmured Mr. Breezy, throwing his other foot up
on the chair. “

“Mr. Breezy, if you are sleepy for goodness’ sake go to
bed,” cried Mrs. Breezy, giving the work table near her a vig
orous thump and upsetting her work basket.

“‘Who—what?” said Mr. Breezy, springing up; ‘‘blue lunch
—ha!” but Mrs. Breezy was already disappearing through the
door, and after taking a realizing view of the situation, Mr.
Breezy settled back again in his chair, blinked a moment at
the fire, and finally closed his eyes in peaceful slumber.

“ROCK OF AGES.”

“* Rock of ages, cleft for me,”
Thoughtlessly the maiden sung;
Fell the words unconsciously.
From her girlish, gleeful tongue;
Sang as little children sing;
Sang as sing the birds in June;
Fell the words like light leaves down
On the current of the tune—
‘*Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”

t

 
RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

‘* Let me hide myself in Thee,”—
Felt her soul no need to hide—
Sweet the song as song could be,
And she had no thought beside;
All the words unheedingly
Fell from lips untouched by care,
Dreaming not that they might be
On some other lips a prayer—
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“ Rock of ages, cleft for me,”—
*T was a woman sung them now,
Pleadingly and prayerfully,

Every word her heart did know.
Rose the song as storm-tossed bird
Beats with weary wing the air,

- Every note with sorrow stirred,
Every syllable a prayer—

‘Rock of ages, cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“ Rock of ages, cleft for me,”—

Lips grown aged sung the hymn
Trustingly and tenderly, f

Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim—
“Let me hide myself in Thee,’

Trembling though the voice and low,
Ran the sweet strain peacefully,

Like a river in its flow;
Sang as only they can sing

ho life’s thorny path have presst;

Sang as only they can sing

Who behold the promised rest—
**Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“ Rock of ages, cleft for me,”—

Sung above a coffin lid;—
Underneath, all restfully,

All life’s joys and sorrows hid;
Nevermore, oh storm-tossed soul!

Nevermore from wind or tide,
Nevermore from billow’s roll

Wilt thou need thyself to hide.
Could the sightless, sunken eyes,

Closed beneath the soft gray hair,
Could the mute and ‘stiffened lips

Move again in pleading prayer,
Still; aye, still the words would be,— \
‘* Let me hide myself in Thee.”

 
   

DIME BOOK OF

J. CESAR POMPEY SQUASH’S SERMON.
Fonygrafically and Fotografically reported by Jupe Lightnin’ &
pressly for ‘‘ Harry Hazel’s Yankee Blade.”

My Dear Sarnts AND SAINTESSES—

Here hab i, your much lubed pasture an speritooal frend,
ben laborin in dis ere fulpit for de lass six, sebn an a ha
years, endeborin to distill into your hard-shel interleks, d@
way how to lib an do in dis wurld, an arter all you am #
stubn as a flok ob rams widout a sheep mung dem, and wit
out a shepud to see if dey dont go astray. Yea, brudrin, #
spite ob de elokence, nolidge an wisdum i hab wasted on your
i am foced to beleebe in de langwidge ob de sarmist, dat

Niggers will be niggers still,
Ruff hew dem howe’er you will.

Dat am a gospil trufe, an if you dont improbe in your piety
moruls an ginrosity more dan you hab dun for de 1as§
tree, fore weeks, you'll be nufiin but one hoss, or one donkey
niggers all ob your libes.

abnt i tole you sebnty lebn times dat Perdishun wud
cotch your soles, rite by de heals, if you didnt pony up, d@
spondulix to affray de dispensis ob dis fulpit? An how ha)
be responded, you mizabel, ongrateful sinners? De larges§
erleckshun dat hab ben tooken up heah for de lass six weak
habnt mounted to ober a dollar an tirty cents, an lass Sundy,
arter casting so many purls afo’ swine, pon my honor as ®
cullud parson de totle reseats didnt exseed ober aty-five cents,
an sebn haff dimes ob dat sum wur pernounced kounterfit by
bruder Spiner ob de Trezury compartment, leabin accordio®
to my matthewmaticle calcalashun, ony fifty-fibe cents! How
tink you a gemman parson can exiss on sich a mizabel sum!
How tink youiam abel to make a spectrebel pearance af0
you dis mornin? “I almoss blush to tell, and if youve got dé
feelinks ob a biled lobster youll blush, too. Dis coat i bo!
ryed from de wardrobe ob Ginral Grant, an dese trouserlooD$
am an ole cass-off pair ob Andy Jonsin, an i leff de belub’
partner ob my buzum at hum to-day, darnin up de holes in dé
nees, witch cum dar by knealin afo wite trash to shine da!
boots, in odor to git clam-soop an tobacoy enuff to lass til dis
bressid Sundy mornin, wen i cud expose to you my intolablé
suffirins and your abominabel sins. ;

An wy am it, brudrin, dat dekon Scipeo Smut amt in di§
solum aad dis mornin? One rezon am dat he am a defalltet
to dis fulpit in de sum ob at leass haff a dollar, witch he sul”
stracted from de hat wile in de ack ob totin it roun. An ab
oder rezon hab ben wispered in my ears, dat he hab desartet
his culud wife an interloped wid a peece ob wite caliker—d?
forteenf dorter ob a city scabenger. Yea, my brudrin, B®
departed from.de strate paffs ob rectitood an plungd in hee

 

    

 
 

  
 

RECITATIONS AND READINGS. 7 69

| moss, an in de moss recklesstood manner, in de brord an
|p iter way witch leeds ony to de Brack Sea an Five Pints ob
|, ‘Spare. Quinsequontly he muss be impeacht an church-
| ,*Wled out ob dis siety, an for dat puppose i shall call a
Z. gee counsil, dat de honor, de dignaty an de moruls
4_.is ¢hirch may be preserbed from kerrupshon, dekay an

   
  
 
 

: Den dars dat pieus yung man who abskwatalated from dis
4.) lass weak—i meen him wot wonce led de kwire, an den
‘|, in lub wid dat bewful yaller gal from Lousyana, and
'},.“erwuds married her, and she am now a poo’ widder wid
Jie small chilen. An wot tink you he skedaddled for? Ile
;,, You—it hab jess been diskivered dat he had two large and

erestin families besides dem—one in Texico, an de oder in
,uf Karliny. If he keeps on till he am forty lebn yeer ole,
| “Will do fuss rate to sucseed B. Yung de Moreman Profit.

|y,~ Mite reweal seberal oder morul delinkuncies mung de
-|,“€p ob dis fold; but i wil spare dar feelinks in de hope dat
;,) Will yet cum to.time—dat dey will recomember befo it am
}|,° late dat charity kivereth up a multytood ob sins, an dat
2. Will hab a goldin opertunity to exumcise dat gratess ob

00s on dis cashun. co

2 now, my brudrin an sistrin, iam quested to infome you
|,{' dar will be a camp meetin nex Fursday mornin down to
F ake Crik—in de arternoon,a clam bake, and in de ebenin a
‘}j22d brakedown, at witch all de lubly damsells and gemman
-|,.Culor will be presunt. Tickits haff a dollar—to be had ob
}°ur pasture ater de serbicis hab closed.
_|q,2ur new dekon, Nero Napolyon Clash am intrusted wid de
_}yty ob takin up de kerrency, an i expec ebry pusson, who
‘}itS a continentle cuss bout his latter eend, will shell out
lly, as de cook said to de peck ob a peas. i
|y)“2 now we will all jine in singin de fusty-fif sockdology,
er by moonlite.

  
  
 
 
  
   
   
    

an i eri

   
 
  

 
 

ce

  
  
   
  

Oe ee ee i ee: ee
os SSA

  
  

   
 
   

  

ANNIE’S TICKET.—Boston Transcript.

Plaze, sir, I have brought you the ticket
You gave her a short wake ago;
—— little girl I am manin’,
he one wid the fair hair, ye know,
_ And the blue eyes so gentle and tindher,
And swate as the angels above,
_ God help me, she’s one of thim, now, sir,
And I’ve nothin’ at-all left to love.

It has come on me suddin, ye see, sir;
s _ She was niver an ailin’ child,
_. Though her face was as white as a lily,
___ And her ways just that quiet and mild.

Ss Aas SS eS 3 ee

    
   
  
 
 

 
 

as

 

 
SESE RENE GEC

 

DIME BOOK OF

The others was always a throuble,
And botherin’, too, every way,

But the first tears as iver she cost me
Are thim that ’m sheddin’ to-day.

*T was on Tuesday night thet she sickened;
She had been as blithe as a bird
All day, wid the ticket you gave her,
And niver another word
But ‘“‘Mammie, just think of the music?”
And ‘‘Mammie, they’ll give us ice erame;
We can roll on the turf and pick posies,
Oh, mammie! it’s just like a drame.”

And so, whin the faver kim on her,
It samed the one thought in her brain;
*Twould have melted the heart in your breast, sir,
To hear her again and again
Beggin’ “‘Mammie, oh plaze get me ready—
The boat will be gone off, I say;
¥ hear the bell ring! where’s my ticket?
Oh! won’t we be happy to-day?”

Three days, sir, she raved wid the faver,
Wid her face and her hands like a fiame;
But on Friday, at noon, she grew quiet,
And knew me and called me by name.
My heart gave a lape when I heard it;
ut oh, sir! it turned me to stone,
The look round the mouth, pinched and dhrawn
I knew God had sent for his own.

And she knew it, too, sir, the crathur,
And said, when I told her the day,
In her wake little veiee, ‘‘ Mammie, darlint,
Don’t ery ‘cause I’m goin’ away;
To-morrow they'll go to the picnic,
They’ have beautiful times, I know,
But Heaven is like it, an betther
And so I am ready to go.

“And, mammie, I ain’t a bit frightened;

There’s many a little girl died;

And it seems like the dear lovin’ Savior
Was standin’ right here by my side.

Take my ticket, dear mammie, and ask
If some other child, poor and sad,

That hasn’t got Heavem and Jesus,
May go in my place and be glad.”

re

 
RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

And thin, with ‘‘Good-by, mammie darlint,”
She drew my lips dewn to her own,
Thin the One tbat she left close beside her
Bent too, and I sat there—alone.
And so I have brought you the ticket,
Though my heart, sir, seems ready to break,
To ask you to make some poor crathur
Feel glad for my dead darlint’s sake.

THE NEWSBOY.—Z. Tf. Corbett.

Want any papers, Mister?
Wish you’d buy ’em of me—
Ten year old, an’ a fam'ly,
An’ bizness dull, yeu see.
Fact, Boss! There’s Tom, an’ Tibby,
An’ Dad, an’ Mam, an’ Mam’s cat,
Nene on ‘em earning money—
What de you think of that?

Couldn't Dad wor? Why, yes, Boss,
He’s workin’ for Gov’mert new— _
They give him his board for nethin’,
All aleng of a drunken rew.
An’ Mam? Well, she’s in the poor-house,
Been there a year or so;
So I’m taking care of the others,
Doing as well as I know.

Tibby my sister? Not much, Boss,
She’s a kitten, a real Maltee;

I pieked her up last summer—
Some boys was a-drownin’ ef she;

Throw’d her inter a hegshead;
But a p'liceman came along,

So I jest grabbed up the kitten
And put fer home right strong.

And Tom’s my deg; he an’ Tibby
Hain’t never quarreled yet—
They sieeps in my bed in winter
An’ keeps me warm, you bet!

