"There's the bell-here she is! O mamma!"

preserve us!

What ails you, dear Fanny? What makes you so nervous?" "I really can't tell you just now-by-and-by

Mr. Friendly will call and he'll tell you-not I."

Mr. Friendly, my child! What about him, I pray ?"
Oh, mamma, he's to call in the course of the day;

He was here just this moment, and shortly you'll see
He'll make you as happy as he has made me.

"I declare he has seen you come home-that's his ring;
I will leave you and him now to settle the thing."
Fanny left in a flutter; her mother-the gipsy—
She'd made her as giddy as though she'd been tipsy!
Mr. Friendly came in, and the widow and he
Were soon as delighted as Fanny could be;
He asked the dear widow to change her estate;
She consented at once, and a kiss sealed her fate.

Fanny came trembling in, overloaded with pleasure,
But soon she was puzzled in as great a measure.
"Dear Fanny," said Friendly, "I've done what you said;"
But what he had done never entered her head.

I have asked your mamma, and she gives her consent."
Fanny flew to his arms to express her content;
He kissed her, and said-as he kissed her mamma-
"I'm so glad, my dear Fan, that you like your papa!”
Poor Fanny now found out the state of the case,
And she blubbered outright, with a pitiful face;
It was all she could do, under heavy constraint,
To preserve herself conscious and keep off a faint!

She determined next time she'd a chance, you may guess,
Not to say, "Ask mamma," but at once to say "Yes."

LITTLE MAG'S VICTORY.-GEORGE L. CATLIN.

'Twas a hovel all wretched, forlorn, and poor,
With crumbling eaves and a hingeless door,
And windows where pitiless midnight rains
Beat fiercely in through the broken panes,
And tottering chimneys, and moss-grown roof,
From the heart of the city far aloof,
Where Nanny, a hideous, wrinkled hag,
Dwelt with her grandchild, “Little Mag."
The neighbors called old Nanny a witch.
The story went that she'd once been rich-

Aye, rich as any lady in town

But trouble had come and dragged her down
And down; then sickness, and want, and age
Had filled the rest of her life's sad page,
And driven her into the slums to hide
Her shame and misery till she died.
The boys, as she hobbled along the street,
Her coming with yells and hoots would greet;
E'en grown folks dreaded old Nan so much
That they'd shun, in passing, her very touch,
And a mocking word or glance would send.
Poor little Mag was her only friend:
Faithful and true was the child, indeed.
What did she ever care or heed

For those cruel words, and those looks of scorn?
In patient silence they all were borne;

But she prayed that God would hasten the day That would take her sorrow and care away.

Alas! that day-that longed-for boon,

That ending of sorrow-came all too soon.
For there came a day when a ruffian crowd,
With stones, and bludgeons, and hootings loud,
Surrounded old Nanny's hovel door,
Led on by a drunken brute, who swore,
In blasphemous oaths, and in language wild,
She had stolen a necklace from off his child.

Crouched in a corner, dumb with fear,
The old hag sat, with her grandchild near,
As the furious mob of boys and men,

66

Yelling, entered her dingy den.

Kill her!" shouted the brutal pack.

"Cowards!" screamed Little Mag. "Stand back!" As she placed her fragile form before

Her poor old grandmother, on the floor,

And clasped her about the neck, and pressed
The thin gray hairs to her childish breast.
"Cowards!" she said. "Now, do your worst.
If either must die, let me die first!"

Cowed and abashed, the crowd stood still,
Awed by that child's unaided will;
One by one, in silence and shame,

They all stole out by the way they came,

Till the fair young child and the withered crone
Were left once more in that room-alone.

But stop! What is it the child alarms?
Old Nan lies dead in her grandchild's arms!

MY NEIGHBOR.-LIZZIE CLARK HARDY.

Love your neighbor as yourself-
Thus the Good Book readeth;
And I glance across the way

At my neighbor Edith,
Who, with garden-hat and gloves,
Through the golden hours
Of the sunny summer-morn,
Flits among her flowers.

Love your neighbor as yourself-
Winsome, blue-eyed girlie,
Golden gleams of sunny hair
Dimpled, pink, and pearly.
As I lean upon the stile

And watch her at her labor,
How much better than myself
Do I love my neighbor!

Love your neighbor as yourself—
How devout I'm growing!
All my heart with fervent love
Toward my neighbor glowing.
Ah! to keep that blest command
Were the sweetest labor,
For with all my heart and sou
Do I love my neighbor!

THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR.

The fettered spirits linger
In purgatorial pain,

With penal fires effacing

Their last faint earthly stain,
Which life's imperfect sorrow
Had tried to cleanse in vain.

Yet on each feast of Mary
Their sorrow finds release,
For the great archangel Michael
Comes down and bids it cease;
And the name of these brief respites
I called "Our Lady's Peace."

Yet once-so runs the legend—
When the archangel came,

And all these holy spirits
Rejoiced at Mary's name,
One voice alone was wailing,
Still wailing on the same.

And though a great Te Deum
The happy echoes woke,
This one discordant wailing

Through the sweet voices broke:
So when Saint Michael questioned,
Thus the poor spirit spoke:

"I am not cold or thankless,
Although I still complain;
I prize our Lady's blessing,
Although it comes in vain
To still my bitter anguish,

Or quench my ceaseless pain.
"On earth a heart that loved me
Still lives and mourns me there,
And the shadow of his anguish
Is more than I can bear;
All the torment that I suffer

Is the thought of his despair.
"The evening of my bridal
Death took my life away;
Not all love's passionate pleading
Could gain an hour's delay.
And he I left has suffered

A whole year since that day.

"If I could only see him,-
if I could only go

And speak one word of comfort
And solace,-then I know
He would endure with patience
And strive against his woe."
Thus the archangel answered:
"Your time of pain is brief,
And soon the peace of heaven
Will give you full relief;
Yet if his earthly comfort
So much outweighs your grief,

"Then, through a special mercy,
I offer you this grace,-

You may seek him who mourns you And look upon his face,

And speak to him of comfort

For one short minute's space.

"But when that time is ended,
Return here, and remain
A thousand years in torment,
A thousand years in pain:
Thus dearly must you purchase
The comfort he will gain."
The lime-tree's shade at evening
Is spreading broad and wide;
Beneath their fragrant arches,
Pace slowly, side by side,
In low and tender converse,
A bridegroom and his bride.
The night is calm and stilly,
No other sound is there
Except their happy voices:
What is that cold, bleak air
That passes through the lime-trees,
And stirs the bridegroom's hair?

While one low cry of anguish,
Like the last dying wail
Of some dumb, hunted creature,
Is borne upon the gale:

Why does the bridegroom shudder,
And turn so deathly pale?

Near purgatory's entrance
The radiant angels wait;
It was the great Saint Michael
Who closed that gloomy gate,
When the poor wandering spirit
Came back to meet her fate.

"Pass on," thus spoke the angel:
"Heaven's joy is deep and vast;
Pass on, pass on, poor spirit,
For heaven is yours at last;

In that one minute's anguish

Your thousand years have passed."

THE IRISH PHILOSOPHER.-MACCABE.

Ladies and Gentlemen: I see so many foine lookin' peo ple sittin' before me, that if you'll excuse me I'll be after takin' a seat meself. You don't know me, I'm thinking, as some of yees 'ud be noddin' to me afore this. I'm a walkin' pedestrian, a traveling philosopher. Terry O'Mulligan's me name. I'm from Dublin, where many philosophers before me

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