THE WHIRLWIND,

MISS JULIET H. LEWIS.

The whirlwind" would take a walk one day," (And a very fast "walker is he,")

So bustling about,

He at length set out,

With a step right blithe and free.

'Twas plainly seen, as he rushed along,
He was bent on frolic that day;
He whistled with glee,

Or sung merrily,

For his heart was glad and gay.

His path lay straight through the dark green wood, And away o'er the mountain's broad brow;

His track you might trace,

In every place;

For he left his mark, I trow.

The aspen was first to hear his voice,

And she shook through each branch at the sound,

The timid young tree

Trembled fearfully,

As she sank upon the ground.

The hickory heard his sister fall,

And exclaimed with an ill-natured sneer,

"She's nervous to-day,

And doth fade away;

Such weakness can't flourish here."

As onward the whirlwind came, he heard

The rude scoffer unfeelingly jest ;
So wrenching about

His old trunk, so stout,

The strong one was laid to rest.

The pine saw the hickory's shivered trunk, And bowed low as the wind whistled past; But the courtesy

Of the nodding tree

Did save her from the blast.

The oak, in defiance, tossed his head;

For a veteran right bold was he;

But a single stroke

Felled the mighty oak;

Alas! for the proud old tree!

On onward still! and his mighty breath
Sings an anthem of glad triumph now,
And he laughs to see

Each old forest tree,

At his coming, meekly bow.

The blooming rose heard the whirlwind's voice, And it filled her with weighty alarms;

But he loved the blush

Of the flowering bush,

And bore her off in his arms.

On! onward still! o'er the land he sweeps,
With wreck, and ruin, and rush, and roar,
Nor stops to look back

On his dreary track,

But speeds to the spoils before!

MISS JONES AND THE BURGLAR.

S. S. WAGGONER.

Most women on earth have a natural dread
That a bold, wicked burglar is under their bed;
So the last thing they do, ere retiring at night,
Is to take lamp or candle and see that all's right.

'Tis strange, though, a man never bothers his head
To look for a woman stowed under his bed;
A woman's ne'er content to close eyes in sleep
Until for a man she hath taken a peep.

Now Miss Jones was a spinster of forty or more,
Who made bonnets, dresses, and kept a small store;
She had goods for the ladies, and goods for the gents,
And 'twas said had a fortune of dollars and cents.

She lived all alone, and had often been told,
That she'd surely be robbed of her silver and gold;
So she'd glance 'neath the bed after closing each night,
To feel safely secure, and know all was right.

One dark, stormy night, she closed up the store,

And looked as she'd done "seven thousand times before." She was rewarded at last, for there, with his head Turned toward her, lay a man stretched under her bed.

She did not as some place herself in bad plight
By calling for neighbors or screaming with fright,
Or by taking the broom to punch at his head,
But quietly undressed her, and got into bed.

To take him at advantage was what she desired,
So lay still as a cat, after she had retired;
She heard a sly movement soon under the bed-

On all fours he came crawling she grabbed for his head.

With a vise-grip she caught him, each ear she held fast,
The burglar thought judgment was coming at last.
Thump! thump! went his head down 'gainst the hard floor,
He begged hard for mercy, as he ne'er begged before.

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'I mistook this for my own room," the wretch loudly cries, And got 'neath the bed to get clear of the flies."

"Flies, forsooth, indeed, at night!" Miss Jones meekly said, And each time that she spoke, bump, bump, went his head.

A sleepy policeman, who was just coming past,
Forced the door for the neighbors, who came rushing in fast;
The burglar to the lock-up was escorted that night,
His head, eyes, and ears a most pitiful sight.

The judge in the morn on him six months bestowed,
And applauded Miss Jones for the courage she showed;
And as she still looks 'neath her bed every night,
Bad luck to the burglar caught in the same plight.

LITTLE PHIL.

MRS. HELEN RICH.

"Make me a headboard, mister, smoothed and painted, you see; Our ma she died last winter, and sister, and Jack, and me Last Sunday could hardly find her, so many new graves about. And Bud cried out,' We've lost her,' when Jack gave a little shout.

We have worked and saved all winter-been hungry sometimes,
I own-

But we hid this much from father under the old door stone.
He never goes there to see her; he hated her; scolded Jack,
When he heard us talking about her and wishing she'd come

back.

But up in the garret we whisper, and have a good time to cry, Our beautiful mother who kissed us, and wasn't afraid to die.

Put on it that she was forty, in November she went away,
That she was the best of mothers, and we haven't forgot to pray ;
And we mean to do as she taught us-be loving, and true, and

square,

To work and read, to love her, till we go to her up there.

Let the board be white like mother" (the small chin quivered

here,

And the lad coughed something under, and conquered a rebel

tear).

"Here is all we could keep from father, a dollar and thirty

cents,

The rest he has got for coal and flour, and partly to pay the rents."

Blushing the white lie over, and dropping the honest eyes, "What is the price of headboards, with writing, and handsome

size?

"Three dollars!" a young roe wounded, just falls with a moan,

and he,

With a face like the ghost of his mother, sank down on his tattered knee.

"Three dollars! and we shall lose her, next winter the graves and the snow!"

But the boss had his arms about him, and cuddled the head of

tow

Close up to the great heart's shelter, and womanly tears fell fast

"Dear boy, you shall never lose her, O cling to your sacred past ! Come to-morrow, and bring your sister and Jack, and the board

shall be

The best that the shop can furnish, then come here and live with me."

When the orphans loaded their treasure on the rugged old cart

next day,

The surprise of a footboard varnish, with all that their love

could say;

And "Edith St. John, Our Mother!" baby Jack gave his little

shout,