Mam’s cat sleeps in the corner,
With a piller made of her paw—
~ Can't she growl like a tiger
If any one comes to our straw}

4

 
DIME BOOK OF

Oughtn’t to lice 30? Why, Mister,
at’s a feller to do?
Some nights when I’m tired an’ hungry,
Seems as each on ’’em knew—
They'll all three cuddle around me,
Till I get cheery, and say:
Well, p’r’aps Pl fae sisters an’ brothers,
An’ money an’ clothes, too, some day.

But if I do git rich, Boss,
(An’ a lecturin’ chap one night
Said newsboys could be Presidents
If only they acted right);
So, if I was President, Mister,
The very first thing I'd do,
Td buy poor Tom and Tibby
A dinner—an’ Mam’s cat, too!

None o’ your scraps an’ leavin’s,
But a good square meal for all three;
If you think I’d skimp my friends, Boss,
hat shows you don’t know me.
So ’ere’s your papers—come take one,
Gimme a lift if you can—
For now you've heard my story,
You see I’m a fam’ly man!”

 

PAT’S CORRESPONDENCE.— W. &. Giffin.

Whist now! till I relate to you my—well, yer what now!
Oh! I hev it, me—no, I hevn’t it thin. What isit? It’slettel |
writing anyhow—now what do ye call it? Ah! ha! now I he¥
it—correspondence, that’s the wourd.

You know I wrote a letter to Tim Flanagin, Tim wrote 4 |
letter to me—Tim lives in the ould country, T live in the new, |
That's the difference between Tim and me; the difference did> |
say? Well now! that wourd makes me think of something f 4
can’t but tell till ye. It was the other day whin I was walkimg |
up Broad street, I heard some one calling out, ‘‘ Pat,” seys be
“What do ye want?” sed I. ‘‘I want till talk to ye,” sed BG —
“Well, talk away, thin,” sed I. ‘‘Come along here, why don't
ye, thin?” ‘‘ Where air ye that I may come?” But jist thin? ©
see a big red-nosed fellow peaking from behint a lamp- 4
** Well, now,” sed I to meself, ‘‘I don’t know who thet fell
is at all at all. Il go over anyhow and see what he wants
the likes of me.” So over I wint, and asI got within spe:
ing distance he says to me, seys he: ‘‘How air ye, Pat
*« What’s thet toa mon I don’t know?” sed I. ‘Oh, :

ee ae ee i, oe ol ie oe pee ee pf ks a a gs

x

 
RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

| Pat, me boy,” sed’he, “‘niver mind thet, I hey a skanumdrum
|} for ye.” “A what?” said I. ‘‘A skanumdrum,” said he;
“Tm going to ask—” ‘‘Ask nothing,” sed I; ‘‘but give me
thet—what do ye call it?—the first thing ye do.” ‘‘ Yer not
Understanding me,” sed he; ‘‘I mean by thet a riddle.” ‘‘Oh,
0! a riddle is it? Out wid it thin; for it’s many a wone [
- Suessed in the ould country.” ‘‘ Thin guess me this: What
1s the difference between yourself and a pig?” ‘‘ Air ye jok-
tng?” sed I. ‘‘ Not a bit of it, Pat; can ye tell?” Well, jist ,
| 4hin one of the durty bastes passed us wid his—(Grunting like
4 ff ‘‘Hear thet,” sed I; ‘‘it’s not in the voice anyhow.”
; ter scratching me head awhile, I sed to him, ‘I'll give it
Up.” ‘*Why, Pat, me boy, there is no difference at all.”
“Ain’t there? Look a-here, young man, thet may be what ye
| Calla skanumdrum in Ameriky, but I give ye to understand
thet in the ould country it would be a signal for the sudden
| dislocation of yer big red nose, and so it would.” He didn’t
} Stop to hear it all, and it was well for him, or me name’s not
yj fat.
After looking at him awhile, I turned once more on me way,
nd I hed not gone far before I heard another cry of “‘ Pat.”
*Oh, ho!” sed I to meself; ‘‘ here is another one of thim ska-
Qumdrums, I suppose. Who air ye? Where air ye? And
| What do ye want?” sed 1, allin abreath. ‘‘I’m here, and it is
| &speaking to ye I want,” said a green-looking fellow over the
PWay. ‘ Well,” sed I to meself, ‘‘I’ll go over and see what the
i Dlackguard wants wid me.” Soover I wint, and the very first
| thing was: “Pat, I hev a skanumdrum for ye.” ‘‘I thought
| 80,” said I to meself; then sed to him: ‘‘ Well, what is it,
thin?” ‘‘Tell me, Pat, the difference between yourself and a
_ | big?” “Me boy, that is ould,” sed I, in a whisper; thin I sed
| tohim: “Repeat it.” He did. ‘‘ Look me in the eye,” sed I.
| “Ym looking,” said he. ‘‘Now, ye want to know the differ-
-] &nce between me and a pig?” ‘That's it,” sed he. I looked
&t Aim, thin at mesel/, thin at him again, thin I walked over to
m, thin back agin, pacing it off so (walking four or five paces),
thin looking right at him, T sed: “Do ye moind, I’m not good
| &t guessing, but after pacing it I would say the difference be-
| hween me and a pig is about six feet.” Well, if ever a mon
looked beat he dic, and wid a good—(slapping his sides and
 *rowing) I left him.

But, my dear friends, what hes all this to do wid me corre-
—S8pondence? Nothing seys you. Well, thin, to go back to it.
_ +im wrote, seys he: “Pat, your own living uncle is now dead

&nd all he had is to be given to you and me, his only heirs sav-
Ww fourteen others, Come, thin, Pat, and git your share.”
Well, I jist set down and wrote: ‘Tim, yer a fool; don’t
er yer head wid a few paltry pounds, but come at once to
‘Xe best country in the wourld. Why, Tim, there is no hang-

 
74 ~ DIME BOOK OF

ing for stealing here, pertaties are only twenty-five cents 3
bushel, wid whisky the same, and more than thet, Tim, yer git
ial three dollars a day for doing nothing at all, for all y®
ave to do is to make a three-cornered box, fill it wid bricks,
carry it up a three-story building, and you will find a mon theres —
wid a trowel, that will do all the wourk.” =

DEATH OF TH’ OWD SQUIRE.

(“The Death of th’ Owd Squire” first appeared anonymously J —
Charles Dickens’s All ‘he Year Round for September 18, 1869, most of aS
contributions for that periodical appearing without signature. It crea’
marked attention, both in England and America, as illustrating the
truth of the old adage that ‘‘ the ruling passion is strong in death.” rs
became one of Miss Charlotte Cushman’s most famous recitations:
After the death of Miss Cushman it was adopted by Murdoch, Vande | _
hoff and Burbank.) F

’Twas a wild, mad kind of night, as black as the bottomles? —

 

pit;
The wind was howling away, like a Bedlamite in a fit,
Tearing the ash boughs off and mowing the poplars down, , |
In the meadows beyond the old flour-mill, where you turn oft

to the town.

And the rain (well it did rain) dashing the window-glass,

And delugiug on the roof, as the devil had come to pass;

The gutters were running in floods outside the stable door,

And the spouts splashed from the tiles, as if they would never
give o’er. ~ a

Lor’ pes the windows rattled! You’d almost ha’ thought that S
thieves a
Were wrenching at the shutters, while a ceaseless pelt of |
eaves 4
Flew at the door in gusts; and I could hear the beck, a
Calling as loud I knew it at once; it was up to a tall man®
neck, f

We was huddling in the harness-room, by a little scrap of fry

And tom, the coachman, he was there, a practicing for W*
choir; 4

But it sounded dismal, anthem did, for squire was dying fast

And the doris ae do what he would, ‘ Squire’s breakin
up at last. ‘

The Neat at sure enough, ticked just over th’ owd mare's
ead, ; 5 ;
- Though he had never once been heard up there since n
: boy lay dead; ; d

 
RECITATIONS AND ‘READINGS. ee

a | And the only sound, beside Tom’s toon, was the stirring in the

stalls.

eo And the gnawing and the scratching of the rats in the owd

eB

BO ED

walls.

We couldn’t hear Death’s foot pass by, but we knew that he

was near,

| And the chill rain and the wind and cold made us all. shake

with fear;
We listened to the clock up-stairs, twas beating soft and low,
Tor the nurse said, at the turn of night, the old squire’s soul
would go. ‘

_ Master had been a wildish man, and led a roughish life;

Didn’t he shoot the Bowton squire who dared write to his
wife?

| He be at the Rads at Hindon town, I heard, in ’twenty-nine,
P y

hen every pail in market-place was brimmed with red port
wine.

And as for hunting, bless your soul, why for forty years or

more
| He’d kept the Marley hounds, man, as his fayther did afore;
| And now to die, and in his bed—the season just begun—

t made him fret, the doctor said, as ’t might do any one.

f And when the young sharp lawyer came to see him sign his

will,

: Squire made me blow my horn outside as we were going to

kill,

And we turned the hounds out in the court—that seemed to
do him good, 1

For he swore, and sent us off to seek a fox in Thornhill wood.

| But then the fever it rose high, and he would go see the room

here missus died, ten years ago when Lammastide shall
come;

| Lnmind the year, because our mare at Salisbury broke down;
’

“loreover, the town hall was burnt at Steeple Dinton town.

-t might be two or half-past two, the wind seemed quite
asleep;

q ; Tom, he was off, but I awake sat, watch and ward to keep;

The moon was up, quite glorious like, the rain no longer fell,

i hen all at once out clashed and clanged the rusty turret bell,
_ That hadn’t been heard for twenty years, not since the Luddite —

days;

Tom, he leaped up, and I leaped up, for all the house ablaze

sure not scared us half as much, and out we ran dike mad,
‘om and Joe, the whipper in, and t little stable lad:

 
776 * DIME BOOK OF

‘* He’s killed himself!” that’s the idea that came into my head;
I felt as sure as though I saw Squire Barrowby was dead;
When all at once a door-flew back, and he met us face to face;
His scarlet coat was on his back, and he looked like the old
race. f

The nurse was clinging to his knees and crying like a child; E
The maids were sobbing on the stairs, for he looked fierce and _

wild. SS
‘Saddle me Lightning Bess, my man,” that’s what he said to fe g

me; £ a
“The moon is up, we're sure to find at Stop or Etterby.

“‘Get out the dogs; I’m well to-night, and young again and |

sound; ; 7
I'll have a run once more before they put me under ground; = |
They ee my father home feet first, and it never shall be |

sai a
That his son Joe, who rode so straight, died quietly in his bed. -4

 

“Brandy,” he cried, ‘‘a tumbler full, you women howling | .
there;” 5 i: 2
Then clapped the old black velvet cap upon his long gray |
hair, : -s
Thrust on his boots, snatched down his whip; though he was J
old and weak, 4
There was a devil in his eye that would not let me speak.

We loosed the dogs to humor him, and sounded on the horn;
The moon was up above the woods, just east of Hagga’
Bourne. j
‘I buckled Lightning's throat-lash fast—the squire was watcb- |
ing me;
- He let the stirrups down himself, so quick, yet carefully.

