One moment more, and, swaying, tottering first from side to side, poor Van fell with heavy thud upon the turf. Kneeling, I took his head in my arms and strove to call back one sign of recognition; but all that was gone. Van's spirit was ebbing away in some fierce, wild dream: his glazing eyes were fixed on vacancy; his breath came in quick, convulsive gasps; great tremors shook his frame, growing every instant more violent. Suddenly a fiery light shot into his dying eyes. The old high mettle leaped to vivid life, and then, as though the flag had dropped, the starting drum had tapped, Van's fleeting spirit whirled into his dying race. Lying on his side, his hoofs flew through the air, his powerful limbs worked back and forth swifter than ever in their swiftest gallop, his eyes were aflame, his nostrils wide distended, his chest heaving, and his magnificent machinery running like lightning. Only for a minute, though,--only for one short, painful minute. It was only a half-mile dash,--poor old fellow!--only a hopeless struggle against a rival that never knew defeat. Suddenly all ceased as suddenly as all began. One stiffening quiver, one long sigh, and my pet and pride was gone. Old friends were near him even then. "I was with him when he won his first race at Tucson," said old Sergeant Donnelly, who had ridden to our aid, "and I knowed then he would die racing." CHARLES KING, U.S.A. SONG. Pale Grief with tender Joy is at strife, And Joy is wounded and nigh to death. Their quarrel is old,--as old as life,-- "And Grief is right," the sad world saith. But, hark! from yonder wood The blackbird singeth gay, "Joy is in the right of it, And Grief is in the wrong of it, Whatever the world may say." Dull Age with radiant Youth is at strife, And Youth draws harder and harder breath. Their quarrel is old,--as old as life,-- "And Age is right," the gray world saith. But, hark! from yonder wood The throstle singeth gay, "Youth is in the right of it, And Age is in the wrong of it, Whatever the world may say." Ah, dearest, Doubt and Love are at strife, And Love breathes hard and is nigh to death. Their quarrel is old: shall it spoil our life? Or shall we heed what the cold world saith? Come forth into the wood, And let us sing and say. "Love is in the right of it, And Doubt is in the wrong of it, And the world may go its way." ROBERTSON TROWBRIDGE. OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP. Dothegirls Hall.