"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,
"That Mary would venture there now."

"Then wager, and lose!" with a sneer he replied;
"I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,
And faint if she saw a white cow."

"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?" His companion exclaimed with a smile;

"I shall win,-for I know she will venture there now, And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough

From the elder that grows in the aisle."

With fearless good humor did Mary comply,
And her way to the abbey she bent;

The night it was dark, and the wind it was high,
And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky
She shivered with cold as she went.

O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid,
Where the abbey rose dim on the sight;

Through the gateway she entered, she felt not afraid;
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade
Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night.

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howled dismally round the old pile;

Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she pass'd,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,

Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.

Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near,
And hastily gathered the bough;

When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear:
She paused, and she listened, all eager to hear,
And her heart panted painfully now.

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,-
She listened,-naught else could she hear.

The wind ceased; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread. For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread

Of footsteps approaching her near.

Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,
She crept to conceal herself there:

That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear,
And between them a corpse did they bear.

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold;
Again the rough wind hurried by,—

It blew off the hat of the one, and behold!

Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled ;

She fell, and expected to die.

Curse the hat!" he exclaimed. "Nay, come on till we hide

The dead body," his comrade replies.

She beholds them in safety pass on by her side,
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,

And fast through the abbey she flies.

She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door,

She gazed in her terror around,

Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor,

Unable to utter a sound.

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,
For a moment the hat met her view ;-

Her eyes from that object convulsively start,

For-O God! what cold horror then thrilled through her

heart

When the name of her Richard she knew!

Where the old abbey stands on the common hard by,

His gibbet is now to be seen; ̧

His irons you still from the road may espy,

The traveler beholds them, and thinks with a sigh
Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn.

TRUTII.-Cowper.

The only amaranthine flower on earth
Is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth.
But what is truth? Twas Pilate's question put
To truth itself, that deigned him no reply.
And wherefore? will not God impart His light
To them that ask it ?-Freely: 'tis his joy,
His glory, and his nature, to impart.
But to the proud, uncandid, insincere,
Or negligent inquirer, not a spark.
What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy,
That learning is too proud to gather up;
But which the poor and the despised of all
Seek and obtain, and often find unsought?
Tell me, and I will tell thee what is truth.

HE DIDN'T WANT A COFFIN.

He came into the office of a West End undertaker yesterday with a look of great care on his honest face. His eyes were heavy and slightly bloodshot, telling of nightly vigils and loss of sleep. His hair was unkempt and shaggy. The soft-hearted man of coffins looked upon his visitor with a gaze full of pity and thankfulness-pity for the customer's loss, and thankfulness for his patronage. He was so young to be burdened with the loss of a dear one by death.

The manufacturer of burial cases nodded a silent assent and consoling recognition; the young man from the country said: "How d'ye?" Then ensued a painful silence, broken at length by the man of grave business.

"Can I do anything for you to-day, sir?"

"Wall, I reckin so, stranger!"

Another silence. Once more the undertaker began by suggesting: "Your sister?"

The young man stared a moment, then, as a light gradually broke upon his perplexed mind, he smiled a smile more suggestive of sorrow than happiness, and replied: "No-my wife." "Sudden?"

"No-expected su'thun' of the kind for several months." "When did it happen?"

"'Bout four o'clock this morning."

"Looks natural?"

"Rather." Spoken carefully, and expressive of some doubt. "About what do you want the cost of it to be?"

"Don't care for expense; git it up kinder nice. I'll treat her handsome, 'cause she is the first one I ever had." "Very well, my friend; you'll have it lined with white satin, I suppose?"

"Just as you say, stranger."

"Silver-headed screws, too, I suppose?"

“Y-a-a-s—Oh, certainly-you bet! Git her up sniptious, you know, old fellow. None of your pesky one-horse fixins for me. No, sir'ee"!"

"Just so. Silver handles, of course?"

"Eh? What's that you say, stranger-silver handles? Oh, blame it, now, won't that be pilin' it on too hefty like? I kin stand silver screws and sich, but there's no use makin' the hull consarn of silver. The thing has to be moved, and must have handles, but I ain't quite so stuck up as that nownot quite, stranger."

"Very well," acquiesced the man of obsequies. "I'll put ordinary handles to it, then?"

"Eggs-actly-them's 'em, mister, now yer talkin'. Or'nary handles'll do. But, I say stranger,—(reflectively) make the wheels glisten like thunder."

"Wh-wh-wh-eels?"

"Yas, wheels. What's the matter with yer, anyhow?" "But who ever heard of wheels to a coffin?"

"Coffin!" shrieked the dejected-looking young man. “Coffin! Now, who the dickins said anything about coffins?" "Why, don't you want a coffin?"

"No-o! I want a cradle-a trap to rock my new baby in." "And isn't your wife dead?"

"Not by a jugfull. Don't yer make cradles for sale?" 'No, my friend, I am an undertaker."

"Undertaker of what?"

66 I make coffins."

"Oh, Lord, let me ketch the feller that sent me here!" And the grief-stricken youth crammed his hat over his eyes, ran his hands deep down in the pockets of his trousers, and pounced out on the streets searching for vengeance

4

THE WIFE'S APPEAL.-W. C. BENNETT.

Oh, don't go in to-night, John!—
Now, husband, don't go in:

To spend our only shilling, John,
Would be a cruel sin.

There's not a loaf at home, John,
There's not a coal, you know,
Though with hunger I am faint, John,
And cold comes down the snow-
Then don't go in to-night!

Ah, John, you must remember,
And, John, I can't forget,
When never foot of yours, John,
Was in the ale-house set.

Ah! those were happy times, John,
No quarrels then we knew,
And none were happier in our lane
Than I, dear John, and you.

Then don't go in to-night!

You will not go, John—John, I mind
When we were courting, few
Had arm as strong, or step as firm,
Or cheek as red as you.

But drink has stolen your strength, John,
And paled your check to white;

Has tottering made your once firm tread,
And bowed your manly height.
You'll not go in to-night!

You'll not go in! Think on the day
That made me, John, your wife;
What pleasant talk we that day had
Of all our future life;

Of how your steady earnings, John,
No wasting should consume,

But weekly some new comfort bring
To deck our happy room.

Then don't go in to-night!

To see us, John, as then we dressed,
So tidy, clean, and neat,
Brought out all eyes to follow us

As we went down the street.
Ah, little thought our neighbors then,
And we as little thought,

That ever, John, to rags like these
By drink we should be brought.
You won't go in to-night!

And will you go? If not for me,
Yet for your baby stay ;-
You know, John, not a taste of food
Has passed my lips to-day.

And tell your father, little one,

'Tis mine your life hangs on!

You will not spend the shilling, John,

You'll give it him?-Come, John!

Come home with us to-night.