_ Then up he got and spurred the mare, and ere I well could ©
mount, 2
He drove the yard gate open, man, and called to old Dick J]
Blount, : |
Our huntsman, dead five years ago—for the fever rose again,
And was spreading, like a flood of flame, fast up into his |
; brain. “

Then off he flew before the dogs, yelling to call us on,

While we stood there, all pale and dumb, scarce knowing be —
was gone; ; : ,

We mounted, and below the hill we saw the fox break out,

And down the covert ride we heard the old squire’s

_ shout. ; : ,

 
“RECITATIONS AND BEADINGS.

And in the moonlit meadow mist we saw him fly the rail,
Beyond the hurdles by the beck, just half way down the vale; __
I saw ol breast fence after fence—nothing could turn him
back; Sieh :
And in = moonlight after him streamed out the brave old
: pack.

*T was like a dream, Tom cried to me, as we rode free and fast;

Hoping to turn him at the brook, that could not well be past,

For it was swollen with the rain; but, Lord, twas not to be; ‘

Nothing could stop old Lightning Bess but the broad breast of
the sea.

The komme swept on, and well in front the mare had got her
stride;

She broke across the fallow land that runs by the down side;

We pulled up on Chalk Linton Hill, and as we stood us there,

Two fields beyond we saw the squire fall stone dead from the
mare.

Then she swept on and in full cry the hounds went out of sight,
A cloud one over the broad moon, and something dimmed
our light,
As Tom and I bore master home, both speaking under breath;
And ee the way I saw the owd squire ride boldly to his
eath.

MEIN TOG SHNEID.—Carl Pretzel.

Von tay I tink I vood gone me out mit mein tog Schneid, to
ot some rails to make der pub a hen coob, so dot der vedder -
ot vas come last vinter vood hurt him much at all. . We valk

no more as a shteb or couble, vhen a mans mit a plue shtar
makes me aggravations von der tog out. Now, vhen I vas
valk me out mit mein tog, und makes troubles notting to, I ~
don’d like pooty vell to got mein mat oop of a mans mitout a
muzzle on ter tog’s face. Der togs he knows more of a veek
as I of a tay, und so quick as litenin’ he know it und bite
mineself mit his dail off. Of dose tog Schneid cood dalk und
zing Olt Hoondret, he cood howl yoost like sixty anyhow.
Shtill der mans he don’d vas afraid mit me, und yoost when he
vas gone to shood der tog mit his sthick off, I mit all shendle-
hess say of him: ‘

‘* Mister Policetmans, shbare vonce dot tog!
~ Don’t bite von single hair oud.
He ofden troubles der dock,
' Und make me lafe und showd. ~-
. ! ~

 
 

DIME BOOK OF

‘* Yoost vhen he vas a pub,
So shaney und so blump,
He trinked der milk recht von a cub,
Und vagged his dail und shumb.

‘* Now pblease you let him lif,
Und don’t you kill him deat;
You saw dot narradive,
Der ent mit dot is ret.

“ He vas leedle Gretchen’s pet,
Und combanion mit her schoy;
You vood not kill him yed,
He vas my oney poy.

‘No, Mister Mans, yoost shbare dot leedle pub,
Und hurt him not vonce his hair;
Yoost poot dot shooter ub,
Und gone quick avay von dhere.”

Mit dears shtarding on der peforehedt of dot kindt-hearted
shendlemans he valked shlowfully der pblace avay, und said
mit himself dose t’ings: ‘‘ Do mit yourself yoost vot some fel-
lers vood do mit you.”

SOME MORALES.
Shack und Shill vent up dot hill
To got a bail of vatter;
But dey got fi’tin’ on der vay,
Vich of course dhey shoodn’d oughdo
Shack kigged Shill sqware in der chin,
Und dot gif him der fever,
Vhile Shack did never leefe habby ag’in
On akound of dot which he had done to his friendt.

AT ELBERON.—Y. V. Victor.

At Elberon, by the sea,
The bells began to toll
In the night, all drearily,
The knell of a parting soul.
The sleepers woke in dread
_ And each to his neighbor said,
 All’s over!—he is dead!”
~ And the bells began to toll.

At Elberon, by the sea—
The sea he loved so well!—
In the dark night, suddenl
Rung out the solemm bell, be

,

 
RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

~* God’s will be done!” she cried—
That pale one by his side:—
** God’s will be done!” she sighed,
And the bells began to toll.

- The wide world held its breath;

Soul silent stood by soul,

At the whispered tale of death;
And the bells. began to toll

So strange and loud and deep

That the little child asleep

Did wake to wonder and weep
At the sound of loss and dole.

At Elberon, by the sea,

The tolling bells began,
But fast and far and free

The woful tidings ran,
As loud and low, loud and low,
With vibrant cries of woe,
The bells swung to and fro
Like mourners rocking slow.

From glimmering sea to sea

The awful rhythm rolled;
In the dark, all drearily,

A million bells were tolled;
From steeples bare and brown,
From the proud towers of the town
The mighty knell swept down,

And the hearts of men grew cold.

From Elberon, by the sea,
To the prairies wild and far—
Where the mountain passes be—
To the Golden Gate ajar
On the fair Pacific tide,
East, West, and far and wide,
That night the great bells cried—
One to another cried—

“He is dead, alas! is dead!
Toll, toll, in sorrow toll!
In the dark all deep and dread
Went out the hero-soul!”
Like minute-guns that boom
Through night and storm and gloom
To tell of wreck and doom, ~
The bells began to toll.

 
 

DIME BOOK OF

How human hearts did throb
With pain before unknown
As the bells began to sob—
As the bells began to moan!
And on and on the sound,
Through the dark night’s profound,
Swept the great world around,
As the bells kept up their moan.

The bells kept up their moan
That night of loss and woe,
With the sadder undertone
Of a people, weeping low.
Clang, clang! the great tongues spoke—
Their sound was like the stroke
Of death, to those who woke—
And a woman’s heart then broke—
As the bells began to toll,
North, South, from Pole to Pole—
Toll, toll, in sorrow and dole,
From Elberon, by the sea,
To all the stars that roll

THE ORY OF WOMANHOOD.—Rev. 7. DeWitt Talmage |

I hear from all this land the wail of womanhood. Man has —
nothing to answer to that wail but flatteries. He says she is —
an angel. She isnot. She knows she is not. She isa hue
man being, who gets hungry when she has no food, and col
when she has no fire. Give her no more flatteries; give het —
justice ! :

There are thirty-five thousand sewing-girls in New York |
- and Brooklyn. Across the darkness of this night I hear theif
death-groan. It is not such a cry as comes from those whO |
are suddenly hurled out of life, but a slow, grinding, horrible |
wasting away. Gather them before you and look into theif —
faces, pinched, ghastly, hunger-struck! Look at their fingers
needle-picked and blood-tipped! See that premature stoop i2
the shoulders! Hear that dry, hacking, merciless cough!

At a large meeting of these women, held ina hall in Phila | |

delphia, grand speeches were delivered, but a needle-woma? —
tobe the stand, threw aside her faded shawl, and, with her |
_ shriveled arm, hurled a very thunderbolt of eloquence, speak- a
ing out of the horrors of her own experience.
Stand at the corner of a street in New York at half-past fivé
_ or six in the morning, as the women go to their work. Mam
of them had no breakfast except the crumbs that were 1é
over from the night before, or a crust they chew on their W

x
' oe j +

$53

 
 

RECITATIONS AND READINGS. 81

through the street. Here they come! The working girls of
New York and Brooklyn! These engaged in bead-work, these
in flower-making, in millinery, in enameling, cigar-making,
book-binding, labeling, feather-picking, print-coloring, paper-
box making, but, most overworked of all and least compen-
sated, the sewing-women. Why do they not take the city cars
on their way up? They cannot afford the five cents! If, con-
cluding to deny herself something else, she gets into a car,
give her a seat! You want to see how Latimer and Ridley
appeared in the fire: look at that woman and behold a more
terrible martyrdom, a hotter fire, a more agonizing death! Ask
that woman how much she gets for her work, and she will tell
you six cents for making coarse shirts, and finds her own
thread!

Last Sabbath night, in the vestibule of my church, after
service, a woman fell in convulsions. The doctor said she
needed medicine not so much as something to eat.. As she be-
gan to revive, in her delirium she said, gaspingly: ‘‘ Eight
cents! Eight cents! Eight cents! I wish Teoukd get it done!
Iam sotired! I wish I could get some sleep, but I must get it
done! Eight cents! Hight cents!” We found afterward that
she was making garments for eight cents apiece, and that she
could make but three of them in aday! Hear it, men and
women who have comfortable homes!

Some of the worst villains in the city are the employers of
these women. They beat them down to the last penny, and
try to cheat them out of that. The woman must deposit a
dollar or two before she gets the garments to work on. When
the work is done it is sharply inspected, the most insignificant
flaws picked out, and the wages refused, and sometimes the
dollar deposited not given back. The Woman’s Protective
Union reports a case where one of these poor souls, tinding a
place where she could get more wages, resolved to change em-
ployers, and went to get her pay for work done. The em-
ployer says: ‘‘I hear you are going to leave me?” ‘‘ Yes,”
she said, ‘‘and I have come to get what you owe me.” He
made no answer. She said: ‘‘Are you not going to pay me?”
oe Yes,” he said, ‘‘I will pay you;” and he kicked her down the
stairs !

How are these evils to be eradicated? What have you to
answer, you who sell coats, and have shoes made, and contract
for the Southern and Western markets? What help is there,
what panacea, what redemption? Some say: ‘‘ Give women
the ballot.” What effect such ballot might have on other
questions I am not here to discuss; but what would be the
effect of female suffrage upon woman’s wages? Ido not be
lieve that woman will ever get justice by woman’s ballot.

Indeed, women oppress, women as much as mendo. Do
hot women, as much as men, beat down to the lowest figure

 
DIME BOOK OF

‘the woman who sews for them? Are not women as sharp a5
men on washerwomen, and milliners, and mantuamakers? If
2 woman asks a dollar for her work, does not her female em-
ployer ask her if she will not take ninety cents? You say,
** Only ten cents difference;” but that is sometimes the differ-
ence between heaven and hell. Women often have less com-
miseration for women than men. If a woman steps aside from
the path of virtue, man may forgive—woman never! Woman
will never get justice done her from woman’s ballot.

Neither will she get it from man’s ballot. How, then? God
will rise up for her. God has more resources than we know
of. The flaming sword that hung at Eden’s gate when woman
was driven out will cleave with its terrible edge her oppres-
sors.

But there is something for our women to do, Let our
young people prepare to excel in spheres of work, and they
will be able, after awhile, to get larger wages. If it be shown
that a woman can, in a store, sell more goods in a year than a
man, she will soon be able not only to ask but to demand more
wages, and to demand them successfully. Unskilled and in-
competent labor must take what is given; skilled and compe-
tent labor will eventually make its own standard, Admittin
that the law of supply and demand. regulates these things,
contend that the demand for skilled labor is very great and
the supply very small.

Start with the idea that work is honorable, and that you can
do some one thing better than any one else. Resolve that,
Gold helping, you will take care of yourself. If you are,
after awhile, called into another relation, you will all the bet-
ter be qualified for it by your spirit of self-reliance; or, if you
are called to stay as you are, you can be happy and self-sup-
porting.

 

THE JUDGMENT DAY.

¢ (One of the most famous poems of the world is the “Dies Ire "—the
ual Latin hymn by Thomas de Celano, which is known wherever there
are Christians of any denomination. Of many translations we ado’
that of the late Epes Sargent.)

DIES IR.

