how embarrassing it would be to be called upon to furnish frequently any such alliterated and hydra-headed titles as the following, which I clip from a paper of good standing, and which appeared over an unpretending article:

TIME-TESTERS AND BURDEN-BEARERS.

BEAUTIFUL BEASTS BROUGHT OUT AND BESTRODE BEWILDER AND BEWITCH BIG BODIES OF BEHOLDERS.

DECIDED DIFFERENCE IN DISCRIMINATION AND DISCUSSION AS TO DEVELOPMENT DEFINITELY DETERMINED.

CAUSES CONSIDERED.

Here is a fault so patent that a blind man could almost see it. It is, however, comparatively harmless, though certainly indicative of very poor taste. I would pass it in silence, if I could secure thereby a promise that we should be treated to less vulgar humor. I have no words in which to express my disgust and loathing for the vile and indecent. "jokes," the broad innuendoes, the outrageous double entendres, the indelicate chaff with which our papers are filled.

Not long since I observed, with regret, that a certain popular paper was publishing a set of stories worthy of Fielding and Smollett. I was

surprised, because I knew the editor to be a man of refined tastes. In defense of his action, he said that the low price at which the paper soldone cent per copy-extended its circulation among the poorer classes of society, to whom, as a rule, reading of that kind was particularly acceptable; that it was, in short, a poor man's paper, and designed to cater to his tastes. What do you think of that defense?

You will never get a journalist to acknowledge that he is pursuing a wrong policy. If you disparage anything that goes into his paper, he says, in a patronizing way: "Yes, I know it is below proof. But, my dear sir, you do not understand this business. We do not exercise our own discretion in these matters. will please the people. no mind of its own.

We put in what we know The public has no opinion, It is a creature of impulse and prejudice. We understand that perfectly." There is real humor in the situation, when we consider that at the very moment when the editor is making these remarks, society is saying, with poignant regret: "Oh, these journalists are so degenerate! They have no conscience at all, much less principle. It is surprising that they have managed for so long to retain their respectability."

You see how it is! Who shall say where the main fault lies? A trite old Latin proverb runs, "Vox populi vox dei est." If that is the truth, the editor of the Twinkler and his "esteemed contemporaries," to steal some journalistic "taffy," have very slim chances of preferment either here or hereafter.

DURING Sherman's immortal achievement in the march through Georgia I fell sick, and being unable any longer to sit my horse, I was left behind about fifty miles inland, at a small farm house belonging to a Confederate farmer. Here I fell in with a young lieutenant from a Vermont regiment -Ephraim Baxter by name-who had been badly wounded in the head, and consequently incapacitated, like myself, from keeping up with the army. We both felt down-hearted enough as we saw the last straggler, and heard the last bugle-call of

our comrades die away in the distance, leaving us behind, sick, wounded, and unprotected, in the enemy's country.

However, we tried to make the best of matters, swearing eternal friendship over our pipes, and forming a firm compact to stand by each other to the death. the death. I soon found out that my companion's wound made him extra nervous and even flighty at times when the pain in his head was very bad, and this irregularity of imagination took the form of extreme suspiciousness of everybody and every

"Hurrah! hurrah! we'll shout the jubilee,

Hurrah! hurrah! the flag that set you free,"

he sang at the top of his voice, tapping his pipe viciously on the sill of the farm-house window. "Anything to keep one's spirits up; I could knock out the little brains the bullet left behind in my noddle, to think of it all. It's just my confounded luck all through. No one to talk to here but the old man and woman and that sulky nigger. I am hungry as a catamount. I'll go in and hurry up the tea and fixings." So saying, he began to pound at the bolted door, by no means in the sweetest of tempers, for his wound was just then paining him a good deal.

"If I had my pistol here, I'd darned soon blow in this door and fetch 'em."

"The old man's coming, I hear him shuffling," I said. "Don't get impatient, Baxter; the old folks are deaf, and I dare say no more pleased to have us here than we are to be obliged to stay. It's in our interest to keep them sweet.'

"Oh, you're too civil to them by half, cap'n. I've been a prisoner once over yonder in Libby, and I know 'em, darn their rebel skins. I wouldn't trust 'em an inch from my nose. Shuffle, shuffle -I hear him. Come 'long here and open this door," he shouted, loud enough to waken the seven sleepers.

"Why, I declare, I hear horses' hoofs," I said, listening again.

