"Thomas Rutherford," reads out the master," gained the prize for arithmetic."

"I'll tak' Tam's prize for him. The laddie's na weel. He's awa'. I'll tak' it ;" and the shoemaker moved hastily up to the table.

The minister handed him the book; and, silently taking it, he made his way to the door. . . .

A quiet old man moves listlessly about the village. He does nothing, but every one has a kind word for him. He never walks towards the river, but shudders when its name is mentioned. He sits in his workshop often, and looks up expectantly when he hears the joyous shout of the boys as they come out of school, and then a look of pain flits across his face. He has one treasure,-a book, which he keeps along with his family Bible, and he is never tired of reading through his blurred spectacles the words on the first page:

BARNES SCHOOL.

FIRST CLASS.

PRIZE FOR ARITHMETIC

AWARDED TO

THOMAS RUTHERFORD.

SIMILIA SIMILIBUS CURANTUR.-R. H. NEWELL

Miss Dora Delaine of West Livingston Place—
A rose in her bloom and a lily in grace-
Fell sick, in an hour, of what none could define,
But wiseacres called going into decline.

It happened this way: on the night of the ball
To Russia's Grand Duke, young Alexis, the tall,
While music and mirth, fairy twins as they are,
Were paying their court to the son of the Czar,
And lights sparkled endless, and jewels and flowers
Lent lustre and hue to the wings of the hours,—
Ere yet her proud eyes lost the fire of their glance,
Our Dora turned faint in a pause of the dance.

The heat, or the crowd, or excitement, 'twas said,
Thus made in a moment her cheeks like the dead;
And ices, and essences pungent, and fans
Were proffered and fluttered, and various plans

Were hinted for gaining more air; but she sighed
The single word "Home!" and would not be denied.
Papa and mamma, when the carriage was called,
Bore homeward poor Dora, all muffled and shawled,
And not from that night was she ever the same
Bright spirit of health; but as languid and tame
And dull as a bird that refuses to sing,

And droops in his cage with his head in his wing.

At first it was thought the affection was slight,
Some freak of a chill, or of lacing too tight;
But when to her face there returned not its bloom,
And listless and pale she remained in her room,
The family doctor was summoned to see
Whatever the matter could possibly be.

To humor her mood-which was rather ill-bred-
He came as her friend, not physician, he said;
And having first talked of the weather and news,
Remarked that he feared Miss Delaine had "the blues."
And hoped for the sake of herself and her friends,
She'd take a prescription of tincture, which tends

To fuse with its iron the blood, and give tone

'O, pshaw!" exclaimed Dora, “Do leave me alone!

I hate your old drugs!" and the pointed rebuff
Offended the doctor, who left in a huff

Two other practitioners, stately and grave,

Appeared in their turns, and their evidence gave: "Digestive inertia,” said one; "and for you

Some acid sulphuric, diluted, will do."

"It's nervous pulmonic," the other observed;

"Take Jink's Hypophosphates and don't be unnerved." "I'm well!" Dora cried, in hysteric revulse,

'I won't show my tongue, and you shan't feel my pulse!"
Her father, perplexed, between anger and pain,
Bethought him at last of young Doctor Migraine,
Who came from the South when the fighting was done
To practice in Gotham, where fortunes are won;
And, calling him in, laid a hand on his knee,
And said, "You will find, sir, my daughter to be
Convinced she is well, spite of all you can say;
Yet dwindling and peaking and pining away."
"I've heard of the case, and have seen Miss Delaine,
And went to the ball," answered Dr. Migraine;

Nor spoke any more till he entered the room
Where Dora was drooping in silence and gloom.
"A doctor again!" was her sigh of despair-
"Oh, when will it end?" He selected a chair,
And, seating himself with his face to her own,
Replied: "You can tell that yourself, and alone!
My words shall be few, and as plain as my art;
You're sick, Miss Delaine, with disease of the heart."
Twas rather the tone than the language that made
Miss Dora breathe quick, as she said, half afraid,

Why, what do you mean?" He was swift to reply, "That night at the ball very near you was I."

She stared and grew white, and the speaker went on:
"I can't say I saw, but I heard what was done;
One moment you beamed-('But Montgomery Sill
'S engaged to 'Bel Vaughn')—in the next you were ill!"

