You may say we are fond of an 'arness cut or 'ootin' in barrick-yards, Or startin' a Board School mutiny along o' the Onion Guards; But once in a while we can finish in style for the ends of the earth to view, The same as the Jollies--'er Majesty's Jollies--soldier an' sailor too. _They come of our lot, they was brothers to us, they was beggars we'd met and knew; Yes, barrin' an inch in the chest an' the arms, they was doubles o' me and you, For they weren't no special chrysanthemums--soldier an' sailor too_. To take your chance in the thick of a rush with firing all about Is nothing so bad when you've cover to 'and, and leave an' likin' to shout; But to stand an' be still to the "Birken'ead" drill is a damn tough bullet to chew, And they done it, the Jollies--'er Majesty's Jollies--soldier an' sailor too. _Their work was done when it 'adn't begun, they was younger nor me an you; Their choice it was plain between drownin in 'eaps an bein mashed by the screw, An' they stood an' was still to the "Birken'ead" drill, soldier an sailor too_! We're most of us liars, we're 'arf of us thieves, an' the rest are as rank as can be, But once in a while we can finish in style (which I 'ope it won't 'appen to me); But it makes you think better o' you an' your friends an' the work you may 'ave to do When you think o' the sinkin' "Victorier's" Jollies--soldier an' sailor too. _Now there isn't no room for to say you don't know--they 'ave settled it plain and true-- That whether it's Widow or whether it's ship, Victorier's work is to do, As they done it, the Jollies--'er Majesty's Jollies--soldier an sailor too_! [Illustration] RACHEL. BY MRS. E.V. WILSON, AUTHOR OF "BARBARY," "A BLIZZARD," AND OTHER STORIES. It was the middle of a short December afternoon. From the scholars in the little log school-house in the Stillman district rose a buzzing sound as they bent over their desks, intent on books or mischief, as the case might be. The teacher, a good-looking young man of twenty or thereabouts, was busy with a class in arithmetic when a shrill voice called out: "Teacher, Rachel Stillman's readin' a story-book." "Bring the book to me," said the teacher quietly; and the delinquent, a girl of about fourteen, slowly rose and, walking to him, placed a much-worn volume in his hands. "Why," he said, glancing at the open page, "it is 'The Pilgrim's Progress.' No wonder you are interested. But you must not read it during school hours." The child lifted to his face a pair of large blue eyes, beautiful with timid wistfulness, as she replied: "I know I oughtn't, sir, but I wanted to see how they got out of Doubting Castle so bad." He smiled. "I will give you the book after school; then you can read it at home."