"Have a shine, boss?" said the owner of the stand, giving his chair a parting slap with his brush. "Shine 'em up in half a minit, sah. You'll jist have time to glance over de morning papers."

Without deigning an answer the lank chap climbed into the seat before him.

"Whar yer a-rollin' them pants to?" was his first remark after the proprietor of the stand began to operate.

"All right now, boss. We musn't muss 'em, you see. It's all feasible now, sah."

66

Wall, perceed to business."

"I'se a-movin', boss; I'se a-movin', sah."

66

Wall, see that you keep a-movin'."

De people of de Souf," said the bootblack, cocking a cunning eye upon his customer, "de people of de Souf (another look of the eye) most allus gives us pore culled boys any little feasible jobs dey's got."

You think I'm from the South?"

"I's from de Souf myself, sah."

"Likely."

"I's from de Souf, sah-from ole Kaintuck, sah."

"Indeed?"

Sartin, boss. I's from Lex'nton, Kaintuck, sah," scraping away with an old case-knife at the mud on the soles of his eustomer's boots.

"I'm from Kentucky myself, and from Lexington," said the man, beginning to look interested. "So you're from Lexington, eh?"

"Jess so, boss. Practically, I was born dar, sah." "Like you, I was born thar."

"Nice old town, boss?"

"Very."

I golly, boss, ef I didn't think from de fust dat I saw in you de rale old Kaintucky gentleman. You've got a good deal of de cut of some o' dem law and med'cine students dat used to be about de ole Transylvany 'Varsity; but you's aged a little, boss-aged a le-etle grain more dan was de boys in dem days."

"I've often seen the old university."

"It was a fine ole town, too. De main street was more

dan a mile long; dar war beautiful trees 'long de streets, and de orphan 'sylum, an' de baggin facterys, de wire-works, an' de-"

"The lunatic asylum."

"Yes, boss; shore 'nuff, dar was de lunatic 'sylum."

"And the river."

"An' de ribber; I golly, dat fust big bend in Town Fork of de Elkhorn, up 'bove de city-practically, dat was a mighty feasible proposition for cat-fish.”

"Amazin"."

"I say, boss, practically, you never happened to know a cullud boy named Columbus Parsons, as lived out on de road to'ards whar ole Harry Clay was borned-out to'ards Ashland-did yer, sah?"

"I knowed a colored boy named Columbus Parsons, that rode ole Woodpecker against Ploughboy, down at the Blue Grass course, and won the purse."

"De Lord love us! Was you dar? De great hokey! Practically, I am dat same Columbus Parsons what rode ole Woodpecker, an' won de puss down dar to Blue Grass!"

"The Columbus Parsons I knowed used to be a great fiddler; played for all the balls and parties for miles around." "Dat was me, sah. I was de boy. Now you's a beginnin' to know me!"

"The Columbus Parsons I used to know was a great singer-was lightnin' at all the nigger camp-meetin's."

"Dat was me, boss. I'm identically and practically dat same Columbus Parsons! You's got de most feasible mem'ry dat I ever saw, sah."

"The Columbus Parsons that I knowed went down to Frankfort, and ran on the river as steward of the Bell Wagner."

"Yah, yah; you knows me-you knows me, boss! You knows me like a brudder, sah! In dem days didn't I put on de apparel? Wasn't I attired? Practically, sah, you's got de most feasible mem'ry dat I ever saw!"

"The Columbus Parsons that I knowed, the Columbus Parsons that rode old Woodpecker, the Columbus Parsons that used to sing at camp-meetin's, the Columbus Parsons that was steward on the Bell Wagner, that Columbus Parsons

busted open the trunk of a passenger, stole a thousand dol lars, and was sent to the State Prison of Frankfort for five years."

"Practically, boss, you's got a powerful feasible mem'ry, but dar was anoder Columbus Parsons down dare 'bout Lexin'ton and Frankfort-partic'larly South Frankfort, 'cross de chain bridge-dat was a hoss-rider, a fiddler, a singer, an' a steam-boater, an' he was a low-flung, harum-scarum, no-account feller; I guess he mout a bin de Columbus Parsons what you knowed, sah."

