THAT BABY IN TUSCALOO.-BARTLEY T. CAMPBELL

ABRIDGED FOR RECITATION.

So! you're all the way from Kansas,
And knew my Jennie there;
Well, I'm mighty glad to see you;

Just take that vacant chair.

You don't seem much of a stranger,
Though never here before;
Jack, take the gentleman's beaver
And hang it on the door.

What! five whole days on the journey,
Comin' by boat and car?

Good gracious! who'd have thought Jennie
Could ever live so far

Away from the Youghiogheny,

The farm, and mountain blue-
I wouldn't have thought it of her,
And that's 'twixt me and you.

You say she's not very lonely;
Then she don't feel the worst.
What! Jennie has-got-a-baby?
Why didn't you say that first?
And now please repeat it over,
I can't believe my ear;

Just think-my-Jennie-a-mother,
Pshaw, now, what's this ?-a tear?

Here, Jack, run off to the kitchen--
Tell mother to come right quick!
Let the bakin' go this minute,
She must not strike a lick

'Till she hears the news from Kansas,
"Twill make her young again.
So, you know the little one's mother;
Here, let us shake again.

Perhaps you may think me foolish
For makin' such a row,

But you must excuse an old man-
Mind, I'm a grand-pa now.

Well, well, how the years slip by us

Silent and swift and sly,

For all the world like the white clouds

Drifting along the sky.

But only in this they differ-
We're goin' with the years
Into the harbor of old age,
Up to the silent piers,

Where each may discharge his burden,
And furl his wrinkled sail,
And thank his heavenly Master
Who saved him through the gale.

But what's the use in talking,
I'm fairly bustin' with joy,
I'd like to whoop like an Ingun-
You tell me it's a boy?

And she calls him for her father:

You see she don't forget

The old man what used to nurse her
And play "peep" with his "pet."

There's no use keeping a secret,
She married 'gainst our will,
A lad by the name of Jackson,
Whose father kept the mill.
I thought he was sort of shiftless,
Though he was big and strong,
And I told my daughter kindly,
He'd never get along.

I'll not soon forget her answer,
"Twas spoken like a queen.
Said she: "I will take the chances,
Whatever comes between."
What I said I don't remember,
My anger did the rest,

And that night Jennie and Jackson
Left for the distant West.

No one can know what I suffered-
I walked about all day,
With a face as white as chalk, sir,
And tried, but could not pray.
Now a man can't reach his Maker
With heart so full of scorn
Against an honest fellow man,
Who for some good was born.

You ask did I forgive Jennie?
My precious little kid!

Big tears swept away my hate, sir,
Forgive! of course I did.

“Well, old man, I'm that Bill Jackson—
Can't you my face recall?"

What!--just fiip me your fin, my youngster!
Ah! now I see it all.

You'll surely forgive my prattle;
The hard, hard words I said
When you and Jennie were courting,
And after you were wed.

That baby 'way out in Kansas,

That boy in Tuscaloo,

Has made me love its big father;

Now what can't babies do?

SAVE THE OTHER MAN.-MARGARET J. PRESTON.

The storm had spent its rage: The sea
Still moaned with sullen roar,
And flung its surges wrathfully

Against the shelving shore;

And wide and far,

With plank and spar

The beach was splintered o'er.

A league from land a wreck was seen,
Above whose wave-washed hull,
Fast-wedged the jutting rocks between,
Circled a snow-white gull,

Whose shrieking cry

Rose clear and high

Above the tempest's lull.

"Hoy!-To the rescue!--Launch the boat! I see a drifting speck :

Some struggler may be still afloat,

Some sailor on the deck:

Quick! ply the oar,—

Put from the shore,

And board the foundered wreck!"

Right through the churning plunge of spray,
Whirled like an ocean shell,

The hardy life-boat warped its way,

As billows rose and fell;

And boldly cast

Its grapnel fast

Above the reefy swell.

Around the bows the breakers sobbed
With low, defiant moan;

When instant, every bosom throbbed,
Held by one sound alone;

Somewhere-somewhere-
Upon the air

There thrilled a human groan.

One moment-and they clomb the wreck,
And there, a ghastly form
Lay huddled on the heaving deck,
With living breath still warm,-
Too dead to hear

The shout of cheer

That mocked the dying storm.

But as they lowered him from the ship
With kindly care as can

Befit rough hands, across his lip

A whispered ripple ran :

They stooped and heard
The slow-drawn word

Breathed," Save-the-other-man !”

Oh! ye who once on gulfing waves
Of sin were tempest-toss'd,-

Ye who are safe through Him who saves
At such transcendent cost,-

Will ye who yet

Can rescue, let

The other man be lost?

THE WEARY SOUL.

I came, but they had passed away,
The fair in form, the pure in mind;
And, like a stricken deer, I stray,

Where all are strange, and none are kind; Kind to a worn and wearied soul,

That pants, that struggles for repose: Oh, that my steps had reached the goal Where earthly sighs and sorrows close! Years have passed o'er me like a dream, That leaves no trace on memory's page, I look around me, and I seem

Some relic of a former age;

Alone, and in a stranger clime,

Where stranger voices mock mine ear,-
In all the lagging course of time,
Without a wish-a hope-a fear!

Yet I had hopes-but they have fled;
And fears--and they were all too true;
And wishes too-but they are dead,
And what have I with life to do?
'Tis but to bear a weary load

I may not, dure not, cast away,
To sigh for one small, still abode,
Where I may sleep as sweet as they-

As they, the loveliest of their race,
Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep,
Whose worth my soul delights to trace,
Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep:
To weep, forgotten and unknown,

With none to smile, to hear, to see ;-
Earth can bestow no dearer boon

On one whom death disdains to free.

I leave a world that knows me not,
To hold communion with the dead,
And fancy consecrates the spot,

Where fancy's earliest dreams were shed.
I see each shade, all silvery white,
I hear each spirit's melting sigh;

I turn to clasp those forms of light,

And the pale morning chills mine eye!

But soon the last dim morn shall rise-
My lamp of life burns feebly now,-
Where stranger hands shall close mine eyes,
And smooth my cold and dewy brow:
Unknown I lived--so let me die;

No stone, nor monumental cross,

Tell where his mouldering ashes lie,

Who sought for gold, and found it dross.

LOVE IN A BALLOON.-LITCHFIELD MOSELEY.

Some time ago I was staying with Sir George Flasher, with a great number of people there-all kinds of amusements going on. Driving, riding, fishing, shooting, every. thing, in fact. Sir George's daughter, Fanny, was often my companion in these expeditions, and I was considerably