Part 13 (2/2)

”Two threes!” called out one of the crowd, as he tried to get to the window.

”Hurry up!” cried another.

”There ought to be a separate window here for women,” growled a third.

”Then it will take twelve cents?” she calmly queried, as she fumbled around for her purse.

”Yes.”

”Well, I'd better pay it, I guess.”

From one pocket she took two coppers. From her reticule she took a three cent piece. From her purse she fished out a nickel; and it was only after a hunt of eighty seconds that she got the twelve cents together. She then consumed four minutes in licking on the stamps, asking where to post the box, and wondering if there really was any writing inside,--but woman proposes and man disposes. Twenty thousand dollars' worth of business was being detained by a twelve-cent woman, and a tidal wave suddenly took her away from the window. In sixty seconds the thirteen men had been waited on and gone their ways, and the woman returned to the window, handed in the box, and said:

”Them stamps are licked on kind o' crooked, but it won't make any difference, will it?”

THE NAMELESS GUEST.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

I wonder if ever the Angel of Death Comes down from the great Unknown, And soars away, on the wings of night, Unburdened and alone!

I wonder if ever the angels' eyes, Are filled with pitying tears, As they grant to the souls, unfit for flight, A few more weary years!

For it seems, at times, when the world is still, And the soft night winds are whist, As though some spirit were hovering near, In folds of dream-like mist, And I feel, though mortals are nowhere near, That I am not quite alone, And, with dreary thoughts of dying and death, My heart grows cold as stone.

But whether 'tis death that hovers near, And knocks at the door of my heart, Or whether 'tis some bright angel, come To be of my life a part, I cannot tell, and I long in vain, The secret strange to know, While the moments of mirth and grief and pain, Move on in their ceaseless flow.

And at night, when I kneel to a Higher Power And ask His tender care, One yearning cry of a wayward life Is the burden of my prayer, That I may bend, with willing lips, To kiss the chastening rod, And learn the way, through the golden gate, To the great white throne of G.o.d.

OUR HEROES SHALL LIVE.

BY HENRY WARD BEECHER.

This brief extract from a splendid oration should be spoken in clear, defined tones, rather high pitch, the utterance slow, with a rather long pause after each question:

Oh, tell me not that they are dead--that generous host, that airy army of invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with n.o.bler motives, and more heroic patriotism?

Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. It _was_ your son, but now he is the nation's. He made your household bright: now his example inspires a thousand households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now brother to every generous youth in the land. Before, he was narrowed, appropriated, shut up to you. Now he is augmented, set free, and given to all. Before he was yours: he _is_ ours. He has died from the family, that he might live to the nation. Not one name shall be forgotten or neglected: and it shall by and by be confessed of our modern heroes, as it is of an ancient hero, that he did more for his country by his death than by his whole life.

LULLABY.

”Rockaby, baby, thy cradle is green; Father's a n.o.bleman, mother's a queen.”

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