till I thought, as my teeth I set, if I only could keep my head to my work, I might pull through with it yet; and I took a pull at Rasper, an' fell back a bit to the tail, for I'd never forget the one difficult spot-the hedge with the post and rail. How it all comes back! We're in the field-now for a rattling burst; for the race is half won by the horse and man that crosses that fence first. I run up to my horses and pass them-I've given Rasper his head; I can hear, some lengths behind me, the trampling and the tread; and now I send him at it firmly but not too fasthe stops-lays his ears back-REFUSES! The devil's come out at last! And I dig in the steel and let him feel the sting of stout whalebone, and I say, 'You shall do it, you devil! if I break your neck and my own.' And the brute gives a squeal, and rushes at the post and rail like mad-no time to rise him at it-not much use if I had; and then . . . well, I feel a crash and a blow, and hear a woman scream, and I seem to be dying by inches in a horrid sort of a dream.

"No, thank ye-I'd rather not, sir. You see they ain't all like you; these gents as has plenty of money don't care who they gives it to; but as for stopping an' saying a word, an' hearing a fellow's tale, they'd rather give him a crown, sir, or stand him a quart of ale. But it brings back old times to be talking to you. Ah! the jolly old times as I've seen, when I rode for Lord Arthur (c'rrect card, sir?) and wore the black and green!"

THE ENGINEER'S STORY

BY ROSA H. THORPE

No, children, my trips are over,
The engineer needs rest;
My hand is shaky; I'm feeling
A tugging pain i' my breast;
But here, as the twilight gathers,
I'll tell you a tale of the road,
That'll ring in my head forever,
Till it rests beneath the sod.

We were lumbering along in the twilight,
The night was drooping her shade,
And the "Gladiator" labored,-

Climbing the top of the grade;
The train was heavily laden,
So I let my engine rest,
Climbing the grading slowly,
Till we reached the upland's crest.

I held my watch to the lamplight,-
Ten minutes behind the time!
Lost in the slackened motion

Of the up-grade's heavy climb;
But I knew the miles of the prairie
That stretched a level track,

So I touched the gauge of the boiler,
And pulled the lever back.

Over the rails a-gleaming,
Thirty an hour, or so,

The engine leaped like a demon,
Breathing a fiery glow;

But to me-a-hold of the lever-
It seemed a child alway,
Trustful and always ready
My lightest touch to obey.

I was proud, you know, of my engine,
Holding it steady that night,
And my eye on the track before us,
Ablaze with the Drummond light.
We neared a well-known cabin,
Where a child of three or four,
As the up train passed, oft called me,
A-playing around the door.

My hand was firm on the throttle
As we swept around the curve,
When something afar in the shadow
Struck fire through every nerve.
I sounded the brakes, and crashing

The reverse-lever down in dismay,
Groaning to heaven,-eighty paces
Ahead was the child at its play!

One instant, one, awful and only,
The world flew round in my brain,
And I smote my hand hard on my forehead
To keep back the terrible pain;
The train I thought flying forever,
With mad, irresistible roll,

While the cries of the dying, the night-wind
Swept into my shuddering soul.

Then I stood on the front of the engine-
How I got there I never could tell-
My feet planted down on the crossbar,
Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail,
One hand firmly locked on the coupler,
And one held out in the night,

While my eye gauged the distance, and measured
The speed of our slackening flight.

My mind, thank the Lord! it was steady;

I saw the curls of her hair,

And the face that, turning in wonder,
Was lit by the deadly glare.

I know little more-but I heard it-
The groan of the anguished wheels,
And remember thinking-the engine
In agony trembles and reels.

One rod! To the day of my dying
I shall think the old engine reared back,
And as it recoiled, with 2 shudder

I swept my hand over the track;
Then darkness fell over my eyelids,
But I heard the surge of the train,
And the poor old engine creaking,
As racked by a deadly pain.

They found us, they said, on the gravel,
My fingers enmeshed in her hair,
And she on my bosom a-climbing,
To nestle securely there.

We are not much given to crying-
We men that run on the road-

But that night, they said, there were faces
With tears on them, lifted to God.

For years in the eve and the morning,
As I neared the cabin again,
My hand on the lever prest downward

And slackened the speed of the train.
When my engine had blown her a greeting,
She always would come to the door;
And her look with a fulness of heaven
Blesses me evermore.

THE FACE UPON THE FLOOR

BY H. ANTOINE D'ARCY

"Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there,
Which well-nigh filled Joe's barroom on the corner of the square;
And as songs and witty stories came through the open door,
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" some one said. "The wind has

blown it in."

"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whisky, rum or gin?" "Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the workI wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;

In fact, he smiled as tho he thought he'd struck the proper place. "Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd

To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

"Give me a drink-that's what I want-I'm out of funds, you know,

When I had the cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow. What? You laugh as tho you thought this pocket never held

a sou,

I once was fixt as well, my boys, as any one of you.

"There, thanks; that's braced me nicely; God bless you one and

Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call.

Give you a song? No, I can't do that, my singing days are past; My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast.

"Say! give me another whisky, and I'll tell you what I'll doI'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too. That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think; But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame
Such little drinks, to a bum like me, are miserably tame;
Five fingers-there, that's the scheme-and corking whisky, too
Well, here's luck, boys; and landlord, my best regards to you.