And bear in mind thar may be sharps ez slings their spellin'
But likewise slings their bowie-knives without a thought or
You wants to know the rest, my dears? Thet's all! In me
The only gent that lived to tell about thet Spellin' Bee!"
He ceased and passed, that truthful man; the children went their way
With downcast heads and downcast hearts-but not to sport or play,
For when at eve the lamps were lit, and supperless to bed, Each child was sent, with tasks undone and lessons all unsaid,
No man might know the awful woe that thrilled their youthful frames,
As they dreamed of Angels' Spelling Bee and thought of Truthful James.
WARDEN, KEEP A PLACE FOR ME.
AN INCIDENT OF PRISON LIFE IN THE KINGS COUNTY PENITEN-
TIARY.
Discharged again! Yes, I am free,
But, warden, keep a place for me!
For freedom means that I must go
Out in the wind and rain and snow,
To fight with hunger, shame and cold-
A woman gray and worn and old;
To clothe myself in rags again,
And seek some wretched, narrow den.
And after that what must be done?
Steal? Beg? Hard lines for any one.
To work is easier. I would try,
But there's no work for such as I.
A fine thing, truly, to be free-
But, warden, keep a place for me!
For I'll come back. It's seven years
Since first I entered here in tears.
"Drunk and disorderly" I came,
And felt the burden and the shame,
The prison taint, the outlaw's dread
When first behind his hopeless tread
The gates clang to with dreadful sound,
And the dark prison walls close round."
But when I went away, I said:
"If I can earn my daily bread,
I'll work my fingers off before
I'll wear a convict's dress once more."
"Twas easy said-I meant it too-
Work? Is there work enough to do
For those who spend their weary lives
Like toiling bees in busy hives,
And starve at last? When willing hands
That never broke the law's commands
Are idle by the thousands, how
Can jail-birds keep a virtuous vow?
No work, but all the same. I found
The time for meals would come around;
No work, but time enough to think,
And that's the easy road to drink.
Who cared, who cares, that I was then
"Drunk and disorderly" again?
Who cares that ever with the best
I was a woman like the rest?
Who cares that one day in my life
I was a happy, joyous wife?
None care, and I care less than they,
And curse the man and curse the day.
How did I know that he would be
A drunken scoundrel, dragging me
Down in the mire? Alas, the life
He led me! Oh, the bitter strife
'Twixt love and hate! He went away
And left me with my little May-
My little child! My little pearl!
My pretty brown-eyed baby-girl!
Bah-that was only childhood's grace!
She grew up with her father's face,
Her father's selfish, wicked heart;
Grew up to take an evil part;
Grew up to soil her mother's name,
And cover it with double shame.
But I've a little baby dress-
The one soft vein of tenderness
That's run through all these hateful years
I've wet it many a time with tears,
And many a time at dead of night'
I've clasped it to my bosom tight.
Because it means for me
A simple, sinless memory;
Because it means there was a time
When I, now gray with want and crime,
Old jail-bird as I am to-day,
Knew how to love and dared to pray.
What did I do? How could I know
That things would go against me so?
How could I help it? Did I plan
The fate that bound me to that man?—
The hard, blind fate that dragged me down
Among the wretches of the town?-
That snatched away all hope, all chance,
And twisted every circumstance
Against me, till at last I stood
Stripped of my very womanhood?
I could not dare to stop and think-
Was it my fault I took to drink?
No, I'm not fit for liberty;
It's not a wholesome thing for me;
The jail takes care of me too well.
Better to be locked in a cell,
Where all is clean and sleep is sweet,
Than roam the misery-haunted street;
Better the work they give us here
Than what awaits me when I'm clear;
Better the silence we must keep
Than drunken cries and curses deep;
Better the dull days free from pain
Than shattered nerves and throbbing brain;
Better the quiet, sober life
Than yonder city's desperate strife;
Better the prison's homely fare,
Better the prison's watchful care,
Better for me than liberty
So, warden, keep a place for me!
THE AMERICAN TRAVELER.--ROBERT H. NEWELJ、
To Lake Aghmoogenegamook,
All in the State of Maine,
A man from Wittequergaugaum came
One evening in the rain.
"I am a traveler," said he,
"Just started on a tour,
And go to Nomjamskillicook
To-morrow morn at four."
He took a tavern bed that night,
And with the morrow's sun,
By way of Sekledobskus went,
With carpet-bag and gun.
A week passed on; and next we find
Our native tourist come
To that sequestered village called
Genasagarnagum.
From thence he went to Absequoit,
And there-quite tired of Maine-
He sought the mountains of Vermont,
Upon a railroad train.
Dog-Hollow, in the Green Mount State,
Was his first stopping-place,
And then Skunk's-Misery displayed
Its sweetness and its grace.
By easy stages then he went
To visit Devil's-Den;
And Scrabble-Hollow, by the way,
Did come within his ken.
Then via Nine-Holes and Goose-Green He traveled through the State,
And to Virginia, finally,
Was guided by his fate.
Within the Old Dominion's bounds
He wandered up and down ;-
To-day at Buzzard-Roost ensconced,
To-morrow at Hell-Town.
At Pole-Cat, too, he spent a week,
Till friends from Bull-Ring came,
And made him spend a day with them
In hunting forest game.
Then, with his carpet-bag in hand,
To Dog-Town next he went;
Though stopping at Free-Negro-Town,
Where half a day he spent.
From thence into Negationburg
His route of travel lay,
Which having gained, he left the State
And took a southward way.
North Carolina's friendly soil
He trod at fall of night,
And on a bed of softest down
He slept at Hell's-Delight.
Morn found him on the road again,
To Lazy-Level bound;
At Bull's-Tail, and Lick-Lizzard too,
Good provender he found.
But the plantations near Burnt-Coat
Were even finer still,
And made the wondering tourist feel
A soft, delicious thrill.
At Tear-Shirt, too, the scenery
Most charming did appear,
With Snatch-It in the distance far,
And Purgatory near.
But, 'spite of all these pleasant scenes,
The tourist stoutly swore,
That home is brightest after all,
And travel is a bore.
So back he went to Maine, straightway,
A little wife he took,
And now is making nutmegs at
Moosehicmagunticook.
In the land of Brittany, and long ago,
Lived one of those
Despised and desolate, whose records show
Insult and blows,
Their old inheritance of wrong, who were
Free once as the eyelids of the morn; nor care
Knew, nor annoy,
That city of joy,
Heaven-chosen child, whom none to harm might dare ;
Lived one who did as if his God stood near
Watching his deed,
Slow to give answer, ever swift to hear;
Whose brain would breed,
Walking alone or watching through the night,
No idle thought; but he with ill would fight,
And day by day
Would wax alway
Wiser and better and nearer to the light.
And in this land a mother lost her child,
And charged the Jew
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