I wish I'd shot at him with my six-shooter!"' Just then the farmer, a beetle-browed, sourlooking old man, with a week's stubble on his chin, came past us, looking down the road as he shaded his eyes with his hand.

"Who are you looking for?" I inquired.

The old man's eyes twinkled maliciously as he turned slowly round, replying, "I'm lookin' fur my friends to come.

"There, durn him, didn't I tell you so, cap'n. He's looking for the rebs, and we shall be cut into apple sass," cried Baxter feverishly. "Now look here, old skunk," he went on, turning sharp on the astonished old man, and laying a heavy brown hand on his shoulder, "we're officers of Uncle Sam's army, and we insist on knowing who that fellow was who has just galloped off so slick." "That man with the saddle-bags ?" "Yes."

"The varmint with the blue coat and "Yes, yes."

"What! the fellow that blew the horn ?" "Yes, you pesky old coon."

"Him that come out just befo' me?"

"Yes, I tell you. Come, no more sliding about -answer."

"That? Why that's the Slopercreek postman, that is," said the old man, cackling and exploding with a vexatious laugh. "Wal, I reckon you is the queerest Yanks I ever see in these parts."

"What! that the postman, and carries pistols ?'' "Yes; 'bliged to, the roads is so full o' these

"Nonsense," I replied, as the door of the farmhouse this moment flew open, and a rough-looking, sinister-faced man in ragged dress, slouch hat, and long boots, came out leading a horse. His saddlebags were stuffed full of something, and he carried a pistol and bowie knife in his belt, while a horn slung back over his shoulders. He scowled at us as he leaped on his horse.

"What have you got in them bags ?" asked Baxter.

"What's that to you, mud-sill?" answered the man, looking down at his pistol in a menacing manner. "Who was your nigger last year?" And saying this, he struck spurs in his horse, blew his horn loudly, and dashed down the road out of sight. "Didn't I tell you, cap'n, it was an all-fired

and do nothin' but rob and steal, and murder honest folks-hang 'em!"'

"Look here, you venerable coon," said Baxter, "you just keep a civil tongue in your shaky jaws, or I'll soon settle your hash for you. We don't intend taking none o' your sass. Jump round quick now and get us some supper." Some way my better judgment was overruled, and I began to regard the old couple with the same suspicion which my comrade had toward them, his mistrust infecting me in spite of myself.

That night when we went to bed-we slept in the same room-Baxter broke out again. He was very feverish and restless. All at once he bounced out of bed.

"Look here, cap'n," said he, "I can't sleep here nohow. Depend upon it, there's some mis

chief brewing; that old skunk is too quiet. There's some confounded plot to blow us up, and these darned cans" (here he kicked a row of cans at one end of the room) "may be full of nitroglycerine, for all we know. Then here's this pesky cupboard" (trying the door) "that's locked as tight as a clam at high tide; who knows what's in it, or where it leads to?-some trap to push our dead bodies into, I'll be bound."

row this time of night," said I soothingly.

"Oh, no! and have a lot of rebs spring through that door at us to cut our throats, or be burned in our beds; I guess so!"

"Those are only oil-cans."

"Yes, and what feeds fire better than oil." "Well, if you will hunt around at unearthly hours for causas belli, for gracious sakes keep your suspicions to warm your own imagination. I don't care a rap, so you'll let me sleep."

But it was all of no use. The lieutenant was half-crazed with anger and mistrust.

Opening a window he began rolling the cans toward it, and lifting them cautiously, tossed three or four out into the court-yard below. It was useless trying to restrain him.

Presently we heard the voice of our host shouting up for us to stop.

"Here, strangers, here," he cried, "none o' them tricks; you're spillin' all the oil the carrier left here for Sy Peck's stores at Slopercreek, and I'm answerable for 't."

"Didn't I tell you," said my irascible companion, turning to me red in the face from tugging at the cans, and throwing another out, "he's going to set fire to the house, and this is to make it go slick. I've a mind to set the whole darned concern going myself to pay him out."

"You'll do nothing of the kind, if I know it," I said quietly. "You're crazy, to be going on like that."

"Look here, liftenent," shouted the old man, "if you'll only lay by till me and the old gal kin dress, we'll come up and tote them ile-cans that seem to sorter rile you."

Satisfied with this diplomatic arrangement, Baxter yielded, and soon the obnoxious jars were carried away by the old people and their negro.

