competitor for the white laborer; and when the latter, with
other and smaller mouths to feed, once gets the idea implanted in
his mind that the bread is being taken from them by what he deems a
semi-human heathen, whose beliefs, habits, appearance and customs are
distasteful to him, there are all the conditions ready for a state
of mind toward the almond-eyed Oriental which leans far away from
brotherly love.

Brotherly love sometimes depends on circumstances. "Am I not a man and
brother?" cries John from his native shore. "Certainly," we respond.
Pass round the hat--let us take up a contribution for the conversion
of the poor heathen. The coins clink thickly in the bottom of the
charitable chapeau. We return home, feeling ourselves raised an inch
higher heavenward.

"Am I not a man and brother?" cries John in our midst, digging our
gold, setting up opposition laundries and wheeling sand at half a
dollar per day less wages. "No. Get out, ye long-tailed baste! An' wad
ye put me on a livil with that--that baboon?" Pass round the hat.
The coins mass themselves more thickly than ever. For what? To buy
muskets, powder and ball. Wherefore? Wait! More than once has the
demagogue cried, "Drive them into the sea!"

PRENTICE MULFORD.

A WINTER REVERIE.

We stood amid the rustling gloom alone
That night, while from the blue plains overhead,
With golden kisses thickly overblown,
A shooting star into the darkness sped.
"'Twas like Persephone, who ran," we said,
"Away from Love." The grass sprang round our feet,
The purple lilacs in the dusk smelled sweet,
And the black demon of the train sped by,
Rousing the still air with his long, loud cry.

The slender rim of a young rising moon
Hung in the west as you leaned on the bar
And spun a thread of some sweet April tune,
And wished a wish and named the falling star.
We heard a brook trill in the fields afar;
The air wrapped round us that entrancing fold
Of vanishing sweet stuff that mortal hold
Can never grasp--the mist of dreams--as down
The street we went in that fair foreign town.

I might have whispered of my love that night,
But something wrapped you as a shield around,
And held me back: your quiver of affright,
Your startled movement at some sudden sound--
A night-bird rustling on the leafy ground--
Your hushed and tremulous whisper of alarm,
Your beating heart pressed close against my arm,-