W. Alexander's old Father of sympathy now the strongest, entreted our Hero to sale for distent shores, there asisted by that balm time and change, there assuage his grefe.

Well, came the last evening, and with the sadest of hearts and a bunch of sweet violets W. Alexander went to bid a long fare well.

But as he neared the sacred spot his heart seemed deadened. Prone on her grave changing the snowy whiteness of the flowers with its crimson die was the body of Paul Paulo. Who by his own hand caused his life blood to floe as an attonement.

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Up and down old Brandywine, In the days 'at's past and gone— With a dad-burn hook-and-line And a saplin'-pole—i swawn! I've had more fun, to the square Inch, than ever anywhere! Heaven to come can't discount mine Up and down old Brandywine! Haint no sense in wishin'—yit Wisht to goodness I could jes "Gee" the blame world round and git Back to that old happiness!— Kindo' drive back in the shade "The old Covered Bridge" there laid Crosst the crick, and sorto' soak My soul over, hub and spoke! Honest, now!—it haint no dream 'At I'm wantin',—but the fac's As they wuz; the same old stream, And the same old times, i jacks!— Gim me back my bare feet—and Stonebruise too!—And scratched and tanned! And let hottest dog-days shine Up and down old Brandywine! In and on betwixt the trees 'Long the banks, pour down yer noon, Kindo' curdled with the breeze And the yallerhammer's tune; And the smokin', chokin' dust O' the turnpike at its wusst— Saturd'ys, say, when it seems Road's jes jammed with country teams!— Whilse the old town, fur away 'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land, Dozed-like in the heat o' day Peaceful' as a hired hand. Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor O' the old bridge!—grind and roar With yer blame percession-line— Up and down old Brandywine! Souse me and my new straw-hat Off the foot-log!—what I care?— Fist shoved in the crown o' that— Like the old Clown ust to wear. Wouldn't swop it fer a' old Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!— Keep yer King ef you'll gim me Jes the boy I ust to be! Spill my fishin'-worms! er steal My best "goggle-eye!"—but you Can't lay hands on joys I feel Nibblin' like they ust to do! So, in memory, to-day Same old ripple lips away At my cork and saggin' line, Up and down old Brandywine! There the logs is, round the hill, Where "Old Irvin" ust to lift Out sunfish from daylight till Dew-fall—'fore he'd leave "The Drift" And give us a chance—and then Kindo' fish back home again, Ketchin' 'em jes left and right Where we hadn't got "a bite!" Er, 'way windin' out and in,— Old path th'ough the iurnweeds And dog-fennel to yer chin— Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds And cat-tails, smack into where Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare Us clean 'crosst the County-line, Up and down old Brandywine! But the dim roar o' the dam It 'ud coax us furder still Tords the old race, slow and ca'm, Slidin' on to Huston's mill— Where, I 'spect, "The Freeport crowd" Never warmed to us er 'lowed We wuz quite so overly Welcome as we aimed to be. Still it peared-like ever'thing— Fur away from home as there— Had more relish-like, i jing!— Fish in stream, er bird in air! O them rich old bottom-lands, Past where Cowden's Schoolhouse stands! Wortermelons—master-mine! Up and down old Brandywine! And sich pop-paws!—Lumps o' raw Gold and green,—jes oozy th'ough With ripe yaller—like you've saw Custard-pie with no crust to: And jes gorges o' wild plums, Till a feller'd suck his thumbs Clean up to his elbows! My!— Me some more er lem me die! Up and down old Brandywine! … Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!— Flick me with a pizenvine And yell "Yip!" and lem me loose! —Old now as I then wuz young, 'F I could sing as I have sung, Song 'ud surely ring dee-vine Up and down old Brandywine!

JONES

BY LLOYD OSBOURNE

I

I could have taken "No" like a man, and would have gone away decently and never bothered her again. I told her so straight out in the first angry flush of my rejection—but this string business, with everything left hanging in the air, so to speak, made a fellow feel like thirty cents.

"It simply means that I'm engaged and you are not," I said.

"It's nothing of the kind," she returned tearfully. "You're as free as free, Ezra. You can go away this moment, and never write or anything!"

Her lips trembled as she said this, and I confess it gave me a kind of savage pleasure to feel that it was still in my power to hurt her.

It may sound unkind, but still you must admit that the whole situation was exasperating. Here was five-foot-five of exquisite, blooming, twenty-year-old American girlhood sending away the man she confessed to care for, because, forsooth, she would not marry before her elder sister! I always thought it was beautiful of Freddy (she was named Frederica, you know) to be always so sweet and tender and grateful about Eleanor; but sometimes gratitude can be carried altogether too far, even if you are an orphan, and were brought up by hand. Eleanor was thirty-four if a day—a nice enough woman, of course, and college bred, and cultivated, and clever—but her long suit wasn't good looks. She was tall and bony; worshipped genius and all that; and played the violin.

"No," repeated Freddy, "I shall never, never marry before Eleanor. It would mortify her—I know it would—and make her feel that she herself had failed. She's awfully frank about those things, Ezra—surprisingly frank. I don't see why being an old maid is always supposed to be so funny, do you? It's touching and tragic in a woman who'd like to marry and who isn't asked!"

"But Eleanor must have had heaps of offers," I said, "surely—"

"Just one."

"Well, one's something," I remarked cheerfully. "Why didn't she take him then?"

"She told me only last night that she was sorry she hadn't!"

Here, at any rate, was something to chew on. I saw a gleam of hope. Why shouldn't Eleanor marry the only one—and make us all happy!

"That was three years ago," said Freddy.

"I have loved you for four," I retorted. I was cross with disappointment. To be dashed to the ground, you know, just as I was beginning—"Tell me some more about him," I went on. I'm a plain business man and hang on to an idea like a bulldog; once I get my teeth in they stay in, for all you may drag at me and wallop me with an umbrella—metaphorically speaking, of course.

"Tell me his name, where he lives, and all."

"We were coming back from Colorado, and there was some mistake about our tickets. They sold our Pullman drawing-room twice over—to Doctor Jones and his mother, and also to ourselves. You never saw such a fight—and that led to our making friends, and his proposing to Eleanor!"

"Then why in Heaven's name didn't she" (it was on the tip of my tongue to say "jump at him") "take him?"

"She said she couldn't marry a man who was her intellectual inferior."

"And was he?"

"Oh, he was a perfect idiot—but nice, and all that, and tremendously in love with her. Pity, wasn't it?"

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