Nevertheless my comrade refused to sleep unless I kept guard, so we agreed to take our rest by turns, portioning the night off into different watches.

In the afternoon we were lounging on the grass in the orchard, out of sight of the house, and were just dozing off, being much fatigued after our broken rest of the previous night, when a horrible and unearthly noise roused us. It was like the clatter of a dozen mill-wheels going off at once, together with a score of burglar-alarms and a perfect medley of watchman's rattles.

"That's a signal," said the lieutenant anxiously; "come along, cap'n; draw your sword, for we're in for it now, and if we don't get a shy at the rebs and scare them a bit, I wouldn't give three strips of a louse for either of our lives in this darned place."

We dashed over the fence, racing along in the direction from whence came the infernal racket, until a gap from a second orchard into the cornfield was reached, where the noise was positively deafening.

"Double-quick it," shouted Baxter; "we'll drop slick on their sentinel before the main body comes up."

We were quickly round the corner of the stack, and there we found the enemy; a little sun-burned sly urchin, who was stuffing his mouth full of doughnuts with one hand, while with the other he sprang a great flapping bird-scarer's rattle.

I screamed with laughter; not so my nervous friend, however, who was inclined to take the joke au sérieur. He gave the youngster a sounding box on the ears, grimly confiscating the rattle, and, more out of temper than ever, turned and left.

That evening at tea we were soundly berated by the old couple, who were most indignant at our treatment of their grandson-the innocent rattlespringer-and of our suspicions, and our behavior generally. They wanted to do their best by us, they said, and make the best of the reverses of war, but we still remained mistrustful and arbitrary.

If it were to go on this way, they would give up the house, fixings and all, to us, and go right away to their married son's at Slopercreek. "I don't mean no harm, and I want to get along smoothly," said the old farmer; "but there don't seem to be no ways o' satisfyin' you Yankees. You seem to think we're all trash and thieves down here in Georgia, because we don't go in for your old rail-splitter 'stead o' Jeff Davis."

Despite our host's harangue, however, we were by no means reassured when we retired that night. We spent a long hour talking, discussing the danger, and resolving, if surprised, to die fighting; for with one of us wounded, and the other weak from long sickness, escape would be out of the question. "And if the time does come," remarked Baxter, "I'll just keep my last shot for that old skunk down-stairs. He shan't get off

scott free if I can help it."

The great brilliant harvest-moon was shining like a gigantic yellow lamp over the mottling cornfields as I got into bed; for my sleep was first that night. About half-past three o'clock I awoke and took my place in the tumble-down arm-chair by the window near the bed, and opposite the locked cupboard which had already roused my comrade's fears.

"The everlastin' firmament," he grumbled drowsily, as he turned in between the sheets, "I am pesky sleepy." And in a minute or two his pipe dropped from his mouth on the floor, he murmuring the while his favorite lamentation over the "rebs.”

The night was feverishly hot and close. There were mutterings of thunder in the air, and the sky was black, sullen, and starless. The moon was qutite extinguished in huge masses of vaporous clouds, and as I opened the window the silence was almost oppressive. No sound of night-bird or insect reached my strained ears, but only the occasional uneasy and distant growling of the coming storm.

It could not have been very far from daybreak when, overcome with fatigue and a dull pain in my head, brought on by the thunder heat, I fell asleep. My dreams were none of the pleasantest. I thought I was still gazing out of the window on the black night, when the rifles of a whole rebel regiment suddenly pointed at me through forked flames, which broke into a blaze of light, disclosing the old farmer's sniggering face cackling

over my discomfort. I awoke fancying I heard the sound of hoofs, and imagining the rebel cavalry had already gotten on our track. But I soon fell asleep again, this time dreaming the old couple had poisoned us, and as we lay twisting and writhing in our horrible death agony they came to our bedside gloating over us with faces distorted with malice and revenge and taunting us with being so easily fooled.

The sharp, clear report of a pistol awoke me. There was no mistake now, and I hurriedly seized my sword and roused Baxter. My first thought was that the old man had crept into our room and murdered the Vermonter as he slept, and that the next barrel would fetch me. But I was mistaken, and I felt, when I was thoroughly awake, that the shot must have been fired at one of us through the open window.

It was gray dawn, and light enough to see everything in the room, and as we stared at each other, uncertain from whence an attack might be made on us, Baxter, with a ghastly look of terror that seemed to turn his face to stone, pointed to the cupboard door. There, from beneath, was creeping slowly and sluggishly out a winding stream of thick crimson blood, which, widening over the floor, in a moment had almost reached our feet, rooted in horror to the spot.

