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TOMMY BROWN. 44 I’m Jest discouraged," said Mr. Brown To his wife ono day as came from town; 44 'Taln't no uso sendin' our Tom to school. He'll never be nothin’ but jest u fool. He studios lllte blazes, the teacher said, But he can’t got nothin’ through his head: The ’xnmlnation he’ll never pass— lie’s the dullest boy In the hull blamed class.” 44 Tom may be dull," said Mrs. Brown, 44 But he's jost the steadiest boy In town; ’Taln’t ulways the brightest that wins tho day, But tho ones that Jest beep pcggln’ away. Ills skull may be a llttlo thick, But he can’t bo beat on ’rlthmattc, And any time he would leave his meals To work at pulleys and pinions and wheels. He’s built an engine that runs by steam, And a sawmill down by the medder stream; I know he’s slow, but he uln’t no fool, And 1 tell ye Tommy Is gold’ to school." So Mrs. Brown she had her say And, womanlike, sbo carried the day. Tom stuck to his books with dogged vim Aud mustered each with a purpose grim; Said "I lovo” and "you love" and "they love," too. With a Uno contempt for tho loving crew; Thundered through rhetoric dry and stale. In Greek and Latin grew thin and palo; With progress slow, but sure as fate, At last poor Tom was a graduate. Then down beside the meadow s; ream For days and days he would sit aud dream. And the house was tilled with models and plans Os engines and motors and derricks and rams; And his father gravely shook his head And to his mother sadly said: What good did it do ye to send him to school? I told ye Tom was a tarnal fool!" Ono day tho papers were made to ring With a great Invention, a wonderful thing; They called the Inventor a man of renown And said that his name was Thomas llrown. ‘ I allers told ye,” his father Raid, " That Tom was a genius born and bred, And anyhody could plainly see. With bulf an eye. he was jost like ine.” “ And I s pose." said his mother, in accents cool, That’s why you called him a tarnal fool!" —l* C. Hard;. in Form. Field and Fireside. A YOUTHFUL SHELLEY. How His Poem Was Printed in tho Gazette. “Tlie Shelley of Muskrat Swamp" lay dying in his bunk. There was no doubt about that whatever to any or dinary dispassionate observer. But the one observer, the sole critic of tho moribund poet, was not dispassionate, and he refrained from obtruding the fact upon the notice of the sick youth. Outside the wind roared through the bush; the churned waters of the an gry Ottawa beat against the wooden piers, their rough music calling' upon the youthful Shelley to depart through the Valley of the Shadow, although he knew it not. Amid the howling of the wind, the •tiuaise roar of the flood, the crackle of the logs upon the hearth, came the soft, silvery tones of the invalid, recit ing a moving composition which had occupied his attention for the last ten hours, that is, when he was not other wise occupied in spitting blood or coughing. Tho one oil lamp on a wooden stool by his bunk gave out a smoky light, through which the boy’s eyes shone with unearthly brilliancy. Jake, Timber Jake, as he was popu larly known among the gentlemen he distinguished by his jovial prefer ence—sat on the only other stool which the log hut boasted. Now and then he threw in different suggestions as to the originality of the poet’s natural history, suggestions which the latter received with petu lant impatience. Though these con tributions to tlie literature of bis na tive land were invariably rejected, Timber Jako continued to listen to tho poem with labored cordiality. At in tervals, when he was evidently ex pected to applaud, lie did so with a tin spoon against a battered old kettle, at the same time drawing the coverlet over the wasted arm which held the sheets of MS. “There,” said the poet, as he finished. “Stop your infernal row fora moment. What do you think of that, Jake?” “Me not bein’ a scholard,” Jake re plied, in slow, simple tones, as ho dropped the spoon on the ground, “me not bein’ a scholard, yon 6ez -U? me, ea between man and mam ‘Jake, old pard, bow does it pan out?’ And I sez to you, me not bein’ a scholard, but ez between man and man: ‘Bed rock, every darned line of it. Bed rock!’ Thar's things there like tho Bingin’ of robbins in spring; tliar’s things there like the little flashes of light when dragonflies goes across the sunshine; tliar’s things there ez Shakespeare couldn’t ha’ done, or —or,’’ somewhat lamely added, “the ’Frisco Times, or any of them mud-colored inlc-slingers over the river." The youth’s cheek flushed warmly at this whole-hearted eulogy. At the bound of it he momentarily turned away from the entrance to the 1 alley of Death. Then he shook his head, and fell hack in the bunk with a Sigh. “Maybe, Jake,” he said. “Maybe; but for all that the durned old editor at Marysville, won’t print ’em unless they’re paid fer at advertisin’ rates. He sent back the last lot sorter sar castic, with his compliments to ’The Shelley of Muskrat Swamp,’ and he wasn’t talcin’ any stock in poetry or chipmunks just then.” An> ominous frown gathered on Timber Jake’s brow. “Bein’ a one-hoss concern, he nat’ral ly wouldn’t know real high-toned poetry when he had it chucked under his nose, tne flapdoodle-eatin’ slum gullioh. You Towed jest now ez you felt a sort of chill when bis arnser came back?” “A death chill. Jake. Timber raft THE LIVING ISSUES, ATLANTA, GEORGIA, AUG. ao 1894, ing begun it, and that Marysville coon’s 1 sorter Unished me up. Yes, I’m goin’ under. Don’t you hear the river callin’, callin’, callin’: ‘Come away?’” Jake did affect to despise the grav ity of tho situation, but listened to the roar of the rapidly rising river against its banks. “You don’t feel,” he asked, quietly, “you don’t feel sorter called to vvrastle it out ’stead of passin’ in your checks?” There was a tremor in his voice, which the other was quiek to note. "Not a durned wrastle,” said the poet, falling back again, and letting his two sheet of manuscript rustle to tho floor. “I’m play cl out, Jake— done fur. Something'll bust in a day or two and finish me oil. I’d have liked to see this yer chipmunk foolish ness in print before I vamoosed the ranch; but another night’ll flur.th me, and I shan’t get a chance of bein’ even with that old Marysville‘chap. I’d die easier if I could dip his head into his own ink bur l.” Jake gazed thoughtfully into the fire with puzzled, simple eyes. He was a man who thought slowly, but who always acted with commendable promptness when lie had once made up his mind. "I w:i3 over to Hutchinson’s to-day,” lie resumed, presently, and the doc gave me some stuff for you. I’ll fix you up with a dose, and then j r ou won’t want anythin’ till the mornin’. It's eleven o’clock now.” The poet looked at Jake curiously. “You ain’t had a sleep for a week, I reckon. Jake?" “Not being used to your goin’s on,” Jake. “n.■it'rally I ain’t had a wink. When you get's to rearin’ ’round an, breakin’ blood vessels an’ seein angels playin’ flutes in the di. tance, an’callin’ for your old woman w.ien tliar ain’t no female, old or young, in this yere shanty, it’s only nat’ral there yere un known parties’ll expect some one to look after ’em when they gits here.” As he spoke he poured some medi cine into an old cracked teacup and held it to the sick youth's lips. One arm sto»e gently round the boy (he was little more than a boy), who, with a gleam of mischief in his great eyes, put up a thin white hand to the bronzed cheeks above him and gave them a car-ssing rub. Jake was manifestly di composed by this poetic exhibition of tenderness. “Quit yer foolin’,” he said, huskily, “an’ drink this yore mixture. It'll keep yer quiet till mornin’.” The boy drank with difficulty. “Ycs- Jake. I reckon it’ll keep me quiet till mornin’; that’s about the time the river leaves off callin’.” Jake affected not to hear this pes simistic remark, but talked on in wan, dering fashion until the boy’s fair head fell back upon his arm. Then he covered him up carefully, veiled the light of the lamp with an old towel and drew a revolver from the shelf. The wind, as it blew beneath the rude door of pine slabs, rustled the papers about the floor. Jake picked th"m up, bent over the boy to make sure that the opiate had done its work and crept cautiously into the darkness. A low whinny of delight greeted him as he entered the narrow shanty which served as a stable. Without