then yields to lies and lures,
And slips back into greed's familiar way!

For now the light bank-note outweighs
The ballot of the unbought mind;
And all the air is filled with falsehood's praise--
Shams, for sham victory artfully designed.

Is theirs the honor, then, who roared
Against our leader's wise-laid plan,
Yet now have seized his plan, his flag, his sword,
And stolen all of him--except the man?

No! His the honor, for he keeps
His manhood firm, intact, unsoiled
By base deceit.--Not dead, the nation sleeps:
Pray Heaven it waken ere it be despoiled!

George Parsons Lathrop.

November, 1888.

ANDY'S GIFT.

HOW HE GOT IN AND HOW HE WAS GOTTEN OUT.

_An Episode of Any Day._

I.

"Well, Age _is_ beautiful!"

"Then _she_ is a joy forever!"

"Wonderful staying power for a filly of her age, anyhow!"

From a typical, if not very remarkable, group of alleged men of the
world, surrounding the quaint and capacious punch-bowl at a brilliant
society event, came this small-shot of repartee. None of the speakers
had been very long out of their teens; all of them were familiar
ingredients of that cream-nougat compound, called society.

Mr. de Silva Street was of the harmless blonde and immaculate
linen type. He was invited everywhere for his present boots, and
well-received for his expectant bonds; his sole and responsible
ancestor having "fought in his corner" with success, in more than one
of the market battles for the belt.

Mr. Wetherly Gage had glory enough with very young belles and
tenacious marriageable possibilities, in being society editor of _Our
Planet_; while Mr. Trotter Upton had owned more horses and been more
of a boon to sharp traders than any man of his years in the
metropolis. A brief young man, with ruddy, if adolescent, moustache
apparently essaying the ascent of a nose turned up in sympathetic hue,
his red hair was cut in aggressive erectile fashion, which emphasized
the _soubriquet_ of "Indian Summer," given him by the present
unconscious subject of the critical trilogy.

"But remember, Trotter, she is my pet partner," simpered Mr. Street at
the shapely back disappearing down the hallway; and he caressed where
his blond moustache was to be.

"And might have been of your--mother's," added Mr. Gage, with the
lon