And, going to the window, he fired twice. * * * There was a scattering sound in the backyard, and the next day a gray cat was found dead close to the woodshed. The story and the deed were done.

GO VAY, BECKY MILLER, GO VAY!

I don'd lofe you now von schmall little bit, My dream vas blayed oudt, so blease git up und git; Your false-heardted vays I can't got along mit-- Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Vas all der young vomans so false-heardted like you, Mit a face nice und bright, but a heart black und plue, Und all der vhile schworing you lofed me so drue-- Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Vy, vonce I t'ought you vas a shtar vay up high; I liked you so better as gogonut bie: But oh, Becky Miller, you hafe profed von big lie-- Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

You dook all de bresents vat I did bresent, Yes, gobbled up efery virst thing vot I sent; All der vhile mit anoder young rooster you vent-- Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Vhen first I found oudt you vas such a big lie, I didn't know vedder to schmudder or die; Bud now, by der chingo, I don't efen cry-- Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

Don'd dry make belief you vas sorry aboudt, I don'd belief a dings vot coomes oudt by your moudt; Und besides I don'd care, for you vas blayed oudt-- Go vay, Becky Miller, go vay!

IT IS A WINTER NIGHT.

BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

It is a winter night, And the stilly earth is white, With the blowing of the lilies of the snow; Once it was as red, With the roses summer shed; But the roses fled with summer, long ago.

We sang a merry tune, In the jolly days of June, As we danced adown the garden in the light, But now December's come, And our hearts are dark and dumb, As we huddle o'er the embers here to-night.

WHAT THE LITTLE GIRL SAID.

"Ma's upstairs changing her dress," said the freckle-faced little girl, tying her doll's bonnet strings and casting her eye about for a tidy large enough to serve as a shawl for that double-jointed young person.

"Oh, your mother needn't dress up for me," replied the female agent of the missionary society, taking a self-satisfied view of herself in the mirror.

"Run up and tell her to come down just as she is in her every-day clothes, and not stand on ceremony."

"Oh, but she hasn't got on her every-day clothes. Ma was all dressed up in her new brown silk dress, 'cause she expected Miss Dimmond to-day. Miss Dimmond always comes over here to show off her nice things, and ma doesn't mean to get left. When ma saw you coming she said, 'the d.i.c.kens!' and I guess she was mad about something. Ma said if you saw her new dress, she'd have to hear all about the poor heathen, who don't have silk, and you'd ask her for money to buy hymn books to send 'em. Say, do the n.i.g.g.e.r ladies use hymn-book leaves to do their hair up on and make it frizzy? Ma says she guesses that's all the good the books do 'em, if they ever get any books. I wish my doll was a heathen."

"Why, you wicked little girl! what do you want of a heathen doll?" inquired the missionary lady, taking a mental inventory of the new things in the parlor to get material for a homily on worldly extravagance.

"So folks would send her lots of nice things to wear, and feel sorry to have her going about naked. Then she'd have hair to frizz, and I want a doll with truly hair and eyes that roll up like Deacon Silderback's when he says amen on Sunday. I ain't a wicked girl, either, 'cause Uncle d.i.c.k--you know Uncle d.i.c.k, he's been out West and swears awful and smokes in the house--he says I'm a holy terror, and he hopes I'll be an angel pretty soon. Ma'll be down in a minute, so you needn't take your cloak off.

She said she'd box my ears if I asked you to. Ma's putting on that old dress she had last year, 'cause she didn't want you to think she was able to give much this time, and she needed a m.u.f.f worse than the queen of the cannon-ball islands needed religion. Uncle d.i.c.k says you oughter get to the islands, 'cause you'd be safe there, and the natives would be sorry they was such sinners anybody would send you to 'em. He says he never seen a heathen hungry enough to eat you, 'less 'twas a blind one, an' you'd set a blind pagan's teeth on edge so he'd never hanker after any more missionary.

Uncle d.i.c.k's awful funny, and makes ma and pa die laughing sometimes."

"Your Uncle Richard is a bad, depraved wretch, and ought to have remained out West, where his style is appreciated. He sets a horrid example for little girls like you."

"Oh, I think he's nice. He showed me how to slide down the banisters, and he's teaching me to whistle when ma ain't around. That's a pretty cloak you've got, ain't it? Do you buy all your clothes with missionary money?

Ma says you do."

Just then the freckle-faced girl's ma came into the parlor and kissed the missionary lady on the cheek and said she was delighted to see her, and they proceeded to have a real sociable chat. The little girl's ma cannot understand why a person who professes to be so charitable as the missionary agent does should go right over to Miss Dimmond's and say such ill-natured things as she did, and she thinks the missionary is a double-faced gossip.

"WE'RE BUILDING TWO A DAY!"

BY REV. ALFRED J. HOUGH.

[During the Freethinkers' Convention, at Watkins, N.

Y., in response to statements that the churches throughout the land were losing all aggressive power, a message was received from Chaplain McCabe, of the Methodist Episcopal Church Extension Board saying in substance and speaking only of his own denomination, "All hail the power of Jesus' name; we're building two a day!"]

The infidels, a motley band, In council, met and said: "The churches die all through the land, The last will soon be dead."

When suddenly a message came, It filled them with dismay: "All hail the power of Jesus' name!

We're building two a day."

"We're building two a day," and still, In stately forests stored, Are shingle, rafter, beam, and sill, For churches of the Lord; And underpinning for the same, In quarries piled away; "All hail the power of Jesus' name!

We're building two a day."

The miners rend the hills apart, Earth's bosom is explored, And streams from her metallic heart In graceful molds are poured, For bells to sound our Saviour's fame From towers,--and, swinging, say, "All hail the power of Jesus' name!

We're building two a day."

The King of saints to war has gone, And matchless are His deeds; His sacramental hosts move on, And follow where He leads; While infidels His church defame, Her corner-stones we lay; "All hail the power of Jesus' name!

We're laying two a day."

The Christless few the cross would hide, The light of life shut out, And leave the world to wander wide Through sunless realms of doubt.

The pulpits lose their ancient fame, Grown obsolete, they say; "All hail the power of Jesus' name!

We're building two a day."

"Extend," along the line is heard, "Thy walls, O Zion, fair!"

And Methodism heeds the word, And answers everywhere.

A new church greets the morning's flame, Another evening's gray.

"All hail the power of Jesus' name!

We're building two a day."

When infidels in council meet Next year, with boastings vain, To chronicle the Lord's defeat, And count His churches slain, Oh then may we with joy proclaim, If we His call obey: "All hail the power of Jesus' name!

We're building THREE a day."