man or dead ghost. And when I asked the engineer who he got his orders from, he said he'd like to see anybody give him orders; he'd run the train to suit himself, or he'd run it into the ditch. Now you see, sir, I'm a railroad man, and I do n't care to run on a road that has no time, makes no connections, runs nowhere, and has no superintendent. It may be all right, but I 've railroaded too long to understand it."

"Maybe you went to the Congregational church ?"

"Popular road," said the brakeman; "an old road, too -one of the very oldest in the country. Good road-bed and comfortable cars. Well-managed road, too; directors don't interfere with division superintendents and train orders. Road 's mighty popular, but it's pretty independent, too. Yes, did n't one of the division superintendents down east discontinue one of the oldest stations on this line two or three years ago? But it's a mighty pleasant road to travel on-always has such a pleasant class of passengers."

"Did you try the Methodist ?" I said.

"Now you 're shouting!" he said with some enthusiasm. "Nice road, eh? Fast time and plenty of passengers. Engines carry a power of steam, and don't you forget it; steam-gauge shows a hundred and enough all the time. Lively road; when the conductor shouts 'all aboard,' you can hear him at the next station. Every train-light shines like a head-light. Stop-over checks are given on all through tickets; passenger can drop off the train as often as he likes, do the station two or three days, and hop on the next revival train that comes thundering along. Good, whole-souled, companionable conductors; ain't a road in the country where the passengers feel more at home. No passes; every passenger pays full traffic rates for his ticket. Wesleyanhouse air-brakes on all trains, too; pretty safe road, but I did n't ride over it yesterday.

"Perhaps you tried the Baptist ?" I guessed once more. "Ah, ha!" said the brakeman; "she's a daisy; is n't she? River-road; beautiful curves, sweep around anything to keep close to the river; but it's all steel rail and rock ballast; single track all the way; and not a sidetrack from the round-house to the terminus. Takes a heap of water to run it, though; double tanks at every station, and there is n't an engine in the shops that can

pull a pound or run a mile with less than two gauges. But it runs through a lovely country; those river-roads always do; river on one side and hills on the other, and it's a steady climb up the grade all the way till the run ends where the fountain-head of the river begins. Yes, sir; I'll take the river-road every time for a lovely trip; sure connections and a good time, and no prairie dust blowing in at the windows. And yesterday, when the conductor came around for the tickets with a little basketpunch, I did n't ask him to pass me, but I paid my fare like a little man-twenty-five cents for an hour's run and a little concert by the passengers thrown in. I tell you, pilgrim, you take the river-road when you want-”

But just here the long whistle from the engine announced a station, and the brakeman hurried to the door, shouting:

"Zionsville! the train makes no stops between here and Indianapolis!"-Robert J. Burdette.

Additional selections for practice: "The One Horse Shay," Oliver Wendell Holmes; "Her Letter," Bret Harte.

The conversational character of these selections will assist the reader to a natural and melodious use of the voice. They will induce him to read as he talks, and will help him to acquire a variety that is free from false and affected intonations.

No instruction or advice is valuable just at this point, save that which inspires patient endeavor, constantly directs the attention of the pupil to the melody of simple conversation, and stimulates a desire for perfect freedom from all that is artificial. After a fair degree of success is attained in reading these selections, a more difficult list of pieces should be tried-those involving sentimental and colloquial qualities.

The Second Step: Colloquial Selections Involving Sentiment.

IN AN ATELIER.

I pray you, do not turn your head; and let your hands lie folded-so.

It was a dress like this, blood-red, that Dante liked so, long ago.

You don't know Dante? Never mind. He loved a lady wondrous fair

His model? Something of the kind. I wonder if she had your hair!

I wonder if she looked so meek, and was not meek at all, -my dear

I want that side-light on your cheek. He loved her, it is very clear,

And painted her, as I paint you; but rather better on the whole.

Depress your chin, yes, that will do: he was a painter of the soul!

And painted portraits, too, I think, in the Inferno—rather good!

I'd make some certain critics blink if I'd his method and his mood.

Her name was—Jennie, let your glance rest there by that Majolica tray—

Was Beatrice; they met by chance-they met by chance, the usual way.

As you and I met, months ago, do you remember? How your feet

Went crinkle-crinkle on the snow adown the long gaslighted street!

An instant in the drug store's glare you stood as in a

golden frame!

And then I swore it-then and there-to hand your sweetness down to fame.

They met, and loved, and never wed-all this was long before our time;

And though they died, they are not dead-such endless youth gives 'mortal rhyme!

Still walks the earth, with haughty mien, great Dante, in his soul's distress;

And still the lovely Florentine goes lovely in her bloodred dress.

You do not understand at all? He was a poet; on his page He drew her; and though kingdoms fall, this lady lives from age to age:

A poet-that means painter too, for words are colors, rightly laid;

And they outlast our brightest hue, for ochers crack and crimsons fade.

The poets-they are lucky ones! when we are thrust upon the shelves,

Our works turn into skeletons almost as quickly as our

selves;

For our poor canvas peels at length, at length is prized when all is bare:

"What grace!" the critics cry, "what strength!" when neither strength nor grace is there.

Ah, Jennie, I am sick at heart, it is so little one can do, We talk our jargon-live for art! I'd much prefer to live for you.

How dull and lifeless colors are: you smile, and all my picture lies:

I wish that I could crush a star to make a pigment for your eyes.

Yes, child, I know I'm out of tune; the light is bad; the

sky is gray:

I'll work no more this afternoon, so lay your royal robes away.

Besides, you 're dreamy-hand on chin-I know not what -not in the vein:

While I would paint Anne Boleyn, you sit there looking like Elaine.

Not like the youthful, radiant Queen, unconscious of the coming woe,

But rather as she might have been, preparing for the headsman's blow.

I see! I've put you in a miff-sitting bolt upright, wrist on

wrist.

How should you look? Why, dear as if—somehow-as if

you'd just been kissed.

T. B. Aldrich.

AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.

O good painter, tell me true,

Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things you never saw?
Ay? Well, here is an order for you.
Woods and cornfields a little brown,-

The picture must not be over-bright,
Yet all in the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.
Alway and alway, night and morn,

Woods upon woods, with fields of corn
Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
When the wind can hardly find breathing-room
Under their tassels,-cattle near,
Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around-
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)
These, and the house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows open wide,
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush:

Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the self-same way,

Out of a wilding, wayside bush.

Listen closer. When you have done

With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, A lady, the loveliest ever the sun Looked down upon, you must paint for me; O, if I only could make you see

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman's soul, and the angel's face That are beaming on me all the while!—

I need not speak these foolish words; Yet one word tells you all I would say,She is my mother: you will agree

That all the rest may be thrown away.