Day of ire, that day impending,
Earth shall melt, in ashes ending—
Seer and Sibyl so portending,

Ah! what trembling then, what uailing,
When shall’come the Judge unfailing,

Every human life‘unVailing!

 
RECITATIONS, AND READINGS.

Trump shall scatter peals astounding,
On earth’s sepuichers abounding,
Gather all men by its sounding.

Death and nature wonder-shaken
Then shall be at seeing waken
Mortals unto judgment taken.

Book of record shall be quoted,
Where all human deeds are noted,
Whence the world shall be devoted.

Therefore, at that Judge’s session,
Shall no secret find suppression,
Vengeance sparing no transgression.

How shall I then, Lord, implore Thee,
Send what advocate before Thee,
When not even the just are worthy?

King of majesty transcending,
To th’ elect free grace extending,
Me save, Fount of bliss unending!

Jesus! let Thy love surviving,
Heed in me Thy cause of striving!
Lose me not, that day arriving!

Me, Thy weary quest failed never,
Cross-redeemed through Thy endeavor!
Shall such pains be lost forever?

Just Dispenser of punition,
Give my suppliant soul remission
Ere that day of inquisition!

Like a malefactor sighing,
Blush of shame my visage dyeing,
Spare me, Lord! my heart is crying.

Who gav’st Mary absolution,
And the thief, from sin’s pollution—
Me brought’st hope of restitution!

Worthless are the prayers I make Thee,
But, Lord, do not Thou forsake me,
Lest eternal fire o’ertake me!

Give me, mid the sheep, salvation;
From the ee make separation,
Fixing on Thy right my station.

When the accursed shall find their er
And be doomed toendless burnings, ~
Answer Thou my heavenward yearnings,

.

 
DIME BOOK OF

From the dust this imploration—
From a contrite heart’s prostration—
Be, in death, my consolation!

When, that day of tears impending,
From his ashes man ascending,
At Thy bar shall be attendant,
Spare, oh God! the poor defendant!

THE BURST BUBBLE.—John B. Gough.
AN ALLEGORY,

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: Let me ask you to look with m& |
for a few moments, at the position of a man who is the slav@
of a bad habit.

There he stands, a poor, desolate, forlorn creature, trem |
bling, yet defiant—a Pariah of society—an Ishmaelite, whos¢ —
hand is against every man, and every man’s hand is against
him, ‘2
The Pharisees of the world gather up the skirts of theif

self-righteous propriety, as they sweep superciliously by; thé —

Sadducees stare coldly and contemptuously into his face; the —

Levites stop short at sight of him, cross the street and pass DY —

on the other side; even the compassionate Samaritan has 00 —

eye of pity to glance on him, no hand of succor to extend. -

There he stands, repelling and repelled—his shivering for _
wrapped in the shroud of his evil habit! a

“OTis his own fault!” cries the world. ‘‘He has brought |
the ruin on himself! Let him die!” ‘

God’s face hidden—no mercy from man—there he stands
alone in the world—alone! And as he shivers and cowers a ~
the street corner, let us bring before him a vision :—

Here, before me, stands a bright, fair-haired, beautiful boy;
with the rosy cheek, and curling lock, and ruby lip, and round
limb—the type, the picture of human health and beauty. That
is Youth—that is his past. _

= Another figure shall stand before him: The youth grown t® |
the man, intellect flashing from his eye, his brow speaking of :
intellectual strength, as he claims for himself an influenc? —
over the hearts and feelings of his fellow-men. There h@ |
stands—a glorious being! What is that? That was his ideal-

Then gropes in a wretched thing, fetters on his limbs, }i§
brow seamed, sensuality seated on his swollen lip, the imag?
of God marred. What is that? That is his present!

He shall see yet another vision: It is a wretehed, emaciate@
creature; you see his heart is all on fire, the worm that ne
dies has begun its fearful gnawings. What is that? That—
God help him—that is his f ‘

 

 
RECITATIONS AND READINGS,

And yet, feartu: as are the ravages of his fell destroyer—
terrible as is the penalty his evil habit exacts—blighting,
blasting, scorching, scathing, withering, wasting as it is, to
everything bright and noble within him—still it has not de-
stroyed all! One sense remains, byrning brightly and fiercely
among the ruins. .And oh! how he wishes it, too, could be
numbed and deadened like the rest! But no; his consciousness
still lives, and like a remorseless foe it clutches him in its

- grasp and rends him again!

The curse to the man who is going down step by step is
the base acy age of what %s, and the remembrance of what
was !

Oh! the memory of the past!

All the bright dreams of his imagination are before him,
yonder, separated from him by a continent of grief and dis-
appointment, pain of body, and fever of spirit. istant, clear,

_but cold is the moon, that shines on his waking agony, or on
his desperate repose!

What has the man been doing who all his lifetime has been
the slave to evil habit? He has spent his life and his fortune
—sold his birthright! And what has he obtained? Nothing
nh the mere excitement of chasing after that which is not re-
ality.

Talk about enjoyment in these pursuits! Thereisnone! It

is a mere sensation—fleeting and imaginary. No man ever
received satisfaction enough in wicked pursuits to say, ‘‘Ah!
now Iamhappy.” It is gone from him—gone!

All the enjoyments that can be obtained in this world, apart
from the enjoyments God has sanctioned, lead to destruction.

ry It is as if a man should start in a chase after a bubble, at-
_ » tracted by its bright and gorgeous hues.

It leads him, at first, through vineyards, under trellised
vines, with grapes hanging in all their purpled glory; it leads
him by sparkling fountains, with delicious music and the sing-
ing of birds; it leads him through orchards hanging thick with
golden fruit. He laughs and dances! It is a merry chase!

By-and-by that excitement becomes intense—that intensity
yecomes a passion—that passion a disease!

Now his eye is fixed upon the bubble with fretful earnest-

‘ness; now he leaps with desperation and disappointment.

Now it leads him away from all that is bright and beautiful —
—from all the tender, clustering, hallowed associations of by-
gone days—up the steep, hot sides of a fearful volcano!

Now there is pain and anguish in the chase. He leaps and
falls, and rises bruised, scorched and blistered; but the excite-
ment, the power of habit,-has the mastery over him; he for-
ge all that is past, and in his terrible chase he leaps again. —

4 t is gone! : SSM, Ae
: Hague, and bites his lips in agony, and shrieks -almost

 
 

 

86 DIME BOOK OF

the wild.shriek of despair. Yet still he pursues the phantom —
that lures him on to destruction, and leaps again.—It is gone! _

Knee-deep in the hot ashes, he staggers up with limbs torn —
and bruised, the last semblance of humanity scorched out of
him. §till he struggles on, and leaps again.—It is gone!
Again—it is gone!

et there is his prize. Glittering mockingly before him,
there it is—he will have it!

The hot breath of the volcand is on his brow—its flame

eams in his eyes—his foot is on the crater’s edge! Yet there
it is—that horrible fascination—floating over him—he will
have it!

With one last desperate effort, he makes a sudden spring.
Aha! he has got it now—yes!—but he has leapt into the fier
chasm, and with a durst bubdle in his hand, he goes before his
God and Maker!

Every man possesses an evil habit who follows and is fas-
cinated by an enjoyment God has not sanctioned. Heaven ©
ity such a man! He barters away jewels worth all the king-

yaa of this world, and gains for them—a burst bubble!

Ay, and when on that great day, for which all other days
were made, his awful Judge—amid the final crash of doom—
shall ask him, ‘‘ What hast thou done that thou may’st inherit
eternal life?” all he can show will be—the Burst Busse!

CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT.—Mrs. Rosa
Thrope.

aera sun was slowly setting o’er the hills so far away,

Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;

And the last rays kiss’d the forehead of a man and maiden
fair,

He with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny, floating
hair;

He with sad, bowed head, and thoughtful, she with lips so
cold and white,

Struggling to keep back the murmur, ‘‘ Curfew must not ring

to-night.” 3

“Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison

old,
With its walls so dark and gloomy—walls so dark, and damp, —
and cold—° — : ‘
“‘T’ve a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die ~
‘At the ringing of the Curfew, and no-earthly help is nigh. ~

 
\

RECITATIONS AND READINGS. 82

| Cromwell will not come till sunset,” and her face grew strange-

7: ly white,
___| As she spoke in husky whispers, ‘‘ Curfew must not. ring to-
: night.”

| “Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton—every word pierced her
young heart
Like . thousand gleaming arrows—like a deadly poisoned
ey art—
“Long, long years I’ve rung the Curfew from that gloomy
‘i shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour;
Ihave done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right.
Now I’m old, I will not miss it; girl, the Curfew rings to-
night!”

} Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her
} thoughtful brow,
And within her heart’s deep center, 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—
One low er searcely spoken—‘‘ Curfew must not ring to-
night!’

_ She with light step bounded forward, sprung within the old
church door, :
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he’d trod so oft be-
fore;
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow

aglow, j
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and

TO; 7
Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of
7.) light,
_ } Upward still, her pale lips saying: ‘‘ Curfew shall not ring to-
night.”

She has reached the topmost ladder, o’er her hangs the great
dark bell, ¢
_ And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to
: hell;
See, 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 apr it ring? No, never! her eyes flash with sudde?
ight,

As she springs and grasps it firmly—‘‘ Curfew shall not ri0S | —

to-night!”

Out she swung, far out—the city seemed a tiny speck below; *
There, ’twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swuDS |

to and fro;

And es aed sexton ringing (years he had not heard the
e. ), a
And he thought the twilight Curfew rung young Basil’s funeral |

knell;

Still the maiden clinging firmly, cheek and brow now pale and |

white,

Stilled her frightened 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 damp old ladder, where for hundred years be

fore

Human foot had not been planted; and what she this night 4

had done,
Should be told in long years after—as the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires, with heads
white,

Tell their children why the Curfew did not ring that one sod |

night.

O’er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie saw him, and heF §

brow,
Lately white with sickening terror, glows with sudden beauty

now; : *
At his feet she told her story, showed her hands all bruised i
and torn; a a

And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so sad a0!

worn, ‘a
ee his heart with sudden pity—lit his eyes with misty |
- “Go, your lover lives!” cried Cromwell; ‘‘ Curfew shall not

ring to-night!”

 

. je ee £e ee, ee) é a oO fee Ge tat a
RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

THE SWELL.—George W. Kyle.

I say! I wonder why fellahs ever wide in horse-cars. I’ve
been twying all day to think why fellahs ever do it, weally!
I know some fellahs that are in business, down town, you
know—C. B. Jones, cotton dealer; Smith Brothers, woolen
foods; Bwown & Company, stock bwokers and that sort of
thing, you know—who say they do it every day. If I was to
do it every day, my funeral would come off in about a weck.
*Pon my soul it would. I wode in a horse-car one day. Did
it for a lark. Madea bet I would wide in a horse-car. ’Pon
my soul I did. So I went out on the pavement before the
club-house and called one. I said, ‘‘ Horse-car! horse-car!”
but not one of ‘em stopped, weally! Then I saw that fellahs
Wun after them—played tag with them, you know, as the
dweadful little girls do when school is coming out. And some-
times they caught the cars—ah—and sometimes they did not.
So I wun after one, I did weally, and I caught it. was out
of breath, you know, and a fellah on the platform—a conduc-
tor fellah—poked me in the back and said, ‘‘Come! move up!
make room for this lady!’ Ah—by Jove he did, you know!
I looked for the lady so (eye-glass business), but I could see no

| lady, and I said so. There was a female person behind me,

- With large market-basket, cwowded with—ah—vegetables and

such dweadful stuff, and another person with a bundle and

another with a baby, you know. The person with the basket

rodded me in the back with it, and J said to the conductor’

ellah, said I, ‘‘ Where shall I sit down? I—ah—I don’t see

any seat, you know. (Hye-glass business.) The seats seem to

be occupied by persons, conductor,” said I. ‘‘ Where shall I
sit?” .

