[This is high praise, and whether deserved or not I leave to my readers to determine.—EDITOR.] Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: “Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone. Brave Adm’ral speak—what shall I say?” “Why, say, ‘Sail on! Sail on! and on!’” “My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly, wan and weak.” The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. “What shall I say, brave Adm’ral, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?” “Why you shall say, at break of day, ‘Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!’” They sailed, and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: “Why, now not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Adm’ral; speak, and say—” He said: “Sail on! Sail on! and on!” They sailed! They sailed! Then spake the mate: “This mad sea shows its teeth to-night; He curls his lip, he lies in wait With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brave Adm’ral, say but one good word— What shall we do when hope is gone?” The words leaped as a leaping sword: “Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!” JOAQUIN MILLER. THE FILLING OF THE JONESES. Sunset hour at the meridian of Paradise Flats: but no sunset was visible. It was the worse end of a bad December day. Out doors, all was one color, and the rain froze as it fell. Before the big tenement stood a Russian sleigh, with an impatient pair of clipped chestnuts. A Roman sentinel in furs sat on the box, and his liveried mate groped in the dark hall for the habitat of John Jones, who had been “recommended.” John Jones lived there, but there was no evidence of it on the first floor. This tenement was not provided with a hall directory and a battery of bells. Poverty makes residence uncertain from month to month. Many a good man has been returned “not found” or “a fake,” because he had to try elsewhere when the rent came due. On the fifth floor, a room that looked back over a net of railroads held John Jones’s treasures. Three little girls were keeping the stove warm. There was some coal in it, but the way it acted was proof that warmth is not always provoked by poking. The fire had a hungry look like the children, and like them, moreover, evinced an anxious desire to go out, cheerless as it was beyond the ineffective screen of the walls. The footman’s knock created a flutter in the little group. Who would knock at that door? “It’s a p’liceman,” suggested little four-year-old Kit. The coal in the stove and a grape basketful more had been picked up on the tracks.