"You think so?"

"Sartin, sure, boss; but don't say nuffin 'bout de feller heah, sah. You see, practically, it mout injure my good name, sah."

A WORD FOR EACH MONTH.-CLARK JILLSON.

[FROM A NEW ENGLAND STAND-POINT.]

How swift and silent pass the ages,
Adown the solemn march of time!

The days and months and years and cycles,
All make God's works to us sublime.

JANUARY.

'Neath stormy skies the wintry blast
Sweeps o'er the hill and down the vale,
While children 'round the farmer's hearth
Repeat the merry fire-side tale.

FEBRUARY.

The forests with their icy plumes
Are radiant with the rising sun,
Or sparkle like an armed host
Before the closing day is done.

MARCH.

Now falls the snow, the sleet, the rain,
And raging tempests fill the sky-
A moment-and the sun peers through
Where clouds with golden edges lie.

APRIL.

Now comes the warm and genial rain,

The green earth charms once more the eye.

The tender bud, the early flower,
Look up to greet the mild blue sky.

MAY.

All nature springs to life once more,
The earth is set with many a gem;
And while the stars at eve look down,
The modest flower looks up to them.

JUNE.

The vine creeps forth, the daisy blooms,
The very air is filled with song;

The tall grass bends with graceful curve
When sweeps the summer breeze along.

JULY.

The sky grows dark, and chains of fire
Run through the clouds with dazzling sheen;
The thirsty earth drinks up the storm,
The bow of promise now is seen.

AUGUST.

Now man and beast alike repair

To cooling shade and running stream,
And on the meadow-in the field-
The polished scythe and sickle gleam.

SEPTEMBER.

The golden grain glows in the sun
Whose rays are scarcely felt at noon;
The maid and swain at eve enjoy
The harvest and the hunter's moon.

OCTOBER.

The maple leaf is touched with age,
And fades and shivers in the breeze
Whose mournful whispering now is heard
Among the naked forest trees.

NOVEMBER.

The mountain tops are clad with snow,
The hills and vales look bare and gray;
The moon shines on the gleaming lake,
And sparkles down the frozen bay.

DECEMBER.

The north winds howl with dismal wail,
And earth and sky seem cold and drear;
The loud storm swells the grand refrain-
The anthem of the dying year.

FFFF

OUR SHIPS AT SEA.-GEORGE W. BUNGAY.

Whether of high or low degree,

All men and women have ships at sea;
Some are speeding over the main,
And will never return again;

Some that have sailed the world around,
With precious freight are homeward bound;
Some are tossed where the breakers free
Leap over the wrecks down in the sea.

There is a ship with canvas white
As the moon which sails the sea of night;
Her braces are taut, her bowlines strain
In her struggle with the surging main.
Strong are the hands which hold the wheel,
Straight is the wake behind the keel,
That is the ship LABOR, and she
Will outride the wildest storm at sea.

Light as a sea fowl on the deep,
Idly rocking where waters sleep,
Is a ship on the ocean vast,
The shadow of her tapering mast
Pencils an epitaph-for lo!

She must go down in the coming blow.
That is the IDLE ship, and she
Cannot survive a squall at sea.

Sailing in the eye of the wind,
Leaving the cautious craft behind,
With rattling blocks and creaking cleats,
And bending booms and shivering sheets,
Is a ship which seeks a freight of gold
In climates hot and climates cold-
The SPECULATOR—and Swift is she;
She leaks in the hold, and may sink at sea.
Where flags of stars in free winds blow,
Where sails are white as stainless snow;
Where the captain cries that "all is well,"
Where honest hearts chime with the bell,
Though winds should churn the waters white,
And tempests quench the stars at night,
The ship of HONOR floats, and she

Is safe upon the roughest sea.

Tossed in the storms of war and strife,
Fighting to save the nation's life;

Leaping over the harbor bars,

Flinging out the stripes and stars;