thing after me whinivir the missus set him to parin' apples or tomaterses. The saints in heaven couldn't have made him belave he cud kape the shoes on him when he'd be paylin' anything.

Did I lave fur that? Faix an' I didn't. Didn't he get me into throuble wid my missus, the haythin? You're aware yersel' how the boondles comin' in from the grocery often contains more'n'll go into anything dacently. So, for that matter, I'd now and then take out a sup o' sugar, or flour, or tay, an' wrap it in paper and put it in me bit of a box tucked under the ironin' blankit, the how it cuddent be bodderin' any one. Well, what shud it be, but this blessed Sathurday morn the missus was a spakin' pleasant and respec'ful wid me in me kitchen when the grocer boy comes in an' stands fornenst her wid his boondles, an' she motions like to Fing Wing (which I never would call him by that name ner any other but just haythin),—she motions to him, she does, for to take the boondles an' empty out the sugar an' what not where they belongs. If you'll belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that blatherin' Chineser do but take out a sup o' sugar, an' a handful o' tay, an' a bit o' chaze right afore the missus, wrap them into bits o' paper, an' I spacheless wid shurprize, an' he the next minute up wid the ironin' blankit and pullin' out me box wid a show o' bein' sly to put them in. Och, the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, and the missus sayin', "O Kitty!" in a way that 'ud cruddle your blood. "He's a haythin nager," says I. "I've found you out," says she. "I'll arrist him,” says I. "It's you ought to be arristed," says she. won't," says I. "I will," says she-and so it went till she give me such sass as I cuddent take from no lady-an' I give her warnin' an' left that instant, an' she a-pointin' to the doore. MARY MAPES DODGE.

"You

HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE.

[Extract from Macaulay's "Lays of Ancient Rome," abridged for reading or recitation. Simple narration to grand, impassioned descrip tion and characterization.]

To Rome a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fear: "To arms! to arms! Sir Consul; Lars Porsena is here."

On the low hills to westward the Consul fixed his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm of dust ride fast along the sky.

The Consul's brow was sad,

And the Consul's speech was low,
And darkly looked he at the wall,
And darkly at the foe.
"Their van will be upon us

Before the bridge goes down;
And if they once may win the bridge,
What hope to save the town?"

Then out spake brave Horatius,
The Captain of the gate:
"To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.

"In yon strait path a thousand

May well be stopped by three.

Now who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me ?"
Then out spake Spurius Lartius;
A Ramnian proud was he:
"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand.
And keep the bridge with thee."

And out spake strong Herminius;
Of Titian blood was he:

I will abide on thy left side,

And keep the bridge with thee."

"Horatius," quoth the Consul,

"As thou sayest, so let it be."

And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless Three.

Meanwhile the Tuscan army,

Right glorious to behold,

Came flashing back the noonday light,
Like a broad sea of gold.

Four hundred trumpets sounded

A peal of warlike glee,

As that great host, with measured tread,
Opposed the dauntless Three.

But meanwhile axe and lever

Have manfully been plied,

And now the bridge hangs tottering
Above the boiling tide.

"Come back, come back, Horatius!"
Loud cried the Fathers all.
"Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!
Back, ere the ruin fall!"

Back darted Spurius Lartius;
Herminius darted back:

And, as they passed, beneath their feet
They felt the timbers crack.
But when they turned their faces,

And on the farther shore

Saw brave Horatius stand alone,

They would have crossed once more.

But with a crash like thunder
Fell every loosened beam,

And, like a dam, the mighty wreck
Lay right athwart the stream:
And a long shout of triumph
Rose from the walls of Rome,

As to the highest turret-tops
Was splashed the yellow foam.

Alone stood brave Horatius,

But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before. And the broad flood behind.

"Down with him!" cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, "Now yield thee to our grace."

Round turned he, as not deigning
Those craven ranks to see;
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,
To Sextus naught spake he:
But he saw on Palatinus

The white porch of his home;

And he spake to the noble river
That rolls by the towers of Rome

"Oh, Tiber! Father Tiber!

To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms,
Take thou in charge this day!"

So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed
The good sword by his side,
And with his harness on his back,
Plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow

Was heard from either bank;
But friends and foes in dumb surprise,
Stood gazing where he sank;
And when above the surges

They saw his crest appear,
Rome shouted, and e'en Tuscany
Could scarce forbear to cheer.

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus:
"Will not the villain drown?
But for this stay, ere close of day

We should have sacked the town!"
"Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena,
"And bring him safe to shore;

For such a gallant feat of arms
Was never seen before."

And now he feels the bottom;
Now on dry earth he stands;

Now round him throng the Fathers
To press his gory hands;

And now, with shouts and clapping,
And noise of weeping loud,

He enters through the River-Gate,
Borne by the joyous crowd.

MACAULAY.

THE POLISH BOY.

[Read with spirit and energy. Study carefully, and bring out the

full force of the piece.]

Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill,

That cut, like blades of steel, the air,

Causing the creeping blood to chill

With the sharp cadence of despair?

Again they come, as if a heart

Were cleft in twain by one quick blow,

And every string had voice apart

To utter its peculiar woe.

Whence came they? From yon temple, where
An altar, raised for private prayer,
Now forms the warrior's marble bed
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.

The dim funereal tapers throw
A holy lustre o'er his brow,
And burnish with their rays of light
The mass of curls that gather bright
Above the haughty brow and eye
Of a young boy that's kneeling by.

What hand is that, whose icy press

Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,

But meets no answering caress?

No thrilling fingers seek its clasp.
It is the hand of her whose cry
Rang wildly, late, upon the air,
When the dead warrior met her eye
Outstretched upon the altar there.

With pallid lip and stony brow
She murmurs forth her anguish now.
But hark! the tramp of heavy feet
Is heard along the bloody street;
Nearer and nearer yet they come,
With clanking arms and noiseless drum.
Now whispered curses, low and deep,
Around the holy temple creep;
The gate is burst; a ruffian band
Rush in, and savagely demand,
With brutal voice and oath profane,
The startled boy for exile's chain.

The mother sprang with gesture wild,
And to her bosom clasped her child;
Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye,
Shouted with fearful energy,

"Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread
Too near the body of my dead;

Nor touch the living boy; I stand

Between him and your lawless band.

Take me, and bind these arms-these hands,-

With Russia's heaviest iron bands,

And drag me to Siberia's wild

To perish, if 't will save my child!"

"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried,

Tearing the pale boy from her side,

And in his ruffian grasp he bore

His victim to the temple door.