MATTIE STEPHENSON.

ANONYMOUS.

As the processes which seem to threaten the dissolution of matter produce crystals, so the severest scourges which fall upon man develop the very highest types of humanity. Out of the masses of dead and dying, angels rise and hover above the gloom and anguish, and men view the beautiful image of the very perfection of their race.

Mattie Stephenson was a young girl of Towanda, Illinois. She was obscure, and never had a thought of hurrying through life to a monument. She heard of the scourge of pestilence in Memphis; and, self-forgetting, she resolved to hasten to the relief of suffering, and stand a faithful friend at the couch of death. She went, unheralded and unobserved, into the stricken city, offered her services to the Howard Association, and was accepted. What she did will never all be known. the death-chamber, often but two were present,—the young girl and the sufferer,-and their lips are sealed forever. It is simply known that Mattie Stephenson was good and brave, and freely offered up her own young life for her fellow-creatures. Hers was a holy mission; and she performed her full work.

In

Did her father or mother in Towanda weep for her? Did a brother or sister tremble at the thought that their dear one was in the ranks where the shafts were flying thick and deadly? She herself was stricken and fell. Her memory is dear to Memphis, and her shrine is sacred as that of a saint. Her life was crystallized in a few short days of duty; and a monument by loving hands will rise above her ashes.

To such a heart there are no strangers, for it was the friend of all. Before the body of the young girl had been laid away to rest in Elmwood, a wealthy merchant suggested a fitting monument to commemorate the most beautiful of lives and highest of virtues. The Howard Association immediately resolved. That in honor of her memory, in justice to themselves, and as an example to the race, a suitable monument be erected to mark the spot where she sleeps; and that her epitaph shall tell the sublime and beautiful story of one who laid down her own life that others might live.

THE FIREMAN,

R. T. CONRAD.

The city slumbers. O'er its mighty walls
Night's dusky mantle soft and silent falls;
Sleep o'er the world slow waves its wand of lead,
And ready torpors wrap each sinking head.
Stilled is the stir of labor and of life;

Hushed is the hum and tranquillized the strife ;
Man is at rest, with all his hopes and fears;

The young forget their sports, the old their cares;
The grave are careless; those who joy or weep
All rest contented on the arm of sleep.

Sweet is the pillowed rest of beauty now,
And slumber smiles upon her tranquil brow;
Her bright dreams lead her to the moonlit tide,
Her heart's own partner wandering by her side.
'Tis a summer's eve: the soft gales scarcely rouse
The low-voiced ripple and the rustling boughs;
And faint and far some minstrel's melting tone
Breathes to her heart a music like its own.

When, hark! O horror! what a crash is there!
What shriek is that which fills the midnight air?
"Tis "FIRE! FIRE!" She wakes to dream no more.
The hot blast rushes through the blazing door.

The dim smoke eddies round; and hark! that cry!
"Help! help! Will no one aid? I die I die !"
She seeks the casement; shuddering at its height,
She turns again; the fierce flames mock her flight ;
Along the crackling stairs they fiercely play,
And roar, exulting, as they seize their prey.

"Help! help! Will no one come?" She says no more, But pale and breathless sinks upon the floor,

Will no one save thee? Yes, there yet is one
Remains to save when hope itself is gone;

When all have fled, when all but he would fly,
The fireman comes to rescue or to die.

He mounts the stair-it wavers 'neath his tread ;
He seeks the room-flames flashing round his head;
He bursts the door; he lifts her prostrate frame,
And turns again to brave the raging flame.
The fire-blast smites him with its stifling breath,
The falling timbers menace him with death,
The sinking floors his hurried steps betray,
And ruin crashes round his desperate way;
Hot smoke obscures, ten thousand cinders rise,
Yet still he staggers forward with his prize.
He leaps from burning stair to stair. On! on!
Courage! one effort more and all is won!
The stair is past, the blazing hall is braved.

Still on yet on! once more! Thank heaven she's saved.

THE SCOUTS IN CAMP.

WYOMING KIT.

