be the duty of the members to watch each other, to see that they did not break the pledge. The next morning Deacon D. walked into his next neighbor's yard--who, by the way, was Mr. L., the sheep manwondering, as it was a bitter cold morning, whether L. was up yet. He met his neighbor coming out of the house, and, to his surprise, gloriously drunk; or, to use a modern phrase, "burning a very beautiful kiln." "Why, L.!" exclaimed the astonished deacon, "what does this mean, sir? You have broken your pledge, and disgraced our society and the temperance cause." "Not-hic-as you knows on, deacon," says L. "I haven't bro-hic-broke the pledge, deacon." 'Certainly you have, sir, and I shall report you to the society. You agreed not to drink except when you washed sheep. You cannot make me believe you are going to wash sheep on such a cold day as this." "F-follow-hic-me, deacon." On L. started for the barn, and the deacon followed. entering the door the deacon saw a large wash-tub standing on the floor, with an old ram tied to it, the poor animal shaking dreadfully with the cold, and bleating pitifully. "There―hic-d-d-deacon," said L., pointing to the sheep with an air of triumph, "that old-hic-ram has been washed six times this-hic--morning." AFTER THE BALL.-NORA PERRY. They sat and combed their beautiful hair, Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille, Comb out their braids and curls. Robe of satin and Brussels lace, For the revel is through. And Maud and Madge in robes of white, Sit and comb their beautiful hair, Those wonderful waves of brown and gold, Then out of the gathering winter chill, Maud and Madge in robes of white, Float along in a splendid dream, To a golden gittern's tinkling tune, Flashing of jewels, and flutter of laces, And one face shining out like a star, To the golden gittern's strain, Two and two, they dreamily walk, He claimeth one for a bride. Oh, Maud and Madge, dream on together, Shall whiten another year, Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, Braided brown hair, and golden tress, There'll be only one of you left for the bloom Of the bearded lips to press,— Only one for the bridal pearls, The robe of satin and Brussels lace,Only one to blush through her curls At the sight of a lover's face. Oh, beautiful Madge, in your bridal white, But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night But robed and crowned with your saintly bliss, The kisses another hath won! COME BACK,-THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. You say the poor-house is a mile ahead; Old Potter always used to find some work, Of course I did. Not as a pauper though; I made poor-masters and such things just then; For, strange as it may seem, I'd have you know That I have ranked among the “solid men" Of Brantford town. Now I am mostly in the liquid line When I can get it. Thirty summers since My food was dainty, clothes were superfineThey said I feasted people like a princeBut now I'm down. Who from a high position falls, falls far, And from the distance feels the more the hurt. Traveled around? You bet I have. I left Of years of trouble, and the sights I've seen Now you're a man of substance; one whom chance, Troubles are nothing with the means to thrive- A quarter! Thank you. May I ask your name? You don't object to please an old man's whim Good-bye. God bless you! He has gone. His smile Let the boy prosper. Never let his life Be shadowed by my half-forgotten crime; For me the poor-house, and the pauper's bed, CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND.-VICTOR HUGO. It sometimes happens that a man, traveler or fisherman, walking on the beach at low tide, far from the bank, suddenly notices that for several minutes he has been walking with some difficulty. The strand beneath his feet is like pitch; his soles stick in it; it is sand no longer; it is glue. The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as soon as he lifts his foot, the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye, however, has noticed no change; the immense strand is smooth and tranquil; all the sand has the same appearance; nothing distinguishes the surface which is solid from that which is no longer so; the joyous little crowd of sand-flies continue to leap tumultuously over the wayfarer's feet. The man pursues his way, goes forward, inclines to the land, endeavors to get nearer the upland. He is not anxious. Anxious about what? Only he feels, somehow, as if the weight of his feet increases with every step he takes. Suddenly he sinks in. Decidedly he is not on bearings; now he looks The sand covers them. He sinks in two or three inches. the right road; he stops to take his at his feet. They have disappeared. He draws them out of the sand; he will retrace his steps. He turns back, he sinks in deeper. The sand comes up to his ankles; he pulls himself out and throws himself to the leftthe sand half leg deep. He throws himself to the right; the sand comes up to his shins. Then he recognizes with unspeakable terror that he is caught in the quicksand, and that he has beneath him the terrible medium in which man can no more walk than the fish can swim. He throws off his load if he has one, lightens himself as a ship in distress; it is already too late; the sand is above his knees. He calls, he waves his hat or his handkerchief; the sand gains on him more and more. If the beach is deserted, if the land is too far off, if there is no help in sight, it is all over. He is condemned to that appalling burial, long, infallible, implacable, and impossible to slacken or to hasten; which endures for hours, which seizes you erect, free, and in full health, and which draws you by the feet; which, at every effort that you attempt, at every shout you utter, drags you a little deeper, sinking you slowly into the earth while you look upon the horizon, the sails of the ships upon the sea, the birds flying and singing, the sunshine and the sky. The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, to creep; every movement he makes inters him; he straightens up, he sinks |