THE OUTLAW'S YARN.

DID he die in his boots? Well, stranger, it's hard
To be asked such a question, and he my old pard;
A man who was grit clear away to his toes,

And who valued his life something like his old clo'es.
But ye see he'd no chance, for the fellow he struck
Drew his shooter too quick. Well, 'twas only his luck.
My pard would ha' done it; but this chap from the East
Looked so quiet and soft that he hadn't the least
Sort of notion he'd do what the rest of the town
Wouldn't dare even to think of, he'd so cowed them down.

Yet spite of that, stranger, I saw him one day

Turn shaky and pale, in a womanish

way.

Frightened, eh! I guess not. Well, since you must know, I'll tell you it merely, but just for to show

That no matter how upstart and stiff we may feel,

There are times when the feelings of childhood will steal
Right in on us suddenly, and leave us as weak

As a child of three years. And, stranger, I speak
Like a chap as should know; for that time, to my cost,
A hundred good ounces I may say I lost

By a moment's such weakness which happened to Bill,
My old pard, as lies buried out there on the hill.

Ye see how it was—we lay hid in the sage

All the day, on the watch for the east'ard bound stage;
For Bill had got wind that from Deadwood that day
A government agent would start on his way
To the far eastern states, and such a chap must,
We knew, carry with him a good wheen of dust.
And besides, there might be a rich miner or two;
So that, thinking it over, the best thing to do
Seemed for us to lay quiet, then sudden come down
And rake in their pile for our next spree in town.
So we waited there patient till almost 'twas night,
When sudder. and swift like, the coach shot in sight
At the top of the hill, and then rolled to its base,
Along on the plain to our snug hiding-place.
Bill jumped and I followed; the leaders we dropped,
And in less than a minute the whole thing had stopped.

I minded the driver; Bill sprang to the door,
And let out a wild kind of unearthly roar.
There wa'n't no more needed: the passengers knew
When they saw his six-shooter what Bill meant to do.

Five men there was there looked scairt like and wild,
And a woman in black, with her arms round a child-
A slim little thing of some three years or four
And it sat with its mother 'longside of the door;
And next her the agent, and then a bent Jew,
And away in the corner a miner or two.

As I said, Bill had yelled in a manner quite loud,
And with that and his shooter so frightened the crowd
That when they were told to hand over the stuff,
Like the Jew they all seemed to be ready enough.

Well, the agent was first to lay hold of his pile,
Which he handed to Bill with a weak sort of smile;
Then the Jew, with "Mein Gott!" then the miners; and last
That 'ere widow a few silver pieces she passed

Out to Bill, who stood there in the wide-open door,
When, stranger, that little kid stretched from the floor,
And twisting her lips into something like this,
Said to him, "Sir, stoop down and I'll give you a kiss.”
Well, Bill wasn't handsome; in fact, I may say
That his eyes, stranger, looked each a different
way.
He was bandy-legged, too, and besides had red hair,
And his face was the shade of that rifle-stock there.
So you see, when that 'ere little hop-o'-my-thumb
Looked up in his face he was almost struck dumb.
A minute he turned sorter red and then white,
And looked's if he wa'n't understanding it quite;
But seeing the mother, the miners, and Jew,
All staring hard at him, and I staring, too,

He stooped low, and lifting the cap from his head,

Kissed her twice where her purty cheeks most had the red;
And then, stranger, durned if he didn't let fall
His cap and his shooter, his plunder and all,

And leaped to the ground, and was off with a rush,
And the very next moment was lost in the brush.

MICHAEL LYNCH.

LABOR IS WORSHIP.

PAUSE not to dream of the future before us;
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;
Hark, how Creation's deep, musical chorus,
Unintermitting goes up into heaven!
Never the ocean wave alters in flowing;
Never the little seed stops in its growing;
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labor is worship!" the robin is singing;
"Labor is worship!" - the wild bee is ringing;
Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing

Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower; From the small insect, the rich coral bower;

Only MAN, in the plan, ever shrinks from his part.

Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labor is glory! the flying cloud lightens;

Idle hearts only the dark future frightens ;

Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune.

Labor, is rest from the sorrows that greet us,
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,

Rest from the sin-promptings that ever entreat us,
Rest from world sirens that lure us to ill..

-

Work and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow; Work-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow; Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping-willow; Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life-current leaping! How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping, True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.

Labor is wealth! In the sea the pearl groweth ;
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ;
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ;
Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee,
Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee;
Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee

Rest not content in thy darkness -
a clod.
Work for some good, be it ever so slowly;
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly;

Labor! all labor is noble and holy;

;

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.

FRANCIS S. OSGOOD.

THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE HAND.

KING OSWALD gloried not in pomp and power,
In conquest won by bloodshed and the sword;
Peace for his subjects did he strive to gain,
And to advance the kingdom of his Lord.

He oft laid by the sceptre and the crown,
With holy men to wander far and wide,
And tell his people in plain Saxon tongue
How Christ for them upon the cross had died.

In blessing God his hands so oft were clasped,
That when he sat in council or at rest,
Unwittingly to him, as if in prayer,

Those hands still folded lay upon his breast.

Kind to the poor was he, and full of grace;
Once, as with Aidan he sat down to meat,
They brought him word a famished multitude
Without his gate was begging food to eat.

Untasted lay the feast upon the board;

The king with eager haste his servants sped
To place this food before the starving crowd,
That none of all the poor should go unfed.

Then Bishop Aidan seized the royal hand,

That gracious hand, in deeds of right so bold. "May this fair hand," he cried, in tones of love, "This bounteous hand, oh, may it ne'er grow old!'

Soon war disturbed King Oswald's peaceful reign,
The cruel Penda ravaged sea and land,
And, to defend his people from the foe,

To battle Oswald went, with sword in hand.

In brave but hopeless fight he fell at last.
Then Penda gave command, with savage ire,
The king's slain body there should quartered be,
Each limb set on a stake to mark a shire.

When all else perished in the bleaching sun,
Pointing still upward, as if raised in prayer,
The gracious hand that Aidan erst had blessed
Remained unblemished, wondrous white and fair.

Only a legend, yet it bears the truth

That they who feed the hungry, warm the cold, Have pure, white souls, that God shall take above, In his bright heaven, never to grow old.

LUCY WADE HERRICK.

TWO DREAMS.

WEARY the king took off his crown;
In either hand he poised its weight.
""Tis strange how heavy it has grown,"
He said, and with an impatient frown
He eyed it in a kind of hate;

Then on his bed he laid him down

And slept, and in a twinkling dreamed.
Oh, dream of ecstasy and bliss!
Delight through all his senses streamed;
A ragged vagabond he seemed;

Free winds of heaven his hair did kiss;
On his bare skin the free sun beamed.