’Twas an argument Johnny was holding just there
      With his own little conscience so true. 
    “It is plain,” whispered conscience, “that if you’d be fair,
      There is only one thing you can do;
    Restore to his owner the dog; don’t delay,
    But attend to your duty at once, and to-day!”

    No wonder he sat all so silent and still,
      Forgetting to fondle his pet—­
    The poor little boy thinking hard with a will;
      While thought doggie, “What makes him forget,
    I wonder, to frolic and play with me now,
    And why does he wear such a sorrowful brow?”

    Well, how did it end?  Johnny’s battle was fought,
      And the victory given to him: 
    The dearly-loved pet to his owner was brought,
      Tho’ it made little Johnny’s eyes dim. 
    But a wag of his tail doggie gives to this day
    Whenever our Johnny is passing that way.

MARY D. BRINE.

* * * * *

THE HARPER.

    On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,
    No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;
    No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
    And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

    When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,
    She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart),
    Oh, remember your Sheelah when far, far away! 
    And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

    Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure;
    He constantly loved me although I was poor;
    When the sour-looking folks turned me heartless away,
    I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

    When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
    And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
    How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray! 
    And he licked me for kindness,—­my poor dog Tray.

    Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
    Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
    But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
    And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

    Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? 
    Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? 
    To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
    I can never return with my poor dog Tray.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

“FLIGHT.”

    Never again shall her leaping welcome
      Hail my coming at eventide;
    Never again shall her glancing footfall
      Range the fallow from side to side. 
    Under the raindrops, under the snowflakes,
      Down in a narrow and darksome bed,
    Safe from sorrow, or fear, or loving,
      Lieth my beautiful, still and dead.