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Rabbit squall out dat ef de Tar-Baby don't tu'n 'im loose he butt 'er cranksided. En den he butted, en his head got stuck. Den Brer Fox, he sa'ntered fort', lookin' dez ez innercent ez wunner yo' mammy's mockin'-birds.


Howdy, Brer Rabbit,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 'You look sorter stuck up dis mawnin', sezee, en den he rolled on de groun', en laft en laft twel he couldn't laff no mo'. 'I speck you'll take dinner wid me dis time, Brer Rabbit. I done laid in some calamus root, en I ain't gwineter take no skuse,' sez Brer Fox, sezee."

Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of the ashes.

"Did the fox eat the rabbit?" asked the little boy to whom the story had been told.

"Dat's all de fur de tale goes," replied the old man. "He mout, en den agin he moutent. Some say Jedge B'ar come 'long en loosed 'im,—some say he didn't. I hear Miss Sally callin'. You better run 'long."



Life and Love: Poems.

ROBERT BURNS WILSON was born in Washington County, Pennsylvania, but removed early to Frankfort, Kentucky, where he devoted himself to landscape painting. Some of his pictures attracted attention at the New Orleans Exposition, 1884. His poems have appeared in magazines and have been much admired for their musical flow of deep feeling and fancy.



(From Life and Love.*)

Hail! daughter of the sun!
White robed and fair to see, where goest thou now
In haste from thy spiced garden? Hath thy brow,

Crowned with white blooms, begun
To grow a-weary of its flagrant wreath,
And do thy temples long to ache beneath

A gilded, iron crown?
Tak'st thou the glint of Mammon's glittering car
To be the gleam of some new-risen star-

Yond clamor, for renown?

Stay, lovely one, oh stay !
Within thy gates, love-garlanded, remain :
For love this Mammon seeks not, but for gain-

He is the same alway.
This god in burnished tinsel, as of old,
Cares for no music save of clinking gold —

All else to him is vain :
His heart is fint, his ears are dull as lead;
A crown of care he bringeth for thy head,

And for thy wrists a chain.

Bide thou, oh goddess, stay!
Even in the gateway turn! The orange tree
Keeps still her snowy wreath of love for thee;

The jasmine's starry spray
Still waves thee back: 0 South! thy glory lies
In thine own sacred flelds. There shall arise

Thy day, which fadeth not:
There-patient hands shall fill thy cup with wine,
There-hearts devoted, make thy name divine,

Their own hard fate forgot.

* By permission of the author, and publishers, the Cassell Publishing Co., N. Y.


The green Virginian hills were blithe in May,
And we were plucking violets—thou and I.
A transient gladness flooded earth and sky;

Thy fading strength seemed to return that day,

And I was mad with hope that God would stay
Death's pale approach-Oh! all hath long passed by!
Long years ! long years! and now, I well know why

Thine eyes, quick-filled with tears, were turned away.

First loved; first lost; my mother: time must still
Leave my soul's debt uncancelled. All that's best

In me and in my art is thine :-Me-seems
Even now, we walk afield. Through good and ill,

My sorrowing heart forgets not, and in dreams,
I see thee, in the sun-lands of the blest.



MRS. TIERNAN has written many novels of Southern life. She is a daughter of Colonel Charles F. Fisher of Salisbury, North Carolina, who was killed in the battle of Manassas. Her best known book, “ The Land of the Sky," describes a summer tour through the grand mountains of her native State, taken before the railroads had penetrated them.

Valerie Aylmer.
Mabel Lee.
Nina's Atonement,
Carmen's Inheritance.
Hearts and Hands.
Land of the Sky.
Heart of Steel.
Summer Idyl.
Roslyn's Fortune.
Morton House.


Ebb Tide.
Daughter of Bohemia.
A Gentie Belle,
A Question of Honor.
After Many Days.
Bonny Kate.
Miss Churchill.
Land of the Sun (1895).

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(From The Land of the Sky.*) The sun is shining brightly, and his golden lances light up the depths of the forest into which we enter-an enchanted world of far-reaching greenness, the stillness of which is only broken by the voice of the streams which come down the gorges of the mountain in leaping cascades. Few things are more picturesque than the appearance of a cavalcade like ours following in single file the winding path (not road) that leads into the marvelous, mysterious wilderness. When the ascent fairly begins, the path is often like the letter S, and one commands a view of the entire line—of horsemen in slouched hats and gray coats, of ladies in a variety of attire, with water-proof cloaks serving as riding-skirts, and hats garlanded with forest wreaths and grasses. The guide tramps steadily ahead, leading the pack-horse, and we catch a glimpse of his face now and then as he turns to answer some question addressed to him.

“We wind up the side of the mountain like this for several miles," says Eric, “then we travel along a ridge for some distance, and finally we ascend the peak formerly called the Black Dome, now Mount Mitchell. The whole distance is about twelve miles, and the most of it is steady climbing

“ And it was in this wilderness that Professor Mitchell lost his life sixteen or seventeen years ago, was it not?” I ask.

“ Yes, Burnett (the guide] was one of the men engaged in the search for him. He will tell you all about it.

*By permission of the author, and publishers, D. Appleton & Co., N. Y.

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