"Pile on a few more pine knots, Tom; it's snappin' cold to

night

The wind from Rocky Canon comes with keenest kind o’ bite—
Let's hev a rousin' old camp fire, an' then we'll have a chat;
Please hand my rifle over hyar-mus' keep my paw on that !
A feller doesn't allers know jist when he'll need his gun-
Jist when the cussed Injun sneaks ar' huntin' arter fun.
Light up yer pipe, old pardner; thar's nuthin' like a smoke
To fill the intermission thet's atween each yarn or joke.

"I don't know what's got inter me, fur on the trail to-day,
My thoughts hev bin a-scoutin', 'round a camp thet's far away!
A camp thet's in God's country,' near thet bright Ohio stream,
An' the mem'ries of the past kep' crowdin' on me like a dream!
I seed the old log farm house, whar' I spent my early days;
The school house with its noisy crew; the boys in all their

plays;

I could see the old red meetin'-house, whar' once I jined the

church

Stood in with pious folks a while, then left 'em in, the lurch!

God bless that old red meetin'-house! I tell ye, Tom, it makes

My heart heat up with warmest love, an' every fiber quakes, When mem'ries shoot across my trail, of all the joys I seed, Afore I j'ined the gin'ral rush in the '49 stampede!

(Whoa, Chief!-you cussed idiot! Don't jump at every sound! Best fill yerself with grass-whoa, boy! jist quit thet snortin' 'round!

Git back thar' to yer grazin'-that war' a wolf you heard-
Or else the hootin' of an owl, or flutterin' of a bird!)

"As I war sayin', Tom, I used ter listen to the talk,

When the old gray-headed preacher told us how to toe the chalk.

If ever thar' war' a righteous man I'll back old Parson Hurd
Agin the flyest Gospel sharp thet ever slung the Word!
He wa'n't as eloquent as some, an' didn't wear sich clothes
As them thet hung gold spectacles across a pious nose;
But when it came to Gospel talk thet overtook the heart,
The old man bulged away ahead, an' played a leadin' part!
"When I growed to be eighteen, or so, I mind I used ter sit
An' hear the parson drawin' consolation from the writ;
But some how or another, no matter how I tried,

I couldn't keep these eyes o' mine from wanderin' to the side
Whar all the country gals 'd sit, in the best o' Sunday clothes,
A-wonderin' arter meetin's out, who'd ketch the smartest

beaux !

This heart o' mine 'd beat tattoo when I'd get a lovin' look
From a daisy with her face half hid behind her singin' book!

"An' when the benediction an' Doxology war' played
We'd draw up in a line outside the door, an' oh, how 'fraid

I used ter feel, afore my turn, as each successive beau Marched out o' ranks up to his ga, an' crooked his arm, ye know!

But arter hookin' on myself, an' startin' down the lane

Toward her daddy's farm, my courage all came back again,

An' then we'd laugh, an' chat, an' sing, an' squeeze each other's hands,

An' say a thousan' things that none but lovers understands !

"I had the sweetest little gal that ever slung a kiss,

An' the days I spent a sparkin' war all gilt-edged with bliss!
I'd a married that thar' beauty, Tom, if that 'tarnal cry of gold
Hadn't like an ocean billow over all the country rolled !

I caught the fever, like the rest, an' kissed the gal good bye,
An' left her standin' in the lane with sad an' tearful eye!
I promised to go back, of course, at no great distant day,
But when a man gits in these hills he's liable to stay.

"I hunted gold industriously, but couldn't make a stake, An' then I emigrated hyar, endeavorin' ter make

Enough to take me home, but failed-an' then fur Uncle Sam I started huntin' Injuns on the trail, an' hyar I am !

But some day, Tom, I may go back to take a peep around

66 6

At the old familiar objects on my early stampin' ground— Look up the gal?' not much, old pard; I'll bet thet country school

Is educatin' kids o' hers-whoa, Chief! you 'tarnal fool!"

THE CHARCOAL MAN.

TROWBRIDGE

Though rudely blows the wintry blast,
And sifting snows fall white and fast,
Mark Haley drives along the street,
Perched high upon his wagon seat ;
His sombre face the storm defies,
And thus from morn till eve, he cries,