She started to rise, with the tears on her face-
“Your words are insulting!" He bowed from his place—
"One moment," he begged, "till I've said what I may;
Then chide, if you choose, and I'll hasten away.
"The words I o'erheard with yourself at the ball,
Are not more for me than for you to recall
With pride or delight—(if indeed you are still
Inclined to waste thought on Montgomery Sill);
For Isabel Vaughn, with a friend of my heart
Once played such a cruel, perfidious part,
That now, even now, when his care's at an end,
I feel, and am spurned, and betrayed with my friend!
"A guest from the South at the Springs, in a time
When fortune was his in his own sunny clime,
He bowed to her charms, nor resisted the spell
That urged him to woo her, the fair Isabel!
His suit was accepted; they parted, to meet
No more, until war, like a tempest of sleet,
Had blighted his fortunes, with others, ah me!
When Sherman passed through on his march to the sea.
And then, when he offered release, in his pride,
To her who had promised her hand as his bride,
She answered the note with this stab of the pen-
"Twas but a flirtation-'tis ages since then!'
"And now she is pledged to Montgomery Sill!—
The friend of my heart, lives he under it still?

He does; and confides to Miss Dora Delaine

He shares her disease, and his name is Migraine !"

You see how it was; they were surely a pair,
This Southron ill-used, and the sorrowful fair;
And all that remains for a mortal to guess
This hint from a letter may briefly express:

"My friends in the Scuth" (wrote the doctor one day),
"You know I'm an Allopath, hot in my way,
And that, hitherto, I've belonged to the school
Esteeming my rival a knave or a fool;

But, lately, I've had such a wonderful case,
That, sooner than lose it, I've dared the disgrace
Of making the point, beyond questioning, sure,
That like is for like an infallible cure!

My patient, the loveliest queen of a girl
That ever drew kings in the chain of a curl,
Was fading away with that exquisite smart
I'd carried for years in my own weary heart;
And after due visits, by no means for pelf,
For life I've prescribed-wish me joy in't!-Myself!"

AN EVENING IDYL.

The evening star its vesper lamp
Above the west had lit,

The dusky curtains of the night

Were following over it.

He seized her waist and clasped her hand
And told his tale of love;

He called her every tender name,
"My darling," "duck,” and “dove."

A tremor shook her fairy form,
Her eyes began to blink;

Her pulse rose to a hundred, and

She cried I think-I think-"

He sighed: "You think you love me?" fo
His soul was on the rack;

"Oh, no!" she yelled: "I think a bug
Is crawling down my back!"

THE FIRST SETTLER'S STORY.-WILL CARLETON.

ABRIDGED FOR PUBLIC READING.

It ain't the funniest thing a man can do

Existing in a country when it's new;

Nature, who moved in first-a good long while-
Has things already somewhat her own style,
And she don't want her woodland splendors battered,
Her rustic furniture broke up and scattered,
Her paintings, which long years ago were done
By that old splendid artist-king, the sun,
Torn down and dragged in civilization's gutter,
Or sold to purchase settlers' bread and butter.
She don't want things exposed from porch to closet,
And so she kind o' nags the man who does it.
She carries in her pockets bags of seeds,
As general agent of the thriftiest weeds;
She sends her blackbirds, in the early morn,
To superintend his fields of planted corn;
She gives him rain past any duck's desire-
Then maybe several weeks of quiet fire;
She sails mosquitoes-leeches perched on wings-
To poison him with blood-devouring stings;
She loves her ague-muscle to display,
And shake him up-say every other day;
With thoughtful, conscientious care she makes
Those travelin' poison-bottles, rattlesnakes;
She finds time, 'mongst her other family cares,
To keep in stock good wild-cats, wolves, and bears.
Well, when I first infested this retreat,
Things to my view looked frightful incomplete;
But I had come with heart-thrift in my song,
And brought my wife and plunder right along;
I hadn't a round-trip ticket to go back,
And if I had there wasn't no railroad track;
And drivin' East was what I couldn't endure:
I hadn't started on a circular tour.

My girl-wife was as brave as she was good,
And helped me every blessèd way she could;
She seemed to take to every rough old tree,
As sing'lar as when first she took to me.
She kep' our little log-house neat as wax,
And once I caught her fooling with my axe.