SCHLAUSHEIMER DON'T GONCILIATE.-VON BOYLE.

His name vas Schlausheimer, vot mendedt furnitoor and put cane seats in de pottoms of a shair. He had vone vife py his secondt marriages, und she called him her secondthandt huspandt on accoundt he vas marriedt pefore to anoder vomans py de name Gretchen, vot had red hair und green eyes. Schlausheimer used to say he vas pooty vell marriedt, not on accoundt he vas marriedt many, like old Brigham Young, but on accoundt he vas marriedt mooch250 pounds avoirdutroy,-dot vas his vife.

Mrs. Schlausheimer she vas fat like a peer barrels, und Schlausheimer he vas fat like a match.

Dey had ten shildren petween dem. Two vas boys, two vas girls, dree vas a dwin, two vas a driplet, und vone vas a quadruped-or I tink dey called dot douple pair dwins a quartette, on accoundt of de noises dey made.

Und he had on accoundt of his first vife py de name Gretchen, also, ten shtep-shildrens. Und efery single vone of dot shtep-shildrens vas dwins.

I vent vone tay to Schlausheimer's on accoundt he did not brought a shair he vas mending pack, und I found dem playing de Franco-Prussian war.

"Vot's all dot droubles?" said I.

Vell, Mrs. Schlausheimer had a proomshtick her hand in, und she vas drying to poke a cat or sometings from oudt de ped unter. She look up und say:

"Mr. Von Boyle, I can do notings mit dot Schlausheimer." "Did you tried moral bersuasion mit him once?" says I. Vell, pefore she could answer dot, dot cat comes vrom de ped unter oudt, und it vasn't not any cat at all; it vas Schlausheimer, und he says:

“Mr. Von Boyle, I vill told you de kindt of moral bersuasions my vife makes use mit me oudt. She calls me tay pehindt yesterday a oldt lager-peer saloon."

Den Mrs. Schlausheimer broke in:

"But didn't you told me I vas a voman's rights confention?"

Den Schlausheimer broke oudt:

"But didn't you nearly, mit a proomshtick on accoundt of dot, proke my arm?"

Den Mrs. Schlausheimer she says:

"But dot vas his own fault, Mr. Von Boyle. I vas shoost going to rap him a little on de head, und if he didn't put up his arm it vouldn't got hurt, like a fool. Schlausheimer, efery cent he gets, he shpend him in vhisky. Und den he haf sooch a pad indisposition he comes und peats me home."

"Vell," says I, "can you not in some manner gonciliate him?"

"I do eferytings I can found oudt," says she," to gonciliate him. I schold him, I pull his eyes, und scratch his hair, I kicks him de bedt oudt,-but he don't gonciliate."

ONE IN BLUE AND ONE IN GRAY.

Each thin hand resting on a grave,
Her lips apart in prayer,

A mother knelt and left her tears
Upon the violets there.

O'er many a rood of vale and lawn,
Of hill and forest gloom,

The reaper death had reveled in

His fearful harvest home.

The last red Summer's sun had shone
Upon a fruitless fray;-

From yonder forest charged the blue,
Down yonder slope the gray.

The hush of death was on the scene,
And sunset o'er the dead,

In that oppressive stillness

A pall of glory spread.

I know not, dare not question how
I met the ghastly glare

Of each upturned and stirless face
That shrunk and whitened there.
I knew my noble boys had stood
Through all that withering day,-
I knew that Willie wore the blue,
That Harry wore the gray.

I thought of Willie's clear blue eye,
His wavy hair of gold,

That clustered on a fearless brow
Of purest Saxon mold;

Of Harry, with his raven locks,
And eagle glance of pride;

Of how they clasped each other's hand
And left their mother's side;

How hand in hand they bore my prayers
And blessings on the way-

A noble heart beneath the blue,
Another 'neath the gray.

The dead, with white and folded hands,
That hushed our village homes,
I've seen laid calmly, tenderly,
Within their darkened rooms;
But there I saw distorted limbs,
And many an eye aglare,
In the soft purple twilight of
The thunder-smitten air;
Along the slope and on the sward
In ghastly ranks they lay,
And there was blood upon the blue
And blood upon the gray.

