And now we come to--to ah--to--Putnam--General Putnam:--he fought in the war, too; and one day a lot of 'em caught him when he was off his guard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse and then licked the horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, with General Putnam lying there nearly skeered to death. Leastways the publisher said somehow that way, and I oncet read about it myself. But he came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse and made a pretty good thing of it. What surprises me is he didn't break his neck, but maybe it was a mule, for they're pretty sure footed, you know. Surprising what some of these men have gone through, ain't it? Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. My father shook hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New Orleans. Broke up the rebel Legislature, and then when the Ku Kluxes got after him he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks and licked 'em 'til they couldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad. Hit straight from the shoulder and fetched his man every time. Andrew, his fust name was; and look how his hair stands up. And then, here's John Adams and Daniel Boone and two or three pirates, and a whole lot more pictures, so you see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme have your name, won't you?"

THE MISNOMER.

BY JOSIE C. MALOTT.

It sounds rather queer, I must freely confess, To hear a man ask kind heaven to bless Himself and his neighbor, when over the way His drinking saloon stands open all day.

_You_ may call it a "drug store," but doesn't G.o.d know?

Can you hide from _His_ eye the sorrow and woe-- The pain and the anguish, the grief and the shame That comes from the house with a high-sounding name?

Such ill gotten wealth will surely take wing And leave naught behind but the deadliest sting; And oh, the account must be settled some day, For the drug store saloon kept over the way.

Can you face the just Judge and the souls you have wrecked?

Oh, pause ere too late and note the effect.

Do you know you're destroying both body and soul Of the men whose honor and manhood you've stole?

Does the hard accusation arouse you to fright?

Have you never looked at yourself in the light Of a thief, nay, worse, a murderer, too?

G.o.d brands you as such, and you know it is true!

They're the deadliest poisons you have for sale-- The liquors you keep--yet you always fail To mark them as such, and the men who drink Can have what they want if they bring you the "c.h.i.n.k."

_Don't_ call such a place a _drug store_, pray; But "drinking saloon," and you'd better say On the sign o'er the door in letters clear, "Ye abandon all hope who enter here!"

THE DOORSTEP.

BY E. C. STEDMAN.

The conference-meeting through at last, We boys around the vestry waited To see the girls come tripping past Like s...o...b..rds willing to be mated.

Not braver he that leaps the wall By level musket-flashes litten, Than I, who stepped before them all, Who longed to see me get the mitten.

But no; she blushed and took my arm!

We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm Along a kind of lover's by-way.

I can't remember what we said, 'Twas nothing worth a song or story; Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed and in a glory.

The snow was crisp beneath our feet, The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, Her face with youth and health was beaming.

The little hand outside her m.u.f.f-- O sculptor, if you could but mould it!

So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, To keep it warm I had to hold it.

To have her with me there alone,-- 'Twas love and fear and triumph blended.

At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended.

The old folks, too, were almost home; Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, We heard the voices nearer come, Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.

She took her ringlets from her hood, And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled; But yet I knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled.

A cloud past kindly overhead, The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said, "Come, now or never! do it! _do it_!"

My lips till then had only known The kiss of mother and of sister, But somehow full upon her own Sweet, rosy, darling mouth--I kissed her!

Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, O, listless woman! weary lover!

To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill I'd give--but who can live youth over?

HOW "OLD MOSE" COUNTED EGGS.

Old Mose, who sold eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived, but he has got the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady herself came out to the gate to make the purchases.

"Have you any eggs this morning, Uncle Mose?" she asked.

"Yes, indeed I has. Jest got in ten dozen from the kentry."

"Are they fresh?"

"I gua'ntee 'em. I knows dey am fresh jest the same as ef I had led 'em myself."

"I'll take nine dozen. You can just count them into this basket."

"All right, mum." He counts, "One, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten. You kin rely on dem bein fresh. How's your son coming on at de school? He mus' be mos' grown."

"Yes, Uncle Mose, he is a clerk in a bank at Galveston."

"Why, how ole am de boy?"

"He is eighteen."

"You don't tole me so. Eighteen and getting a salary already, eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free, twenty-foah, twenty-five, and how's yore gal comin' on? She was mos' growed up de las' time I seed her."

"She is married and living in Dallas."

"Wall, I declar'. How de time scoots away! An' yo' say she has childruns?

Why, how ole am de gal? She mus' be jess about--"

"Thirty-three."