The night before, I had at last run down
Lame Jim, the captain of a river gang,

Who never had been caught, although his deeds
Were such that he deserved for them to hang.

And as

he sprang upon the dock I sprang Like lightning after him, and in a trice Fell through a trap-door, and went sliding down Upon a plank as slippery as ice.

I drew my pistol as I slid, and when

I struck the earth again, "Hands up!" I cried; "I've got you now," and at the same time flashed The light of a dark lantern every side.

I'd landed in a big, square room, but no
Lame Jim nor any other rough was there;
But from some blankets spread upon the floor
A child looked up at me with wond'ring stare-

A little girl with eyes that shone like stars,

And sweet, pale face, and curly, golden head. "Why did you come so fast? You woke me up, And scared me, too," in lisping words she said.

"But now I am not scared, for I know you.

You're Santa Claus. My stocking's on the wall. I wish you Merry Christmas. Where's my toys? I hope you've brought a lovely cup and ball."

I never was so taken 'back, I vow;

And while I speechless stood, Jim got away. "Who are you, pretty one?" at last I asked.

"I? Don't you know? Why, I am little May.

“My mother died the other night, and went

To Heaven; and Jim, my father, brought me here It isn't a nice place; I'm 'fraid of it,

For everything's so lonely and so queer.

"But I remembered it was Christmas Eve,

And hoped you'd find me, though I thought because There was no chimney you might not.

But oh! I'm glad you did, dear Mr. Santa Claus."

Well, Captain Jim escaped-the law, I mean,

he was

drowned.

But not a higher power:
And on his body near his heart, poor wretch,
The picture of his baby girl was found.

And that dear baby girl went home with me,
And never was a gift more precious given;
For childless had that home been many years,
And so she seemed sent to it straight from Heaven.

God's ways are wonderful.

From rankest soil

There often grows a flower sweet and bright.

But I must go, my time is nearly up.

A Merry Christmas to you, and good-night.

MARGARET EYTINGE.

L

MANHOOD.

IFE'S best prizes are won, not by adroitness nor sharpness, not by skill or strength, but by that grandest thing known on earth, Manhood. Honorable, educated, active, cultivated manhood is to rule this world.

Always there have been bad men, corrupted, degraded, but sharp and cunning, who have made great gains by

great frauds, or crafty swindling, and have held some sort of position in the world in spite of their want of character, for there are parasites and money worshipers who honor and applaud the man of money without caring to know how he came by his possessions. But these are the exceptions.

The true man is, yet, the thing most prized by the great world. True manhood is the wisest, sharpest, strongest, most clear-sighted, far-sighted contestant in the battlefield of life. Manhood carries the sharpest sword, gains the truest success, and wears the brightest crown. No one is, or can be, the best preacher, the best lawyer, the best physician, or the best business man, who is not truly, grandly, gloriously, and unselfishly a man.

If you would climb to the high places, carry off the richest prizes, get the most enjoyment out of life, and have the sublimest old age, you must conquer the base elements of nature, you must have every atom of the dross of dishonesty squeezed, hammered, burned out, if necessary.

You must become as sound as twenty-four karat gold, as true as best steel. You must prove yourself as reliable as the course of nature, as incorruptible as sunlight, as pure and sweet in your personality as the breezes of heaven. You must scorn all meanness, loathe all false pretense, be afraid of every kind of dishonesty, and hate a lie as you would hate the devil himself. You must determine stoutly to be what you would appear.

There is a premium on men like that. The great world, disgusted with frauds and pretenders, and shams of all kinds, will know such a man as soon as he appears. It will prize him, honor him, reward him, make him famous, and render him immortal.

GEORGE K. MORRIS.

LITTLE MAID WITH LOVERS TWAIN.

WAS

(From The Century.)

AS ever a soul so pestered? dear me! what shall
I do?

I thought there was none like Robin and loved him leal

and true;

I thought there was none like Robin, but now that Jamie's here,

I look at Robin and Jamie and both of them are dear! And whether the old or new love wins, I canna tell as

yet.

Alack! Aweel! I'll wait and see which way my heart shall set!

Was ever a soul so worried? I would na do a wrong; But there is Robin and Jamie-I canna to both belong; Yet when a-walking with Robin, I think him the finest

lad,

And when Jamie comes a wooing, I canna for long be

sad!

And whether the old or new love wins, I canna tell as

yet.

Alack! Aweel! I'll wait and see which way my heart shall set!

Was ever a soul so beat about? I dinna, canna see,
How that Robin and Jamie can both belong to me!
For Robin's like the sunshine with eyes of sunny light,
And Jamie's like the darkness with eyes of dusky night.
Yet whether the old or new love wins, I canna tell as

yet.

Alack! Aweel! I'll wait and see which way my heart

shall set!

I turn,

Was ever a soul so badgered? Whichever way
Whether to Robin or Jamie, the truth I canna learn.
A many a thing in Robin helps me to hold him near,
And a many a thing in Jamie makes him as passing
dear!

And betwixt the old and new love, my heart is sore

beset!

Alack! Aweel! I'll wait and see, I will na wed as yet! JENNIE E. T. DOWE.

HIGH

JEM'S LAST RIDE.

[IGH o'er the snow-capped peaks of blue the stars are out to-night,

And the silver crescent moon hangs low. I watched it on my right,

Moving above the pine-tops tall, a bright and gentle

shape,

While I listened to the tales you told of peril and

escape.

Then, mingled with your voices low, I heard the rumbling sound

Of wheels adown the farther slope, that sought the level ground;

And, suddenly, from memories that never can grow

dim,

Flashed out once more the day when last I rode with English Jem.

'Twas here, in wild Montana, I took my hero's gauge! From Butte to Deer Lodge, four-in-hand, he drove the mountain stage;