I looked and saw his blood, and his;
A swift and vivid dream

Of blended years flashed o'er me, when
Like some cold shadow, came

A blindness of the eye and brain-
The same that seizes one

When men are smitten suddenly

Who overstare the sun;

And while blurred with the sudden stroke

That swept my soul, I lay,

They buried Willie in his blue,

And Harry in his gray.

The shadows fall upon their graves;
They fall upon my heart;

And through the twilight of my soul
Like dew the tears will start,-

The starlight comes so silently,
And lingers where they rest;

So hope's revealing starlight sinks
And shines within my breast.

They ask not there where yonder heaven

Smiles with eternal day,

Why Willie wore the loyal blue

Why Harry wore the gray.

MURILLO'S TRANCE.-MARGARET J. PRESTON.

"Here, Pedro, while I quench these candles, hold
My lantern; for, I promise you, we burn
No waxlights at our chapel-shrines till morn,
As in the great Cathedral, kept ablaze
Like any crowded plaza in Seville,

From sun to sun. I wonder if they think

That the dead knights, Fernando and the rest,—
Whose bronze and marble couches line the walls,
Like to scared children, cannot sleep i' the dark :”
And, muttering thus, the churlish sacristan
Went, snuffing out the lights that only served
To worsen the wan gloom.

And (mindful still
Of his Dolores' greed of candle-ends)

He chid, at whiles, some lagging worshipper,
Nor spared to hint, above the low-dropped heads,
Grumblings of sunshine being in Seville

Cheaper than waxlight, and 'twere best to pray
When all the saints were broad awake, and thus
Liker to hear.

So shuffling on, he neared
The altar with its single lamp a-light.
Above, touched with its glow, the chapel's pride,
Its one Ribéra hung,-a fearful-sad,

Soul-harrowing picture of the stark dead Christ,
Stretched on the cross beneath a ghastly glare
Of lurid rift, that made more terrible
The God-forsaken loneliness. In front,

A chasm of shadow clove the checkered floor,
And hastening towards it, the old verger called
Wonderingly back:

"Why, Pedro, only see!

The boy kneels still! What ails him, think you? Here
He came long hours before the vesper-chime;

And all the while, as to and fro I've wrought,—
Cleansing of altar-steps and dusting shrines,
And such like tasks, I have not missed him once
From that same spot. What marvel if he were
Some lunatic escaped from Caridad?

Observe! he takes no heed of aught I say:
"Tis time he waked."

As moveless as the statues

Niched round, a youth before the picture knelt,

His hands tight clenched, and his moist forehead strewn

With tossings of dank hair. Upon his arm
The rude old man sprang such a sudden grasp
As caused a start; while in his ear he cried
Sharply, "Get hence! What do you here so late?"
Slow on the questioner a face was turned
That caused the heavy hand to drop; a face
Strangely pathetic, with wide-gazing eyes
And wistful brows, and lips that wanly made
Essay to speak before the words would come;
And an imploring lifting of the hands
That seemed a prayer:

-"I wait,-I wait," he said,

"Till Joseph bring the linen, pure and white,
Till Mary fetch the spices; till they come,-
Peter and John and all the holy women,
And take Him down; but O, they tarry long!
See how the darkness grows! So long,

so long!"

FATHER, LEAD ON.

My Father God, lead on!
Calmly I follow where thy guiding hand
Directs my steps. I would not trembling stand,
Though all before the way

Is dark as night, I stay
My soul on thee, and say-
Father, I trust thy love; lead on!

Just as thou wilt; lead on!

For I am as a child, and know not how
To tread the starless path whose windings now
Lie hid from mortal ken.

Although I know not when
Sweet day will dawn again,
Father I wait thy will; lead on.

I ask not why; lead on!

Mislead, thou canst not. Though through days of grief And nights of anguish, pangs without relief

Or fears that would o'erthrow

My faith, thou bidst me go,
Thy changeless love, I know,
Father, my soul will keep; lead on.

With thee is light; lead on!

When dark and chill at eve the night-mists fall,
O'erhanging all things like a dismal pall,