A. No, no! We only thought he was.

Q. Oh, I see! He came to life again?
A. I bet he didn't.

Q. Well, I never heard any thing like this. Somebody was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was the mystery?

A. Ah, that's just it! That's it exactly! You see we were twins,-defunct and I; and we got mixed in the bathtub when we were only two weeks old, and one of us was drowned. But we didn't know which. Some think it was Bill; some think it was me.

Q. Well, that is remarkable. What do you think?

A. Goodness knows! I would give whole worlds to know. This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life. But I will tell you a secret now, which I never have revealed to any creature before. One of us had a pe culiar mark, a large mole on the back of his left hand; that That child was the one that was drowned.

was me.

Q. Very well, then, I don't see that there is any mystery about it, after all.

A. You don't; Well, I do. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But, 'sh! don't mention it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heart. breaking troubles enough without adding this.

Q. Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present; and I am very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken. But I was a good deal interested in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral. Would you mind telling me what particular circumstance it was that made you think Burr was such a remarkable man?

A. Oh, it was a mere trifle! Not one man in fifty would have noticed it at all. When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to start for the cemetery, and the body ail arranged nice in the hearse, he said he wanted to take a last look at the scenery; and so he got up, and rode with the driver.

Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was very pleasant company; and I was sorry to see him go.

POOR LITTLE JOE.-Peleg ArkwrIGHT.

Prop yer eyes wide open Joey,

Fur I've brought you sumpin' great. Apples? No, a heap sight better!

Don't you take no int'rest? Wait! Flowers, Joe-I know'd you'd like 'emAin't them scrumptious? Ain't them high? Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey? There-poor little Joe!—don't cry!

I was skippin' past a winder,
Where a bang-up lady sot,
All amongst a lot of bushes-
Each one climbin' from a pot;
Every bush had flowers on it—
Pretty? Mebbe not! Oh, no!
Wish you could a seen 'em growin',
It was sich a stunnin' show.

Well, I thought of you, poor feller,
Lyin' here so sick and weak,

Never knowin' any comfort,
And I puts on lots o' cheek.
"Missus," says I, " If you please, mum,
Could I ax you for a rose?
For my little brother, missus-
Never seed one, I suppose."

Then I told her all about you-
How I bringed you up-poor Joe!
(Lackin' women folks to do it.)
Sich a' imp you was, you know-
Till yer got that awful tumble,
Jist as I had broke yer in
(Hard work, too,) to earn yer livin'
Blackin' boots for honest tin.

How that tumble crippled of you,
So's you couldn't hyper much-

Joe, it hurted when I seen you
Fur the first time with yer crutch.
"But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum,
'Pears to weaken every day;"

Joe, she up and went to cuttin'-
That's the how of this bokay.

Say! It seems to me, ole feller,

You is quite yerself to-night;

Kind o'chirk-it's been a fortnit

Sence yer eyes has been so bright.
Better? Well, I'm glad to hear it!
Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe.
Smellin' of 'em's made you happy?

Well, I thought it would, you know!

Never see the country, did you?
Flowers growin' everywhere!
Some time when you're better, Joey,
Mebbe I kin take you there.
Flowers in heaven? 'M-I s'pose so;
Dunno much about it, though;
Ain't as fly as wot I might be
On them topics, little Joe.

But I've heard it hinted somewheres
That in heaven's golden gates
Things is everlastin' cheerful-

B'lieve that's wot the Bible states.
Likewise, there folks don't git hungry;
So good people, when they dies,
Finds themselves well fixed forever-
Joe, my boy, wot ails yer eyes?

Thought they looked a little sing❜ler.
Oh, no! Don't you have no fear;
Heaven was made fur such as you is-
Joe, wot makes you look so queer?
Here-wake up! Oh, don't look that way!
Joe! My boy! Hold up yer head!
Here's yer flowers--you dropped 'em Joey!
Oh, my God, can Joe be dead?

THE SISTER OF CHARITY.-GERALD GRIFFIN.

She once was a lady of honor and wealth,
Bright glowed on her features the roses of health;
Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold,
And her motion shook perfume from every fold:
Joy reveled around her-love shone at her side,
And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride;
And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall,
When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul.

She felt in her spirit the summons of grace,
That called her to live for the suffering race;
And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home,
Rose quickly like Mary, and answered, “I come."
She put from her person the trappings of pride,
And passed from her home, with the joy of a bride,
Nor wept at the threshold, as onward she moved,
For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved.

Lost ever to fashion--to vanity lost,
That beauty that once was the song and the toast—
No more in the ball-room that figure we meet,
But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat.
Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name,
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame;
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth,
For she barters for heaven the glory of earth.

Those feet that to music could gracefully move,
Now bear her alone on the mission of love;

Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem
Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them;
That voice that once echoed the song of the vain,
Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain;

And the hair that was shining with diamond and pear,
Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl.

Her down-bed-a pallet; her trinkets-a bead;
Her luster-one taper that serves her to read;
Her sculpture-the crucifix nailed by her bed;

Her paintings-one print of the thorn-crowned head;
Her cushion-the pavement, that wearies her knees;
Her music-the psalm, or the sigh of disease;
The delicate lady lives mortified there,

And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.

Yet not to the service of heart and of mind,
Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined,
Like him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief
She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief.

She strengthens the weary-she comforts the weak,
And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick;
Where want and affliction on mortais attend,
The Sister of Charity there is a friend.

Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath,
Like an angel she moves, 'mid the vaper of death;
Where rings the loud musiket, and faces the sword,
Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord.
How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face
With looks that are lighted with holiest grace;

How kindly she dresses each suffering limb,
For she sees in the wounded the image of Him.
Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain!
Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain;
Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days,
Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise.

Ye lazy philosophers-self-seeking men,

Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen,
How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed
With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid?

THE VEILED PICTURE.

A story is told of two artist lovers, both of whom sought the hand of a noted painter's daughter. The question, which of the two should possess himself of the prize so earnestly coveted by both, having come, finally, to the father, he promised to give his child to the one that could paint the best. So each strove for the maiden with the highest skill his genius could command.

One painted a picture of fruit, and displayed it to the fa ther's inspection in a beautiful grove, where gay birds sang sweetly among the foliage, and all nature rejoiced in the luxuriance of bountiful life. Presently the birds came down to the canvas of the young painter, and attempted to eat the fruit he had pictured there. In his surprise and joy at the young artist's skill, the father declared that no one could triumph over that.

Soon, however, the second lover came with his picture, and it was veiled. "Take the veil from your painting," said the old man. "I leave that to you," said the young artist, with simple modesty. The father of the young and lovely maiden then approached the veiled picture and attempted to uncover it. But imagine his astonishment, when, as he attempted to take off the veil, he found the veil itself to be a picture! We need not say who was the lucky lover; for if the artist who deceived the birds by skill in fruit manifested great powers of art, he who could so veil his canvas with the pencil as to deceive a skillful master, was surely the greater artist.