door on his frontispiece. I guess I squeezed the nose off of that dog. But the man cursed me about five minutes, then flung a brick at the door and went away.

In less than twenty minutes another ring. Small pockmarked man in a red shirt this time, with a speckled dog that looked as if he had been out without an umbrella when it was raining ink. Says this victim of the small-pox :

"You know that dog you advertised for. Well, here he is."

"Oh, pshaw!" said I, "you know that isn't my dog." "Your name's Quill, ain't it?"

"It is," said I.

Well, then, this here is the dog. He's the best ratter you ever seen. Sling them around like he was amusin' hisself, he does, and

"But he is not my dog."

"And he's a bully watch-dog. at him now,--he's watching now!

Look at him! Look
Why, he'll sit there

and watch and watch, until he goes stone blind, he will. He'll watch all night if you only let him. You never see a watcher like him. I'll jest chain him up while you go in and get the V."

"No, you needn't," said I. I'll blow his brains out if you don't take him away.”

"Well, say, stranger, I'm a little strapped to-day; jest lend me five on him till morning, will you? I'll pay you to-morrow."

"See here, now, you just get out of here, or I'll take the hide off of you," I said, for I began to get excited, you know.

"Aw! you ain't worth a cent, you actually ain't," said the pock-marked man, as he walked off, after clipping the dog over the head with one of my fence-palings, and then putting his fingers up to his nose.

Not a minute after, up comes a man with a mastiff as big as a small horse.

"Say, boss, I want that five," was all he remarked by way of introducing the subject.

Well, you can't get it; and if you don't leave I'll call the police," I exclaimed in despair.

"Watch him, Zip!" said the man, instantly; and the dog flew at me, threw me down, and bit a slice of muscle out of my leg and disfigured my nose for life. Then the assassin who owned him called him off and went away laughing.

I didn't answer any more rings that day, but about four o'clock in the afternoon, I looked out of the secondstory window, and the yard was full of men with all kinds of dogs,-black dogs, white dogs, yellow dogs, variegated dogs, flea-bitten dogs, dogs with tails, dogs without tails, rat-terriers, bull-pups, poodles, fox-hounds, spaniels, Newfoundlands, mixed breeds, pointers, setters, and a multitude of other varieties,--all growling, yelping, barking, snapping, and jumping about until there wasn't a flower-pot left in the place, and the noise was worse than a menagerie at meal-time.

I haven't got my dog yet. I don't want him either. I don't care if I never see another dog between this and the silent grave. I only wish that all the dogs from here to Alaska were collected into a convention, and had hold of that man with the mastiff, that they might gnaw on him until he hadn't a morsel of meat left on his skeleton. That is all I want in the dog line in this world.

NEW VERSION OF "A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT." CHARLES MACKAY.

"A man's a man," says Robert Burns,

"For a' that and a' that:"

But though the song be clear and strong,

It lacks a note for a' that.

The lout who'd shirk his daily work,

Ye' claim his pay and a' that,

Or beg when he might earn his bread, Is not a man for a' that.

If all who dine on homely fare

Were true and brave, and a' that,
And none whose garb is "hodden gray"
Was fool and knave and a' that,
The vice and crime that shame our time
Would fade and fall and a' that,
And ploughmen be as good as kings,
And churls as earls for a' that.

You see yon brawny, blustering sot,
Who swaggers, swears, and a' that,
And thinks because his strong right arm
Might fell an ox and a' that,
That he's as noble, man for man,
As duke or lord and a' that;
He's but a brute beyond dispute,
And not a man for a' that.

A man may own a large estate,
Have palace, park and a' that,
And not for birth, but honest worth,
Be thrice a man for a' that;
And Donald herding on the muir,
Who beats his wife and a' that,
Be nothing but a rascal boor,

Nor half a man for a' that.

It comes to this, dear Robert Burns,-
The truth is old and a' that,—
"The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gold for a' that,"
And though you'd put the minted mark
On copper, brass and a' that,

The lie is gross, the cheat is plain,
And will not pass for a' that;

For a' that and a' that,

"Tis soul and heart and a' that
That makes the king a gentleman,
And not his crown and a' that;
And man with man, if rich or poor,
The best is he for a' that
Who stands erect, in self-respect,

And acts the man for a' that.

IF WE HAD BUT KNOWN.

If we had but known, if we had but known,
Those summer days together,

That one would stand next year alone,
In the blazing July weather!
We trifled away the golden hours,

With gladness, and beauty, and calm,
Watching the glory of blossoming flowers,
Breathing the warm air's balm;
Seeing the children like sunbeams play
In the glades of the long, cool wood;
Hearing the wild bird's carol gay,

And the song of the murmuring flood,Rich gems to Time's pitiless river thrown,— If we had but known, if we had but known!

If we had but known, if we had but known,
Those winter nights together,

How one would sit by the hearth alone,
In the next December weather:
We sped those last hours, each for each,
With music, and games, and talk,—
The careless, bright, delicious speech,
With no doubt or fear to balk,
Touching on all things, grave and gay,
With the freedom of two in one,
Yet leaving, as happy people may,

So much unsaid, undone.

Ah! priceless hours, forever flown,—

If we had but known, if we had but known!

If we had but known, if we had but known,
While yet we stood together,

How a thoughtless look, a slighting touch
Would sting and jar forever!

Cold lies the turf for the burning kiss,

The cross stands deaf to cries,

Dull, as the wall of silence is,

Are the gray unanswering skies!

We can never unsay a thing we said,
While the weary life drags past,

We can never staunch the wound that bled,
Where a chance stroke struck it last.

Oh! the patient love 'neath the heavy stone,-
If we had but known, if we had but known!

If we had but known, if we had but known!
We had climbed the hill together,
The path before us seemed all our own,

And the glorious autumn weather.
We had sown, the harvest was there to reap;
We had worked; lo! the wages ready.
Who was to guess that the long, last sleep
Was closing around one already?

With never a warning, sharp and strong,
Came the bitter wrench of doom,

And love, and sorrow, and yearning, long
May wail by the lonely tomb.

Oh! keenest of pangs, and the mourner's moan,—
If we had but known, if we had but known!

THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH.-CHARLES DICKENS.

The following thrilling description is an extract from one of the series of "Sketches by Boz." The drunkard has lived to see his whole family become involved in his ruin, his wife and daughter go down to premature graves, smitten by the hand of disease, and his two sons meet violent deaths; and now, homeless and despairing, he seeks the doom which the author has so graphically portrayed. The entire sketch makes a very effective temperance reading.

At last, one bitter night, he sunk down on the doorstep, faint and ill. The premature decay of vice and profligacy had worn him to the bone. His cheeks were hollow and livid; his eyes were sunken, and their sight was dim. His legs trembled beneath his weight, and a cold shiver ran through every limb.

And now the long forgotten scenes of a misspent life crowded thick and fast upon him. He thought of the time when he had a home—a happy, cheerful home— and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him then, until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from the grave, and stand about him—so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were, that he could touch and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were fixed upon him once more; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears like the music of village bells. But it was