He was wude, very wude, indeed, and he said, ‘‘ You can sit
on your thumb if you have a mind to.” And when I wemon-
strated with him upon the impwopwiety of telling a gentleman
to sit on his thumb, he told me to go to thunder. ‘‘Go to
thunder!” he did indeed. After awhile one of the persons got
out and I sat down; it was vewy disagweeable! Opposite me
there were several persons belonging to the labowing classes,
with what I pwesume to be lime on their boots, and tin kettles
which they carried for some mysterious purpose in their hands. ,

_ There was a person with a large basket, and a colored person.
. Next to me there sat a fellah that had been eating onions!
*Twas vewy offensive! I couldn’t stand it! No fellah could,
you know. I had heard that if any one in a car was annoyed

y a fellah-passenger he should weport it to the conductor. So

I said, ‘* Conductor! put this person out of the car! he annoys

Ile vewy much. He has been eating onions.” But the con-
ductor fellah only laughed. He did indeed! And the fellah
that had been eating onions said, “‘ Hang yer impidence, what

 
DIME BOOK OF

do ye mean by that?” ‘It’s extwemely disagweeable, yo!
know, to sit near one who has been eating onions,” said I. ‘a
think you ought to resign, get out, you know.” And then,

though I’m sure I spoke in the most wespectful manner, he —
put his fist under my nose and wemarked ‘‘ You’ll eat that, —

hang you, in a minute!’ He did indeed. Anda fellah oppo-
site said, ‘‘ Puta head on him, Jim!” I suppose from his ton
that it was some colloquial expwession of the lower orders, re-
ferring to a personal attack. It was vewy disagweeable in-

deed. I don’t see why any fellah ever wides in the horse-cars.
But I didn’t want a wow, you know. A fellahisaptto get |
black eye, and a black eye spoils one’s appeawance, don’t you
think? So I said, ‘‘ Beg pardon, I’m sure.” The fellah said,

“Oh, hang you!’ He did, indeed. He was a vewy ill-bred
person. And all this time the car kept stopping and more
people of the lower orders kept getting on. A vewy dweadful
woman with a vewy dweadful baby stood right before me, in-
tercepting my view of the street; and the baby had an orange
in one hand and some candy in the other. And I was wonder-
ing why persons of the lower classes were allowed to have

such dirty babies, and why Bergh or some one didn’t interfere,
you know, when, before I knew what she was doing, that.

dweadful woman sat that dweadful baby wight down on my
lap! She did indeed. And it took hold of my shirt bosom
with one of its sticky hands and took my eye-glass away with
the other, and upon my honor, I’m quite lost without my eye-
glass. ‘‘ You’ll have to kape him till I find me money,” sai

the woman. “ Weally!” said I, ‘‘I’m not a nursery-maid,
ma’am.” ‘Then the people about me laughed. They did in-
deed. I could not endure it. I jumped up and dwopped the
baby in the straw. ‘‘Stop the car, conductor,” said I, ‘‘ stop

the car.” * What do you suppose he said? ‘Hurry up now,

be lively, be lively; don’t keep me waiting all day!” And I

was about to wemonstrate with him upon the impwopwiety of — 2

speaking so to a gentleman, when he pushed me off the car.
hat was the only time I ever wode in a horse-car. I wonder

why fellahs ever do wide in horse-cars? Ishould think they =|

would pwefer cabs, you know.

 

ppm

swag 8

pHs Oo
Pe

Ce eee Le) a ow a

RECITATIONS AND READINGS.

THE WATER-MILL.—D. C. McCallum.

_ E Oh! listen to the water-mill, through all the live-long day,

As the clicking of the wheels wear hour by hour away; ;
How languidly the autumn wind doth stir the withered leaves,
As on the field the reapers sing, while binding up the sheaves!
A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast,

“The mill will never grind again with water that is past.”

The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o’er earth and
main,

_ The sickle never more will reap the yellow garnered grain;
The rippling stream flows ever on, aye tranquil, deep and still,
But never glideth back again to busy water-mill.

_| The solemn proverb speaks to all, with meaning deep and vast,
} “The mill will never grind again with water that is past.”

‘

Oh! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true,
For queen years are fleeting by, and youth is passing too;
Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day,

] For time will ne’er return swect joys neglected, thrown away;

Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow broad-
cast—
“The mill will never grind again with water that is past.”

Oh! the wasted hours of life that have swiftly drifted by;
Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh;
Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word;

Thoughts conceived but ne’er expressed, perishing, unpenned,

unheard.
Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast,
“The mill will never grind again with water that is past.”

Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength
and will,

The streamlet ne’er doth useless glide by clicking water-mill;

Nor wait until to-morrow’s light beams brightly on thy way,

| For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase “* to-.

day ;” .

Possessions, power and blooming health must all be lost at \
last—

“The mill will never grind again with water that is past.

Oh! love thy God and fellow-man, thyself consider last,

For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the past;
Soon will this fight of life be o’er, and earth recede from view,
And heaven in all its glory shine where all is pure and true.
Ah! then thou'lt see more Clearly still the proverb deep and

2 vast,. ; :
_ “The mill will never grind again with water that is past.”

 
   

sean ast:

  

DIME BOOK OF

SAM’S LETTER.—Dundreary.

I wonder who w-wote me this letter? I thuppose the v-be
way to f-find out ith to open it and thee. (Opens b
Thome lun-lunatic hath w-witten me this letter. He bay
w-witten it upthide down. I wonder if he th-thought 1 w®
going to w-wead it thtanding on my head? Oh, yeth,I thee
had it t-t-turned upthide down. ‘‘Amewica.” Who 40
know in Amewica? Iam glad he hath given me hith adawes
anyhow. Oh, yeth, I thee, it ith from Tham. I alway
know Tham’s handwiting when I thee hith name at the b-be,
tom of it, ‘My dear bwother—” Tham alwayths called ®
bwother. I-I thuppose iths because hith m-mother and
mother wath the same woman, and we never had any thistel®
When we were boyths we were ladths together. They use
ge-get off a pwoverb when they thaw uth com-coming dows
the stweet. It ith vewy good, if I could only think of it.
can never wecollect anything that I can’t wemember, th8~
it-iths the early bir-bird—iths the early bir-bird that knowtlt
iths own father. What non-nonthense that ith! How co-coul
a bir-bird know iths own father? Iths a withe—iths a wit
child—iths a withe child that geths the wom. T-that’s m4
wite. What non-nonthense that iths! No pa-pawent woul
allow hith child to ga-gather woms. Iths awyme. Iths fis
of-of a feather. Fish of a fea— What non-nonthense! 3°
fish don’t have feathers. Iths a bir-bird—iths b-birds of a feb
ther—b-birds of a feather flock together. B-birds of a feath@®’
Just as if a who-who-whole flock of b-birds had only one f-
ther. They’d all catch cold, and only one b-bird c-could bav
that f-feather, and he’d fly sidewithe. What con-confoun “a
nonthense that iths! Flock to-together! Of courthe th-they
flock together. Who ever her-heard of a bird being such
f-fool as to g-go into a c-corner and flo-flock by himself?
wo-wote you a letter thome time ago—” Thath’s a lie;
d-didn’t wi-wite me a letter. If he had witten me a letter
would have posted it, and I would have go-got it; so.
courthe, he didn’t post it, and then he didn’t wite it. Thath?
easy. Oh, yeths, I thee: “but I dwopped it into the potl®
potht-office, forgetting to diwect it.” I wonder who the die
dickens got that letter? I wonder if the poth-pothman ae
gwoin’ awound inquiring for a f-fellow without a name? if
wonder if there iths any fel-fellow without any name?
there iths any fellow without any name, how doeths he kn?
who he iths himthelf? I-I wonder if thuch a fellow could Sf
mawaid? How could he ask hiths wife to take hiths name *
he h-had no name? Thath’s one of thothse things no fell0”,
can f-find out. ‘‘I have just made a startling ditheover¥4
Tham’s alwayths d-doing thomething. ‘‘I have dithcove 4
that my mother iths—that m-my mother iths hot my m-mothe™’

 

 
  
   
  
  
    
  
  
   
    
    
   
 

RECITATIONS AND READINGS, 93

aa that a—the old nurse iths my m-mother, and that you are not
| 2y b-bwother, and a—tha-that Iwas changed at my birth.” —
[ How c-can a fellow be changed at hith b-birth? If he iths not
‘imthelf, who iths he? If Tham’s m-mother iths not hith
‘mother, and the nurse iths hith mother, and Tham ithn’t m
Wother, whoamI? That's one of thothse things that no fel-fel-
Ow can find out. ‘‘I have p-purchased an ethstate som-some-
'Where—” Dothn’t the id-idiot know wh-where he has bought
48 On, yeths: “on the bankths of the M-M-Mithithippi.”
-who iths M-Mithithippi? I g-gueth ith’s Tham’s m-mo
€r-in-law. Tham’s got mawaid. He th-thayths he felt
|| Yvewy nervous. He alwayths wath a lucky fellow getting
; ‘h-things he didn’t want, and hadn’t any use for. Thpeaking
«| % mother-in-lawth, I had a fwiend who had a mother-in-law,
‘nd he didn’t like her pwetty well; and she f-felt the thame
Way toward him; and they went away on a st-steamer acwoths
€ ocean, and they got wecked, catht away on a waft, and
ey floated awound with their feet in the water and other

os 4muthements, living on thuch things ath they could pick up—
wuld | ‘Mardinths, itheweam, owanges, and other c-canned. goodths
the | A were floating awound. When that wath all gone, every-

 
  
  
 

dy ate everybody else. F-finally.only himthelf and hiths
| Mother-in-law wath left, and they p-played a game of c-cards
to thee who thould be eaten up—himthelf or his mother-in-
fot | law. A-a—the mother-in-law lotht. H-he treated her hand-
fea jromely, only he strapped b-her flat on her back, and e-carved
er! | “er gently. H-h-he thays that waths the f-first time that he
ex | Ver weally enjoyed a mother-in-law.

ed
d
} FOOTSTEPS OF THE DEAD.—Lben LH. Reaford.
: In that still and quiet hour,
ne | When the busy day is done,
of And the twilight steals upon us
15 Like a noiseless-footed nun,

4 In the memory-haunted chambers
Of my soul I sit alone,
Listening for the olden footsteps
On the silent threshold stone.

In those still and quiet moments,
When the two worlds seem so near,
Footfalls from the world of shadows
Tell me that the dead are here.
T can hear them coming, going,
As I sit there all alone,
. Footsteps of the ones departed,
Echoing on the threshold stone.

 

 
  
 
 
   

 

  
DIME BOOK OF

Hush! I pray! one moment listen!
Heard you not a child’s swift tread?

Ah! my heart cannot deceive me!—
*Tis the footsteps of the dead.

There are little pattering footsteps,
Like the rain upon the trees,

And I hear /is footstep with them
In the lulling of the breeze.

