Prone on his back lay Denis-Denis, the stout of heart,

Still as she for whom he had played a hero's part.
Dying alone! Unheeded! What matter? The fight was won.
He was only a common soldier-besides, his work was done.

Only three common soldiers, only three common men,
Giving their lives for a woman, as men have again and again;
Only doing their duty, teaching this lesson anew-

Where'er true woman points the way, true man will dare and do.

[Abridged.]

1

JOHN D. REID.

Yer Riverence, Ladies and Gintlemen,-Faith an' it's little I knows how to make a speech at all at all, so you must plaze excuse the blundering man I am. Misthur Fagin tould me this would be my maiden speech, but said I, "You're mistaken, my boy, for that was given many years ago to my darlint Katty O'Brian in ould Ireland." But it's not afthur joking I am. Shure, small as I am, I remimbir the time whin I could put a gallon of porthur out of sight in quickshticks, an' as for whisky, shure an' it was like my mother's milk-I'd lap it as cats lap

crame.

"'Tis little yez gets for nothin' in this world, yer Riverence That's my exparience. Shure an' I couldn't get the dhrink widout payin' for it. I had no aize nor pace, so long as I wasn't turnin' the bottom of a pint or a naggin to the ceilin', an' so long as I had a farthin' I melted it in drink. My peor wife and chilthur, instead of drinking whisky, had to drink sorrow. I first drank my own clothes into pawn, thin my wife's cloak off her back; thin off wint the cups an' saucers, the plates an' dishes, an' the pot an' kettle off the fire. Thin I drank the bed clothes, an' the bed from under myself an' wife, until the Lord bless us !-there wasn't a mortal ha'porth that wasn't turned into gallons of portbur, glasses of whisky, or dandies of punch.

"Now yez would like to know what brought me to my sinses? Arrah, an' I'lltell yez. 'Twas the could floor, the empty stomach, and the chilthuren cryin' for bread. On the last night of my spreein', there wasn't as much bread in the house as would cover. a cat's paw. The biggest fellow came to me, an' said he :'Daddy, I'm hungry. Mother didn't ate a bit all day, an' she gave all she had to Katty and Billy Thin little Billy roared out, 'Daddy,

I can't go to sleep, I'm so could.' 'Hould your whist,' says I, 'an' I'll make ye comfortable.' O, thought I, God forgive your unnatural fathur; an' with that-saving your presence, ladiesI takes my breeches-'tis no laughing matter I tell ye-an' I goes to the little craythurs an' shticks a boy into one of the legs, an' thin another into the other leg, an' I buttons the waistband round their necks, an' I tould them for the life of 'em not so much as sneeze for the rest of the night-an' they didn't, poor craythurs.

"But by cock-crow in the mornin', Billy-who was a mighty airly bird-cries out, 'Daddy, daddy.' 'What's the mathur?' says I 'I want to git up,' says he. Well, git up, an' bad scran to ye,' says I. 'I can't,' says the young shaver. 'Why can't ye, ye cantankerous young cur?' says I. 'Me an' Tommy is inside the breeches,' says he. 'Git out ov it,' says I. 'Daddy, we're buttoned up,' says the little fellow, as smart as you plaze. So up I got an' unbuttoned the craythurs, an' I says to myself, 'Twas a burning shame that the chilthuren ov a Christian should be buttoned up in breeches instead of lying in a dacant bed.' So I slipped the breeches on my own shanks an' off I goes to his Riverence an' takes the pledge, an' 'twas the crown piece that yer Riverence so kindly slipped into the heel of my fist that set me up again in the world.

"Ladies an' gintlemen, my story is tould, an' all I have to say is this—that I've lost the taste for whisky, porthur, and dandy punch. Thanks to his Riverence, there's a clane place to resave him, an' a good leg of mutton an' trimmins on the table in the bargain, an' a welcome for everybody. That's what I call the two sorts of a shillin', the good an' the bad."

THE ENCHANTED SHIRT.

The King was sick. His cheek was red,
And his eye was clear and bright;
He ate and drank with a kingly zest,

And peacefully snored at night.

But he said he was sick, and a king should know, And doctors came by the score;

They did not cure him. He cut off their heads,

And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came,
And one was as poor as a rat ;
lie had passed his life in studious toil,
And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked into a book;
His patients gave him no trouble :
If they recovered, they paid him well;
If they died, their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue,
As the king on his couch reclined;
In succession they thumped his august chest,
But no trace of disease could find.

The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut."

66

Hang him up," roared the king in a gale— In a ten-knot gale of royal rage ;

The other leech grew a shade pale ;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,
And thus his prescription ran :

The king will be well, if he sleeps one night
In the Shirt of a Happy Man.

*

Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode.

And fast their horses ran,

And many they saw, and to many they spoke,
But they found no Happy Man.

They saw two men by the roadside ait,
And both bemoaned their lot;

For one had buried his wife, he said,
And the other one had not.

At last they came to a village gate,
A beggar lay whistling there !

He whistled, and sang, and laughed, and rolled
On the grass in the soft June air.

The weary couriers paused and looked
At the scamp so blithe and gay;
And one of them said, "Heaven save you,
You seem to be happy to-day."

"O yes, fair sirs, the rascal laughed, And his voice rang free and glad ; "An idle man has so much to do,

That he never has time to be sad."

"This is our man," the courier said;
"Our luck has led us aright.

I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,
For the loan of your shirt to-night."

The merry blackguard lay back on the grass,
And laughed till his face was black;

friend'

"I would do it, God wot," and he roared with the fun, "But I haven't a shirt to my back."

Each day to the king the reports came in

Of his unsuccessful spies,

And the sad panorama of human woes

Passed daily under his eyes.