to hold open-air religious meetings on the streets, but was denied the privilege on the ground that considerable disorder had been occasioned some months ago by the holding of such meetings by members of the Salvation Army, who held forth in Belleville for a time. The action of the mayor in refusing to allow the evangelist to hold open-air meetings, and the arrest of Mrs. Wheaton while engaged in conducting a song service in the door of Buchanan Hall, where the revival services are held, is causing a great deal of severe criticism, owing to the toleration of the parading of the principal streets by brass bands on Sundays, as well as other days, to draw audiences for minstrel shows, etc., the gathering of crowds on the public square by street fakirs, patent medicine peddlers, quack doctors and others, who deal out rough jokes, etc., in tones loud enough to be heard blocks away. Belleville, Dec. 26, 1888. CHAPTER XVIII. Rescue Work. A Mother's Plea for Her Fallen Daughter. So tenderly reared in the pure country air, So innocent, gracious and true, A sweet loving daughter, so gentle and fair. Of the great wicked world naught she knew, She roamed on the hillside and plucked the sweet flowers, Nor far from my sight did she stray, Till a shy cunning charmer invaded her bowers, And stole my loved treasure away. With words fair and lovely he won her young heart, Then wooed her far from the home nest, Then hastily pressed to the city's great mart, My darling he tore from my breast; So simple, confiding, ne'er dreaming of harm. She laid her young life at his feet, And the foul, venomed viper pierced her heart with a thorn, And left her to die in the street. All wounded and bleeding and covered with shame, And knowing not wither to go, In the haunts of the vilest she cringed her away, To hide her disgrace and her woe; Could I know she had gone from this cold, cruel world, My grief would be easy to bear, But to satiate vile passions her life-blood is sold, And my broken heart pleads in my prayer. Oh, bring back my darling, a poor bruised thing, The victim of Satan's deceit, O tell her I love her, though cursed by the fiend That crushed her to hell 'neath his feet. O pity my daughter, my poor fallen one, Ye who have daughters so fair, And shield not the monster who spoiled my loved one And drove my poor heart to despair. Chicago, Ill. --MARY WEEMS CHAPMAN.