Yes, I hear them on the threshold --
Little fingers at the door
Of my heart are asking entrance;
Oh, come in forevermore!
Hear you not the footsteps sounding
Through the raindrops’ mournful din?
Oh ’tis not my idle fancy !—
I must go and let them in.

CHARITY.—Brudder Gardner.

If you meet a poo’ man whos’ wife am lyin’ dead in &
house, doan wipe yer eyes an’ rattle yer chin an’ tell him you

EORERSHGEE

ie

jine de funeral perceshun if you only hada mule. Walk ri if e

down into yer vest pocket fur de coffin an’ odder expenses. _
ou. meet. a feller who am out of wood an’ flour, an’ has

roken arm to excuse it, doan pucker yer mouth an’ tell biP {

dat de Lawd will purvide. The Lawd doan furnish purvisi® 7

for dis market. Instead of droppin’ a tear of sorrow on © |
dore-step, step around to de wood-yard an’ grocer’s an’ If |

down de cash to feed an’ warm de family for a fortnig

When I meet a little gal who has lost her doll-baby, or a Ht, |

boy who has stubbed his toe, I take ’em up in my a’ms
wipe deir leetle noses an’ sot em down with a handfu
_ nuts. When I meet a widder who am out 0’ wood, an ®

ap
1 o' pee

le

man who has been turned out of doahs, or a workin’ @ Ge -
whos’ home am under de shadder ob death, I doan leen oD “> |

fence an’ look to Heaben fur relief. If I’ve got a dollah
han’ it out. I lend it, or give it, or make ’em take it, aD |
Heaben does anything furder, dat’s extra. When you read &
it am easy to speak kind words, just reflect dat it am als0 ©
cheapest way in de world to help a neighbor. Turnips ic
quoted ~ eighty cents 2 bushel; kind words have no valve —
_ de market. 2 i

 
 

  

RECITATIONS AND READINGS,

AN ESSAY ON CHEEK.—Bob Burdette.

   
 

1, No, my son, cheek is not better than wisdom; it is not bet-
‘er than modesty; it is not better than anything. Don’t listen
'}'0 the siren who tells you to blow your own horn or it will
er be tooted upon. The world is not to be deceived by
“eek, and it does search for merit, and when it finds it, merit
|8 rewarded. Cheek never deceives the world, my son. It
%Ppears to do so to the cheeky man, but he is the one who is
‘“eceived. Do you know one cheeky man, inal] your acquaint-;

ed? Is the world not continually drawing distinctions be-
‘Ween cheek and merit? Almost everybody hates a cheeky
an, my son. Society tires of the brassy glare of his face, his
[sa assumption and forwardness. The triumphs of cheek

fe who is not reviled for his cheek the moment his back is

only apparent. He bores his way along through the world,
| 8nd frequently better people give way to him. Butso do the
ere way, my boy, for a man with a paint-pot in each hand.

‘ot because they respect the man with the paint-pot particu-
larly, but because they want to take care of their clothes. You
Sell goods without it, and your customers won’t run and hide
ln the cellar when they see you coming.

 

 

 
 
 

 
    

   

STANDARD S

DIME DIALOGUE

Tor School Exhibitions and Home Entertainments,

Joa. 1 tol tuelusive. 15 to °5 Popular Dialogues and Dramas fn each book. Each volume 10
12nio pages, sent post-paid, on receipt of price, teu cents,

Beadle & Adams, Publishers, 98 William St., N. ¥

Theso volumes have been prepared with especial reference to their availability for Exhibition
ing adapted to schools and pes with or without the furniture of a stage, and suited to stick

 

XS AND YOUNG PEOPLE of every rge, both male ani female. It is fair to assume thict!
er books in the markot, at any price, contain so many useful aud available dialogues aud dra
vit, pashes, humer ard sentiment,

DIME DIALOGUES, NO. 1.

ting of the Muses, For nine young ladies. )Hobnobbing. For five speakers,

 

 

 

  

piting a Live Englishmau. For tree boys, The Secret of Success. For three speakers.
itso’s Coronation. For male and female. Young America. Three males and two female
xshion. For wwo ladies, Josephine’s Destiny, Four females, one male
he Rehearsal. For six boys, The Folly of the Duel. For three malespeas'
hich will you Choose? for two hoys. Doginatism. For three male speakers,
The Queen of May. For two little girls. 'The Ignorant Confounded. Fortwo boys.
The Tea-Purty. For four ladies. The Fast Young Man. Fortwo males,

Three Scenes in Wedded Lif. Maleand female. The Year’s Reckoning. 12 females and 1 mal®
Mrs. Snifiles’ Confession. For male nad female. |The Village with One Gentlemun, For eight
4xe Mission of the Spirits. Five young ladies, (males aud one male.

DIME DIALOGUES, NO, 2,
The Genins of Liberty. 9 males and 1 female, jHow to Write ‘Popular’ Stories. Two male ,
Cinderellag or, The Little Gluss Slipper. The New and the Old, For two males,
Doing Good and Saying Bad, Several characters.| A Sensation at Last. For two males,
The Golden Rule. Two males ard two females.|The Greenhorn, For two males,
The Gift, of the Fairy Queen. Several females. |The Three Mev of Science. For four males
Tak nivand Dine For. For ;wo characters. |The Old Lady’s Will. For four males.
The Co mtry Aunt’s Vis.t to tue City. For sev-|The Little Phil sophers. For two little gitle

 

    

eral vharacters. How to Find an Heir. For five males.
The Two Romans. For two nales, The Virtues, For six young ladies,
Trying the Characters. For three males. A Connubial Eclogue.
The Happy Famil For several ¢ aniuals? The Public meeting. Fivemalesand one femslet
The Rainbow. Vor several el uracters. The Engli*h Traveler. For two

DIME DIALOGUES, NO. 8.

The May Queen. For an entiy school, The Gentaei Cook. For two males. ¥
Dress Reform Convention. For gen females, Mosterpiece. For two males and two femsle®

Kee ing Bad Company. A Farse, For five males.|The {wo Romans. For two males. z
Courting Under Difficulties, wmales, 1 female. |Th Game, Secondscene. Fortwo males.
National Representatives. A Burlesque, 4 males.|S.o'ving the White Feather. 4 males, 1 femal

 

Rscaping the Draft. For numgrousinales, Bie Battle Call. A Recitative, For one
DIME DIALO“YES, NO. 4, f
“he Frost King. For ten er mure persons. de Stubb'etown Volurteer. 2% males, 1 fens

‘arting in Life, ‘Three males and two femaje@ {A Scene from “ Paul Pry.” For four maict
ith, Hope and Charity. Foe three little giv {lie Charms. For three males and one femal@
arky and Joan. For two males an:l ene famale.| Bee, Clock and Broom. Foz three little girls
ie May. A Sloral Fancy. For six litt'e girls.| The Tight Way. AColloqny. For two boy®
se Enchanted Princess. 2 males,severa} fenales| What the Ledger Says. For twa males.
“or to Whem Hon -r is Due. 7 males, 1 female.| The Crimes of Dress. A Colloquy. For twooryt
jentle Client. Forseveral males, one female) The Reward of Benevolence. For four oe
‘ology. A Discussion, For tweuty moles. tThe Letter. For two males,

7
; DIME DIALVGUES, NO. 5. |
phree Gueases, For school or parlor. Putting on Airs. A Colloqny. For two males
Minent. A“ Three Porson,” ra ce. The Straight Mork. For several bovs. ‘es
hird the Curtain. For males and females, Two ideas of Life. A Colloquy. For ten gi¥
¢ Eta Pi Society. Five bovs anda tencher, {Extract from Marino Faliero.
xamination Day, Forseveral female characters. Ma-try-Money. An Accing Charade.
eading in “ ‘Traps ? Forseveral males, |The Six Virtues. For six young ladies.
he School Boys’ 'I'rfounal. For ten boys, ‘The Irishman at Home, For twe males.
A Loose Tongue. Several males and fenales, [Fashionable Requiternents. For three Firs.
How Not to Get an Auswer. For two females, /A Bevy of I’s (Eyes), For eight or less littleg

DIME DIALOGUES, NO. 6.

"Fhe Way They Kept aSecret. Male and females.|The Two Counselor. Fer three males. aie
‘Bho Poet under Difficulties. For five males. The Votaries of Folly. For a number of fem fe
William Te}l. For a whole school. Aunt Betsy’s Beaux. Four femalesand two mal)
Woman’s Rights, Seven femalesand two males.| The Libel Suit. bor two females and on mal

It is. not Gold that Glitters. Male and females.|Santa Claus, Fa « numberof bora.

‘be Generove Jew. For six males. Christmas Fairies . For several little giz
Foz three malva aud one female, The Three Riuga Four two wales,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
 

 

 

 
10
Y.

ont

a

sees

two For fourteen femnaled.
ft earth-child @ fairy-la.d. For giris.
nheny years hence. Two females, one male.
Way to Wi.dham. For two males.
Taman. A poetic passage at words. Two doys,
ie *Ologies. A Colloquy. Four two males.
a. to get rill of a vore. For several boys.
» rding-school. ‘C'wo males and two females,
po for the pledge. For two males.
Re ills of dram-drinking. For three boys.
tt pride. A colloquy. For two females,
two lecturers, Bor nuinerous males,

fe fairy School. For a number of girls.

The enrolling otticer. Three girls and two boys.
2 base dullenthusivst. For three boyse

2, irl of the period. ¥or three girls.

§j," fowl rebellion. ‘I'wo males and one female.
(,." dut sure. Several males and two females.
x le’s velocipede. One male and one female,
ptfcures, For severni sinall children.

trial of Peter Sloper. for seven boys.

 

 

Aiverttsing for help. Fora number of females.
Tyttica to England, greetimg. Fr two boys.
oc! snd the new. Four fernslos one male.
Th ice uf trades. For twelve little boys.
The lap-dog. For two females.
%,, Victiin. For four femaies and oue male.
ne dueiiss. For two boys.

true philosophy. For females and males.
€o-d education. For two females.

i. Mark Twain’s shoe. One male, one female.
he Old flag. School festival. For three boys.
ae Sourt of folly. For many girls.
Rant lives, For six boys and six girls.
dal For numerous males and females,

p.° light of love. For two bo
ti flower children. For tw
4 gdeaf uncle, For three boys,

iscussion. For two boys.

  

giele,

‘ rances are very deceitful. For six boys.
¢,* conundrum fam ly. For male and female,
J, 2@% Betsy. Three males and four females.

ta aud the beanstalk. For five characters,

R,° Way to do it und not to doit. 3 femules,

ey to become healthy,etc. Mualeand female.
Q). Ooly trae For two girls,

jac colloquies. For two boys,

* G tavus Vasa and Cristiern,

4. Yamerlane aud Bajazet.

 

 

 

Dkee asenrance, For severa characters,
er ders wanted. For several churacters,
9,28" Twas yourg. For two girls,

ne NOSt precious herituge. For two boys.
7° double cure. ‘Tero males and four feinales,
Yon, oWer-garden fairies, For five little girls.

hima’s novel. Three males and two females,

ware of the widows, Fox three girls

wo

° o’eloek in the morning.
Bi cdignation meeting,
The and behind theacenes. Several charact’s.
diy, Nodlest boy, A numberof boys and teacher,
Noy dress pie For girls and boys.

%0 bad as it seems. For several characters,
Hgetetone morat. For two malesand female.
Ye, eatiacent,

Vor pastor aad exhibition,

 

 

 

For three males,
‘or several females.