"Some one has been murdered in there," I faltered. In another moment I flew at the door and tried with might and main to break it open. There was a heavy crash within as of some one falling, but no reply to our muffled cries. Baxter, always more hot and passionate than myself, cut the knot summarily. Placing his revolver at the key-hole, he blew the door open with a single shot.

It was but a brief moment's work to drag down the planks, and we beheld, not a man weltering in his blood, but a huge broken bottle of preserved currants, which, newly corked, had fermented with the heat and had exploded in the alarming manner I have described, while the thick red juice under the door might have alarmed persons with less reason to be suspicious than ourselves.

I am happy to say this was the climax which solved all after-doubts, and the remainder of our stay with the old couple was harmonious and friendly, for in the clear light of common sense they proved to be the most harmless people in the world.

CHAPTER XVII.—“GODEN ABEND, GODE NACHT!'' He crossed the farm-yard and went into the garden, under the old archway, and then, just as he was about to enter, he heard a voice singing, and was arrested. The window of the large room on the right was open, and a glow of fire-light warmed the background. From it came the sound of a piano being played, and of a woman's voice accompanying it. Aglionby trod softly up to the window and looked in. The fire burnt merrily. | Judith Conisbrough sat at the piano, with her back to him, softly playing; her voice had ceased, and presently the music ceased also. Then she began again, and sang in a contralto voice, sweet, natural, and strong, if uncultivated, a song which Aglionby was surprised to hear. He would not have expected her to sing foreign songs-if this could be called foreign. He folded his arms under the window-ledge and gazed in and listened, and the music, after all- the other strange and dreamful incidents of that day, sank into his inmost soul.

"Oever de stillen Straten,

Geit klar de Glockenslag.

God' Nacht! Din Hart will slapen ;
Un' Morgen is ook een Dag.

Din Kind liggt in de Wegen,
Un' ik bin ook bi' Di';
Din Sorgen un' Din Leven
Sind allens um uns bi'.

Noch eenmal lat uns spräken;
Goden Abend, gode Nacht!
De Maand schient up de Däken
Uns Herrgott hält de Wacht." 1

1" Clear sounds adown the silent street
The bell that tells the hours.
Good-night! Thy very heart sleep deep!
To-morrow is also ours.

Thy child within its cradle sleeps,
And I am by thy side.

Thy life-its cares and hopes and loves
Around thee all abide.

Again the words of peace we'll speak,
'Good-even, love, good-night.'
Each quiet roof the moon-beams streak,

Our Lord God holds the watch."

Vol. XVII.-9.

Aglionby was not a sentimental man, but he was a man intensely sensitive to simple pathos of any kind. None could jeer more cruelly at every pretense of feeling, but none had a keener appreciation of the real thing when it came in his way. And this little German dialect song is brimming over in every line with the truest pathos. Sung in these surroundings by Judith Conisbrough's rich and pathetic voice, her own sadness heavy upon her and in her heart, it was simply perfect, and Bernard knew it. Like a flash of lightning, while the tears rushed to his eyes at this song, he remembered last Sunday evening, and Miss Vane warbling of how they had "sat by the river, you and I," and he shuddered.

There was a long pause, as she laid her hands on her lap-a long pause, and a deep sigh. Then she slowly rose. Aglionby's impulse was to steal away unobserved, even as he had stolen there, but he feared to lose sight of her; he longed to speak to her, to have her speak to him; to tell her, if she would listen to him, something of the pure delight he had this day experienced. So he said, still leaning into the room:

"May I thank you, Miss Conisbrough ?"

He saw that she started, though scarce perceptibly; then she closed the piano, and turned toward him.

"Have you been listening to my singing? I hope it did not annoy you. It was for mamma. It soothes her."

"Annoy me!" he echoed in a tone of deep mortification. "You must take me for a barbarian. It did even more than you intended. It soothed me. Perhaps you even grudge me

that?"

"Oh, no!" said Judith calmly. "I am glad if it gave you any pleasure."

She stood not far from the window, but did not approach it. Inside, the fire-light glowed, and threw out the lines of her noble figure and shabby dress, and flickered upon her calm, sad, yet beautiful face.

"Are you going up-stairs just because I have appeared upon the scene?" he asked, with a slight vibration in his voice. "You have ignored me