surpliced choirs. Then the remorseless performer planted his final stab in every heart with "Home, Sweet Home." When the player ceased, the crowd slunk away from him. There was no more revelry and devilment left in his audience. Each man wanted to sneak off to his cabin and write the old folks a letter. The day was breaking as the last man left the place, and the player, laying his head down on the piano, fell asleep. "I say, pard," said Goskin, "don't you want a little rest?" "I feel tired," the old man said. "Perhaps you'll let me rest here for the matter of a day or so." He walked behind the bar, where some old blankets were lying, and stretched himself upon them. I've got a He don't know "I feel pretty sick. I guess I won't last long. brother down in the ravine-his name's Driscoll. I'm here. Can you get him before morning. I'd like to see his face once before I die." Goskin started up at the mention of the name. He knew Driscoll well. "He your brother? I'll have him here in half an hour." As he dashed out into the storm the musician pressed his hand to his side and groaned. Goskin heard the word “Hurry!" and sped down the ravine to Driscoll's cabin. It was quite light in the room when the two men returned. Driscoll was pale as death. "My God! I hope he's alive! I wronged him when we lived in England, twenty years ago." They saw the old man had drawn the blankets over his face, The two stood a moment, awed by the thought that he might be Goskin lifted the blanket, and pulled it down astonished. There was no one there! "Gone!" cried Driscoll, wildly. "Ten "Gone!" echoed Goskin, pulling out his cash-drawer. thousand dollars in the sack, and the Lord knows how much loose change in the drawer!" The next day the boys got out, followed a horse's tracks through the snow, and lost them in the trail leading towards Pioche. There was a man missing from the camp. It was the threecard monte man, who used to deny point-blank that he could play the scale. One day they found a wig of white hair, and called to mind when the "stranger" had pushed those locks back when he looked toward the ceiling for inspiration, on the night of December 24, 1858. J. DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING MACHINE. BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE. T. TROWBRIDGE, best known, perhaps, by his stories for boys, but eminent as a poet, novelist, and dramatist, was born at Ogden, N. Y., in 1827, and began to write for the New York press while still in his teens. At twenty he went to Boston, in and near which city he has ever since lived. If ever there lived a Yankee lad, Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump Or, spreading the tail Of his coat for a sail, Take a soaring leap from post or rail, And wonder why He couldn't fly, And flap and flutter, and wish and try— All I can say is, that's a sign He never would do for a hero of mine. An aspiring genius was D. Green: That he had riveted his attention Upon his wonderful invention, Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings To catch the scent, Around some corner, of new-baked pies, And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyes, That made him look very droll in the face, And wise he must have been, to do more Than ever a genius did before, And his son Icarus, who wore Those wings of wax He had read of in the old almanacks. Should navigate The azure as now we sail the sea. Hear how Darius reasoned about it. "The birds can fly, An' why can't I? Must we give in," Says he with a grin, "'T the bluebird an' phobe Are smarter'n we be? Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men ? Er prove't the bat Hez got more brains than's in my hat, He argued further: "Ner I can't see "That Icarus Was a silly cuss— Him an' his daddy Dædalus. They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax Wouldn't stan' sun-heat an' hard whacks. I'll make mine o' luther, Er suthin' er other." And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned, To nummies that never can understand O' Creation itself afore't was done!" Himself he locks, with thimble and thread In which he locks These and a hundred other things. His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks; When he chanced to be dry, Stood always nigh, For Darius was sly! And whenever at work he happened to spy He let a dipper of water fly. "Take that! an' ef ever ye git a peep, Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!" And he sings as he locks His big strong box:— SONG. "The weasel's head is small an' trim, An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb, Advised by me, Keep wide awake when ye're ketchin' him!" So day after day He stitched and tinkered and hammered away, Till at last 't was done The greatest invention under the sun! "An' now," says Darius, "hooray fer some fun!" 'T was the Fourth of July, And not a cloud was on all the sky, Save a few light fleeces, which here and there, Half mist, half air, Like foam on the ocean went floating by: Thought cunning Darius: "Now I sha'n't go |