striking a light he saddled his brown mare, ed her into the trail and mounted. “Now, old lady,” ho said, "you hot you’ve got to hustle.” The marc whinnied again and broke into a long, swinging gallop. As she sped on through the darkness Jake sat squarely back in the saddle, the reins hanging loosely, and only stirring when a splash of water from the mare’s flying hoofs wet his cheeks. A mistake on her part meant that his brains would be dashed out against the trunk of the nearest pine, but he made no sign, only holding the papers a little tighter, when his mare left the track. After an hour’s hard galloping his practised eye detected a light in the distance. “Shook!” he said to his mare. “Gently, las;;, gently, we’re almost thar.” He drew rein on the outskirts of Marysville, and tied the mare to a pine stump. Then he crept along to the one tumble-down hut in which there was a light, and peered through the window with a satisfied look. Mr. Watson 11. Bangs (Mr. Bangs comprised in Ms own person the ed itor, staff, “devil,” printer, advertising agent and proprietor of the Marysville Gazette), was composing Saturday’s leader, assisted in his consumption of the midnight oil by a bottle of whisky, which occupied one end of a table at which he sat. Every now and then he clipped long paragraphs from “ex changes” on a bench at his side and laboriously pasted them together. Then he would march to the nearest case, pick up the type from various little boxes and throw it about with all the rapidity of a practiced jug gler. Suddenly the door opened and Jake entered, dripping from the storm. Old Mr. Bangs made for the drawer of a distant table in which his revolv er lay hid. When he recognized his visitor he abandoned all warlike inten tions, casting at the same time a re luctant glance at the whisky bottle, as if uncertain how long it would hold out against the newcomer’s attacks. Jake slid into the editorial chair, after carefully closing the door, and old man Bangs, with a reluctant nod in the direction of the bottle, went on with his task. “Sit down," said Jake, briefly, point ing to a chair, and declining the im plied, invitation, Old man Bangs sat down and re freshed himself with a pull at the bot tle. “It’s a nice sort of night at the Four Corners,” he said, cheerfully. “I guess, if the river keeps on risln’, old llutin son ’ll be drowned out afore mornin’.” “Mebbe,” said Jake. “There’s a sort of yarn when the river’s that high,” said old man Bangs, lighting a pipe, “there’s a sort of yarn, when tho river rises suddenly it car ries away a soul with the mornin’ light. But I reckon you don’t take no stook in such dum foolishness?” “Reckon I do,” said Jake, still speak ing without a sign of resentment, “Reckon I do. That’s why I’ve come down.” “Jusso,” said old man Bangs, puffing away with undiminished composure. “Ji*;so. What’s up, Jake?” Jake carefully laid his revolver on the table. Old man Bangs realized that his visitor meant business, and had him at a disadvantage. “Some folks at the Four Corners al low ez this yere paper of your’n ain’t hightonod,” said Jake, carelessly. "You don’t put on frills enough.” Old man Bangs looked longingly at the table drawer. “Guess I could put more tone into the conversation if I’d ray usual seat,” he said, significantly, and went on smoking. “Mebbe,” said Jake, “mebbe.” He laid the papers ho had brought with him on the table. “Some of the folks at the Corners was wishful of a little native talent in this one-horse paper of your’n. They allowed, mebbe, you orter take more stock in poetry, an’ native produce, such cz straddle bugs, an’ chipmunks, an’ things.” “All the fools at the Corners ain’t dead yet,” said old man Bangs, sav agely. “Mebbe,” said Joke. “I lowed ez they was wrong. ‘Yer don’t give old man Bangs a chance,’ I said to ’em. ‘lie’s well ineanin’, is old man Bangs, but yer don’t give him a chance. Now, if I was to sorter drop in on him per miskus like, and ask him to give na tive talent a show,’ 1 sez, ‘why, old naan Bangs would be right thar.’ They lowed I’d better try.” Old man Bangs, with studied com posure, stretched out his hand and took up the papers on the table, lie recognized a note in his own spidery handwriting, which Jake had pinned on the top. “I kinder told ’em,” said Jake, speaking with slow insistence, "I kinder told ’em ez I’d only to take old man Bangs down some native produce and lie d rear up on end an’ print it straight off.” Old man Bangs rose without a word, walked to the composing case and rap idly began to “set up” the verses which Jake had brought, his fiagers flying with all the precision of ma chinery. After half an hour’s hard work he screwed up the type in a “form,” took a “pull,” and brought it to Jake, who laboriously spelt through the words, still keeping one hand on his revolver and criticising the spelling with a sublime disregard for conven tional methods. “Will that do?” growled old man Bangs, with sullen resentment at his enforced labor. Jake gazed admiringly at the poem so rapidly called into being. “Sorter pretty, ain’t it? I’ll tell the folks at the Corners you ain’t no slouch when you get a chance at native produce,” he added admiringly. He tucked the printed paper care fully away into his vest pocket and sprang for the door. Old man Bangs rushed for his revolver in the drawer of the distant table, and with a dex terity acquired by long practice, took a flying shot at Jake as lie disappeared* then blew out tho light, and waited for reprisals, but none came. The brown mare scented her master as he crawled slowly through the darkness and hauled himself with dif ficulty into the saddle. "Gently, V/iTi ny, gently,” he sail. “Guess you’d better crawl sorter keerful; old man’s planted a bullet in my arm. lie allers shoots straight when he’s blind drunk.” The mare walked with her Burden as it swayed from side to side. Some thing warm ran down her flank and made her start. For three hours she paced slowly along the narrow path, halting every now and then when her rider clung to the saddle and groaned, for he was faint from loss of blood. The wind fell as suddenly as it had risen. Through the straight trunks of the pines the swollen rive r glimmered here and there with faint streaks of light. A rift in tho sky betokened the coming dawn. With careful steps the mare plodded onward, halting now and again to look around at her mas ter, who motioned heron with a feeble wave of the hand. When they reached the clearing Jake slid out of the saddle and crawled into the hut, leaving his mare stand ing at the door. Seizing a whisky bat tle, he drank long and oagerly, then propped himself up on his stool by the boy’s bunk and tightened his sash. “It’s sorter lucky that old coon missed the papers,” he muttered, and waited. “I’m all right now; my arm’s stopped bleedin’.” Presently a ray of sunlight stole into the hut, and the shadows fled away before the cheerful singing of the birds. The boy awoke with a glad little cry. “Jake, where are you? Jake, I’ve had such a dream.” Something white glistened on the rude blanket. “Ja—-why, sakes alive, Jake, how did this come here,?” lie fell to reading the verses with delirious enjoyment. A soft, pink flush came into his cheek. “Why, Jake, they’re printed! ‘Song to a Chipmunk, by our gifted follow townsman, tlie Shelley of Muskrat Swamp!’ ” A fit of coughing interrupted him. Jake, leaning back so that the boy could not see his face, lied with tran quil indifference: “Oh, old man Bangs came up after you’d dropped off." “Yes, Jake, yes?” “He printed ’em an’ brought ’em over, and planked down a SIO bill. Here’s tlie money.” The boy gave another cry. “Jake! Jakel that’s fame! Ilang the money! No, let me see it. Where is it?” Jake handed him the money with difficulty. The boy pressed it to his feverish lips. “Jake! Jakel there’s blood on it. Wha—” Jake tried to raise his head, but in vain. A little later the mare, alarmed at her master’s silence, thrust open the door with her velvet muzzle and walked into the hut. The dead boy lay on tlie arm of his friend, and Jake, with rude piety, natural in one not acquainted with conventional forms, was conducting an improvised but fervid funeral service over the remains of “The Shelley of Muskrat Swamp.” —St. Louis Globe-Democrat. Mrs. Yv’ in os —“Do let us pack and leave this place at once. 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