 

Dime School Serics=Dialogues,
DIME DIALOGUES No. 7.

 

Two views of life. Colloquy. For two females
The rights of music. for two femaies,

A hopeless case. A query in verse. Twogirls,
The would-be school-teacher, For two mules.
Come to life too soon. Yor three males,

Eight o’clock, For two little girls.

True dignity. Acolloquy. For two bogs,
Grief two expensive. For two males,

Hamlet and the ghost. For two persons,
Little red riding hood. For two ieinales,

New application ofan old rule. Boys and girls,
Colored cousins. A colloquy. For two wales. .

DIME DIALOGUES No. 8,

Getting a phoiograph. Males and females.

The society for g-neral set prpveipent. For girls,
A nobleinan in disguise. Three girls, six boys,
Great expectations, For two boys.

Playing school. Five females and four males.
Clothes for the heathen, One male, one demala,
A hard case. For three boys.

Ghosts. For ten fewales and one saale,

DIME DIALOGUES No. 9.

The law of human kindness, For two females.
Spoiled children, For a mized school.

Brutus and Cassius.

Coriolanus and Aufidius.

The new scholar, For a number of girls.

The self-made man, For three males,

The May queen (No. 2.) For a school.

Mrs. Lackland’s economy. 4 boys and 8 girls
Should women be given the ballot! For boys.

DIME DIALOGUES No. 10,

For a school.
For three boys and one girl.
For three girls.

The rehearsal.
The true way.
A practical life lesson.
The monk and the soldier, For two boys.
1176-1876, School festival, For two gir's,
Lord Dundreary’s Visit, 2 males and 2 females,
Witches im the erenm. For 3 girls and 2 boys.
Frenchman, Charade. Numerous characters.

 

DIME DIALOGUES No, 11.

Fashionable dissipation. For two little girls.
A school charade, For two boys and two girls.
Jean Ingelow’s “ Songs of Seven.” Seven girls,
A debate, For four boys.

Ragged Dick’s lesson. “For three boys.

School charade, with tableau.

A very questionable story. For twe boys.

A sell. For thr e inales.

The real geutleman, For two boys.

DIME DIALOGUES NO. 12.

A family not to pattern after. Ten characters,
How to man-age. An acting charade,

The vacation ecapade, Four noys and terehes.
That naughty boy. Three females and @ male.
Mad-cap. An acting charade.

All is not gold that glitters. Acting prover’.
Sic transit gloria muadi. Acting charade,

DIME DIALOGUES NO. 13,

Worth, not wealth. For four boys and a teacher,
No such word as fail. For several mates.

The sleeping beauty. For schoo!.

An innocent intrigue. Twomales anda female.
Old Nably, the fortune-teller. - For three girls.
Boy-talk. For several little bov3.,

 

Mother isdead. For several little girls.
A practical illasteation, For two-voye and girl.

 
    
   
   
   
   
 
   
    
    
  
   
  
  
   
  
   
   
    
   
   
  
  
    
    
     
   
    
  
  
   
 
   
   
  
   
    
   
   
   
   
  
   

 

Dime School Series=-Dialogues, a

 

DIME DIALOGUES No. 14.

Mrs. Jonag Jones. Three gents and two ladies,
The bor genius. For foar gents.

Move thau one listener. For fuur gents and lady,
Who on earth is hef For three girls.

‘Tue right not to bea pauper, For two boys.
Wowan uature will out. Fora giils’ school,
Benedict and bachelor. For two boys,

The cost of adress, For five persous.

‘The surprise party. For six lit.le girls,

A practical demonstration, Pur three boys.

Refinement. Acting charade. Severn! chars
Conscience, the arbiter, For lady and yeuh
How to make mothers happy. For two be

A conclusive argument, y

A woman’s blindness. For three girls.
Rum’s work (Temperance) For four gent®
The fatal mistake. For two young ladie®
Eyes and nose. For one gent and one Lady+
Retribution. For a nuuber of boys,

‘ov two girls.

DIME DIALOGUES No. 15. ‘

Se fairies’ escapade. Numerous characters,

# rvcet’s perplexities. For six gentlemen.

¢ ome cure. For two ladies und one gent.
se good there is in each. A uumber of boys.

Gentlemen or meakey. For two boys.

Tie little philosopher., For two little girls,

Aunt Poliy’s lesson. Por four ladies.

A wind-fall. Acting charade. Fora number.

Willit puy! For two boys.

The heir-at-law. For numerous males. ‘
Don’t believe what you hear. Wor three Je
Asafet\ rule. For three ladies, ie
The chief’s resolve. Extract. For two #*
Testing her friends, For several characte™
The toreigner’s t oubles, For two ladies foe
The cat without an owner. Several charut
Nutural selection, For three geutlewen-

DIME DIALOGUES No. 16.

Polly Ann. For four ladies and one gentleman,
The meeting of the winds. Fora school.

The yood they did. For six ladies.

The boy who wins. For six ger tiemen,
Good-by day. A colloquy. For three girls.
The sick well man. For three boys.

The inv estigating committee. For nine ladies,
A corner” in rogues. For four boys.

DIME DIALO
LiTTLE FOLKS’ SPEECH

To Behappy you must be good. For two little
Sids and one boy.

Ev. nescent glory. For a bevy of boys.

The s ‘ttle pencemaker. For two little girls.

What parts iriends. For two little girls.

Martha ‘Vashington tea party. For five little
girls in old-tine costume.
he evil there isin it, For two young boys.

Wise and foolish little girl. For two girls.

A child's inquiries. Forsmall child ang teacher,

The cooking club. For two girls and others,

How to dv it. For two boys.

A hundred years to come. For boy and girl,

Dou’t trust fuces. For several small boys,

Above the skies, Kor two small girls.

The true herous: For three little boys,

Give us little bo chance; The story of the
plum pudding; (’1l be aman; A little girl’s
rights speech; Jobnny’s opinion of grand-
motiers ; The boustiug hen; He knows der
rest; A small boy’s view of corns ; Robby’s

 

 

  

Stratagem,

fre they;

‘The imps of the trunk room. For five gitlt
The bousters, A Colloquy. For two lithe®?
Kitty’s funeral. For severa! little girls.

Charade. _For several characte

Testing her scholars. For numerous scho!
The world is what we wake it Two gitlt ag
The old aud the new. For gentleman aué

GUES No. 17.

HES AND DIALOGUES.

sermon ; Nobody’s child ; Nutting at orl
Gray »; Little boy's vi im
discovered America ; 1 ittle girl’s view | ge
tle bov’s speech on time; A Bittle bo:

et; The miduight murder; Robby
ond sermon; How the baby cam
observations; The new slate; A mbygh
love ; The creownin’ glory ; Baby Lulassigg
Billings on the bumbie-bee, wren, align
Died yesterday ; The chieken’s mistake pos’
heir apparent ; Dehyer us from evils hogs
want to be good; Only a drunken !!
The two little robins; Be slow to conde®
A nonsense tale; Little boy’s declamnstiOpyyr
child’s desire; Bogus; The goblin cati
a-dub; Calumny ; Little chatterbox; wi

  

view of how Cold pie

 

 

y's, Pete
b’s
Rob's ge

 

*
op

A boy’s view ; The twenty

Going to school; A morning bath; ‘The
of Dundee ; A faacy; In thé
new laid egg; The little musician ; Idle
Pottery-man; Then and now.

sunlightigegs

DIME DIALOGUES No. 18.

Fairy wishes. For several characters.

@No rose wi hout a thorn. 2 males and 1 female,
Foo greedy by half. For three males.

@ne good turn deseryes anotber. For 6 ladies.
Mourting Melinda. For 3 boys and 1 lady.
iThe new scholar. For several boys.

Whe little intercessor, For four Indies.
Auteccdenta: For 3 gentlemen and 3 ladies.

 

   

Spric
Lost C

 

Hard times.

Give a dog a bad name. For tour pentieme®

e wishes. For six little girls

riie ; of, the gips
merous characters.

A little tramp. For three little boys.

 

p
o
y’s revenge. For

For 2 gentlemen ane 4 ladie®

The leeson weli worth iearuing. Bor *w?
and two females,

DIME DIALOGUES, NO. 19.

Arawfn! mystery. Two females and two males,

C_atentment. For five little boys,

Who are the saints? For three young girls.

California uncle. Three males and three females,

Be kind to the poor. A little folks’ play.

How people are insured. A “ duet.’”

Mayor. Acting charade, For four characters.
e smoke fiend. For four boys.

A kindergarten dialogue. Fora Christmas Fes-
tival. Personated by seven characters,

The fairy
Aunt Eunice’

  

 

Tho pee ofstady, Vor threg girls,

rhe auction,

 

The mysterious G G. Two femates and ope”

We'll have to mortgage the lana, For ob#
and two females,

An old-fashioned duet,

The refined simpletons, For fouy ladies.
Remember Benson. For three mases-

Modern education. Three males vad one
Mad with too inch lore. For gheee male® ile

arning. Dress pievs. For tw?
's experiment. For several-

For numerous charaetefie

 

 

 

Bed teakerre LS

ae eo

-

 
AGES

veSSReeay

BAY

&

 

Dime School Serics#Dialornes,

 

 

"ut
by

Tee females,

   

Te i adveutur

4

Ty and Gram
Phantom dou

Y,
Hortunate Mr.

 
 
  
  

&.

Wiles, For two ladies and two gentlemen. Gamester, For numerous characters.

At each would

 

  

Scittle Vesuvius. For six little girls, The creduluus w
Mi’? Kor three buys.

pcltebt out of danger. For three wales and Cind-rella. For se

ofthe peddlers. 7 mixed characters. How to “ breal

4g; Words. For a number of boys. and one gentleman,
sud. For anumber.of littie girls.

The above books are sold by Ne

© receipt of price, 10 cents each.

cee
he DIME DIALOGUES, No, 20.
Aq "Tong man, Three males and three females (Anair castle. For five males and thrwe females,
NeqtOon calls, For two little girla. City manners and country bears, For tree girls
yet ‘present. For four boys. and one boy.
» " not. For teacher and several scholars. The silly dispute. For two gtris and teacher.
Ry ling dreams. For four little folks. Not one there! For four male charactore,
ved by For twy bovs. Foot-print. For numerous ch:racter .

Two males and three females.| Keeping boarders. Two fem |cs atid three malew
glish. For 3 males aud 1 ,emale.|A cure tor good. One lady and two gentiwuen,
pacre. For two males.

 

DIME DIALOGUES, No, 21.

‘ mascass fl donation party. For several, | Mark Hastings’ return. For four males,

veral children.
Too much for Aunt Matilda, For three femated,

  

le Rud Riding Hood. For two children, Wit against wi'e. ‘Three females aud ube tule,

 

w she made lim propose. A duet. A sudden recovery. For three males.

y@ house on the | bs For four females, Thedouble stratagem. For tour femnles,
Wulence enongs. For two males, Counting chickens before they were batched.
Worthand wealth. For four females, For four males.

Merfall, For sever
™ DIME DIALOGUES, No, 22,

F, Dark Cupid; or, the mistakes of @ morning.|Titania’s banquet. For a number of rls,

or three gentlemnea and two ladies. Boys wil] be boys. For two boys aud one girl,
@’er-de-well; or, a brother’s lesson, For|A rainy day; or, the ochool-girl philosophers,
9 males and two females. For three young ladies.
uS0 art 3; or the new mania, For two giris. God is love. For a number of scholars,

 

es. For two boys, The way he managed. For 2 males, 2 females,

ing’s supper. For four girls. Fandango. Various characters, white ad othe
UPrretical exeimplification. ise.

Pecur Thies in America; or, Yaukeo vs.|The little doctor. Fortwo tiny girls.
RB eachman. For four boys, A-sweet revenge. For four boys.
ae * diplomacy. 3 females and ‘incident als.’}A May day. For three little vir's,

 

For two boys. wis

r, the outwitted aunt, For two|From thesublime tothe ridiculous, For 14 males

Tenchman; 0!
Adies and one gentleman. Heart not face. For five boys,

DIME DIALOGUES, No. 23.

Bots Hunt’s remedy. For 3fenales,! male. A bear garden. For threo males, two females.
(ion Schinidt’s recommend. Fortwo males. The busy bees. For four littlegirls.

ble. For two little bors, Checkmate. For numerous characters,
ghnuts. For six females. School-time. For two little girls.

 

Qo 'tpay? For six males. Death scene. 2 principal characters and adjuncts.
Pany manners and hoine impoliteness For,
WO males, tw erales and two children.
Rlad days. Wor cwo little boys,

Dross.and gold. Several characters, male and fe-

 

male,
Confound Mille-, For three males, cwo females
Brown. For 1 male,6 females.) Ignorance vs. justice. For eleven malese

Teal cost. For two girls. (Pedauts all. For four females.
b. DIME DIALOGUES, No. 24.
Roddess of liberty. For nine young ladies. The six brave men, For six boys.
three graces. For three little girls, Have you heard the news?
sctor. For seven males. ‘The true queen, ‘Two young girls,
For three girls. A slight mistake. 4 males, 1 female, and sew.
For four males, eral auriliaries.
victory. I male, 3 females, Lazy and busy. Ten little fellows.
ser. 2 gentlemen, 2 ladies, The old and young. ? gentleman, } little pirl.
d for it, For four ladies. That posta] card. 3 ladies and 1 gentleman.
A number of charact’s, both sexes. Mother Goose and her household. A whola
the peacemakers. Seven young girls. school fancy dress dialo,ue and tiavestia,

DIME DIALOGUES, No, 25,

Seieties of the delectables and les miser-) The true use of wealth. For a whole schoal.

have. 6 little boys & teacher.} Put yourself in his place. For two boys.

 

dy, bine through the clouds. For four ladies, Little wise heads. For four little girls.
yiend in need. ¥or four males, The regenerators. For five boys.
y¢ bours. For twelve little girls, Crabtree’s wooing. Several characters,
Bore and out. For figs little boys. Integrity the basis of all success. Two males,
os Rats. For one spale and four females. A crooked way made straight. One gentlanaa
WEP Pound of flesh. Fo? three boys. and one Jad:

  

in’’ young hearts, Two ladies

wadcalers everywhere, or will be sent, post-paid, to any

  

BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers, 98 Willlam 8t., N. ¥.

 
DIME SCHOOL SERIES.— peakers and Dialogues, -

——t

DIME DIALECT SPEAKER, No. 23,

Dat’s wat’s de matter, |All about a bee, Latest Chinese outrage,| My neighbor's dogs,
The Miss ssippi miracle, |Scandal, The manifest destiny of Condensed Mythologye
Ven te tide evoms in, A durk side view, the Irishinan, Pictus,

Dose laius vot Mary haf|Te peeaes vay, Pesgy McCann, The Nereides,

got On learning German, [Sprays trom Josh Bil | Legends of Attica,
Pat 0" lahert7 on wo-|Mary’s shmall vite lamb}. jings, | The stove-pipe trag
man’s rigiits, A heaithy discourse, De circumstances ob de|A doketor’s drubblesy
The home ralers, how] Covias so to speak, sitiwation, |The coming man,
they “ spukes,” Oid Mes, Grimes, Dar’s nultiu new under|The illigunt aifair a
Mezukixsh Dawson on] parody, de sun, |_ Muldvon’a,
Mothers. in-law, Mars wid eats, j|A Negro religious poem,|/That little baby round
Me didu’t sell the farm.| 3ill Underwood, pilot, |"That violin, the corner,”
The t.ce story of Frank-|Old Granley, Picnic delights, A genewine inferences
lin’s kite, Che pill peddler’s ora-|Our ¢ ndidate’s views, |An invitation to
I would 1 were a boy} tion, |Dundreary’s wisdom, bird of liberty,
again, Widder © Green’s — last Pinin Janguage by truth-|The crow,
A pathetic story, words, | ful Jane, Out west,

DIME DIALOGUES No. 26,

Poor cousins. Three Indies and two gentlemen. |The lesson of mercy. Two very small girls.
Mountains and mole-hills, Six lidies and several | Practice what you preach. Four ladies.
Svectators. Politician. Numerous characters,
A test that did not fail. Six bors. The canvassing agent. Two males and tw
Two ways of seeing things. Two little girls. females. 4
Don’t count your chickens before they are |Grub. “Iwo males,
hatched. Four ladies and a boy. A slight scare. Three females and one male
Allis fairi love and war. 3 ladies, 2 gentlemen. | Embodied sunshine. Three young ladies.
How uncle Josh got rid f the legacy, Two males, |How Jiin Peters died. Two males.
with several transformations.

DIME DIALOGUES No, 27.

Patsey O’Dowd’s campaign. For three males|The street girl’ good angel. For two Iadies and
and one female. two little girls.
a inferences not always just. Numerous|“ That ungratetul little nigger.” For two males
bo; If 1 had the money, For three little girls.
Discontented Annie. For several girls. Appearances are deceitful. For several ladie#
A double surprise. Four males and one femule.} and one gentleman,
What was it? For five Indies. Love's protest. For two little girls.
What will cure them! For a lady and two boys.}An entorced cure. For several characters.
Independent. For numerous characters. Those who preach and those who perform. For
Each season the best. For four boys. three males.
Tred and found wanting. For «everal males. | A geutie conquest. For two young girls.
A boy’s plot. For several characters.

DIME DIALOGUES No, 28.

A test that told. For six young iadies and two!No toom for the drone. For three little boy#
gentlemen. Arm-chair. For numerous characters.

Organizing a‘debating society. For four boys. | Measure for mexsure. For four girls.

The awakening. For four listle giris. Saved by a dream. For two males and tw?

The rebuke proper. For 3 gentlemen, 2 ladies. females,

Exorcising an evil spirit. For s:x Jadies. An infallible sign. For four bora.

Both sides of the fence. For four males. A good use for money. For six little girls.

The spirits of the wood. For two troupes of girls.'An agreenble profession. For several charac!

DIME DIALOGUES No, 29.

Who shall have the dictionary! For six typical|Simple Simon. For four little bows.

male characters and two females. The red light. For four males, two females.
The test of bravery. For four boys and teacher.|The sweetest thought. For four little giris.
Fortune’s wheel. For. four male characters, The inhuman monster. 6 ladies, 1 gentlemaB-
The little esthetes, For six little girls. Three little fools. For four smal] bovs.
The yes and no of smoke. For three little boys.| Beware of the dog! For three ladies and sheet
No references. Six gentlemen and three ladies.| “dodgers.”
An amazing good boy. One male, one female. {Joe Hunt’s hunt. For two boys and two girl
What a visitation did. For several ladies. Rags. For six males.

 

 

{GB The above books are sold by Newsdealers everywhere, er will be sent, post-paid, te aot
‘address, on receipt ot price. 10 cents each, ;

BEADLE & ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William St., N. ¥-

 
 

 

 

 
 

“THE DIME

SPEAKERS AND DIALOGUES,

THE MOST

 

 

 

 

ATE RACTIVE SERIES,

Most Available, Adaptive and Taking Collections

—OFr—

»

Declamations,
Recitations,
Speeches,
Orations,

Notable Passages,

Addresses,

IN

Extempore Efforts,

ALL THE

Dialogues,
Colloquies,

Burlesques,

FIELDS OF

Farces,

Minor Dramas,
Acting Charades,
Dress Pieces, *

Wil, Humor, Burlesque, Satire, Eloquence and Argument,

FOR,

SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS AND HOME ENTERTAINMENTS.

+o >

THE

E NAVIONAL SPEAK
Dime PATRIOTIC SPE
Dime Comic SPEAKE
-Dime ELocurionist.
Dime HumOROUS SPEAKE

STANDARD | SPE

ER & CH AIR AN’s GUIDE
23—DimE DIALECT SPEAKER,

Each Speaker,

THE DIME

Ave filled with original and specially prepared
and School

popular caterers for the Amateur
effective dialogues, burlesqnes. S,
and exhibition 1 dramas t!

Dime DiaLogues Num
Dime DIALOGUES Nu
Dine DIALoGU

Dime DIALOGUES
Dime DraLogvEs Numper FIve.
Dime DraLoeues NuMBER §
Dime DraLoeves NuMBER
Dime DIALosues N
Dime DIALoaues

Dime DIALOGUES

DIME DIALOGUES N

DIME 3
Dime
DIME
DIME

social ¢

ONE.
Two
THREE.
Four.

EV
"TWELVE.
s Nu MBE R THIRTE
Numeer Fourre
NUMBER FIFTEEN.

DIALoGu
DIALOGUES
DIALOGUES
Each volume,

{> For sale by all newsdealer:
of price—TEN CENTS EACH.

BEADLE & ADAMS,

100 pages 12mo.,

| DIME

100 pages 12mo.,
or sent, post-paid, to any address, on receipt

DIME SPEAKERS,

12—-DimE EXHIBITION SPEAKER.
13—Diwe ScHooL SPEAKER.
14—DivE Lupicrous SPEAKER.
15—Car. PRE KOMIKAL SPEAKER,
16—Dive Youru’s SPEAKER.
17—DimE ELoQuent SPEAKER.
18—DimE Haru CoLuMBIA SPEAKER,
—DIME SERIO-Comic SPEAKER.
Diy SPEAKER,
~Di NNY SPEAKER.
22—Dime JOLLY SPEAKER.
(Negro, Dutch, Irish, Yankee.)

containing from 50 to 75 pieces,

DIALOGUES

contributions from favorite and
Stage—giving more faking and

‘comedies, domestic farces, exquisite dress

un any collection ever offered at any price.

Dime D1aALoGvES NUMBER SIXTEEN.
Dore DIALOGUES NUMBER SEVENTEEN, Lit-
tle Folks.
| Dime DrALoaves
| Dime DIALOGUES
| Dive DiaLoeurs
| Dime D1ALoaves
Dime DiALoGvEs
| Dime DIALOGUE
| Dime DIALOGUES
| Dime DIALOGUES
| Dime DIALOGUES
} Dime DIALoGvEsS
DIALOGUES
| Dare DIALoauEs

containing from

NUMBER EIGHTEEN.
NuMPrER NINETEEN,
NUMBER TWENTY.
NUMRER TWENTY-ONE.
NUMEER TWENTY-TWO.
Number TWENTY-THREE
NuMBER TWENTY-FOUR.
NuMBER TWENTY-FIVE.
NUMBER 7 NTY: SIX.
NUMBER TWENTY-SEVEN
NuMBER ‘l WENTY-EIGH™
NUMBER TWENTY-NINE.
15 to 2 pieces.

Publishers, 98 William St., New York.