Floy?" "Your old nurse's, often." "And where is my old nurse?" said Paul. "Is she dead, too? Floy, are we all dead, except you?"

There was a hurry in the room for an instant,-longer perhaps, but it seemed no more, then all was still again; and Florence, with her face quite colorless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm trembled very much. "Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please." She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow." "Thank you, Floy."

*

*

*

*

*

"And who is this? Is this my old nurse?" said the child, regarding with a radiant smile a figure coming in. Yes, yes! No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. "Floy, this is a kind, good face!" said Paul. "I am glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse! Stay here!"

66

"Now lay me down," he said; and, Floy, come close to me and let me see you!" Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in and fell upon them, locked together. "How fast the river runs between its green banks and the rushes, Floy! But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so." Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now ! how bright the flowers growing on them! and how tall the rushes! Now the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on; and now there was a shore before them. Who stood on the bank? He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold them so, behind her neck.

66

Mamma is like you, Floy, I know her by the face! But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough, The light about the head is shining on me as I go!"

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion,-death! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged when the swift river bears us to the ocean!

IN MEMORY OF CHARLES DICKENS.*
SUE M. REMAK.

As sunset's glow illumed the sea
One balmy day of June,

And golden stars shone o'er the lea

To greet the rising moon,

One light of wondrous brilliancy

Went out-alas, how soon!

Great England's son! His noble name
She'll proudly call her own,
Exalted on her roll of fame;
Yet not her pride alone;

All nations shall his worth proclaim,
The world his genius own.

E'en while his genial heart beat high,
Mid friendly smile and cheer,
An unseen guest was hovering nigh,—
Death's shadow drawing near,
To bear him to his rest on high,
From love and labor here.

O'ershadowed by the angel's wing,
Unconsciously he lay,

Saw not the shaft, felt not the sting,
But gently passed away;

*Died June 9. 1870.

And while the bells their vespers ring,
He gains eternal day.

"Out with the tide," his life of love
On to the sea shall flow,-

The boundless sea of God's pure love,―
Nor waves of sorrow know;

But share with ransomed souls above
Bliss earth could ne'er bestow.

His name indeed a " Household Word"
Through ages now shall be,

The cheerful sound of "Chimes" be heard
Like notes of melody;

And "Christmas Carol," word for word,
"Keep green his memory."

Oh! could he, with his parting breath,
Have whispered what he felt;
Revealed his earnest thoughts of death
To those who near him knelt ;-
As once he spake, through "little Paul,"
His dying words might be-

"How fast the river runs," (for all),

"It's very near the sea;"

"How green the banks-and rushes tall;"

"My mother's face I see;"

And then-" thank God!"-above it all
"For Immortality!"

MONSIEUR TONSON.

There lived, as fame reports, in days of yore,
At least some fifty years ago, or more,

A pleasant wight on town, yclept Tom King,
A fellow that was clever at a joke,

Expert in all the arts to tease and smoke;

In short, for strokes of humor quite the thing.

To many a jovial club this King was known,
With whom his active wit unrivaled shone;
Choice spirit, grave free-mason, buck and blood,
Would crowd his stories and bon-mots to hear,
And none a disappointment e'er could fear,

His humor flowed in such a copious flood.

To him a frolic was a high delight;

A frolic he would hunt for, day and night,

Careless how prudence on the sport might frown.
If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view,
At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew,
Nor left the game till he had run it down.

One night, our hero, rambling with a friend,
Near famed St. Giles's chanced his course to bend,
Just by that spot, the Seven Dials hight.
"Twas silence all around, and clear the coast,
The watch, as usual, dozing on his post,

And scarce a lamp displayed a twinkling light.
Around this place there lived the numerous clans
Of honest, plodding, foreign artisans,

Known at that time by name of refugees. The rod of persecution from their home Compelled the inoffensive race to roam,

And here they lighted, like a swarm of bees.

Well! our two friends were sauntering through the street In hopes some food for humor soon to meet,

When, in a window near, a light they view;
And, though a dim and melancholy ray,
It seemed the prologue to some merry play,
So towards the gloomy dome our hero drew.
Straight at the door he gave a thundering knock
(The time we may suppose near two o'clock).
"I'll ask," says King, "if Thompson lodges here."
"Thompson," cries t'other, "who the mischief's he?"
"I know not," King replies, "but want to see
What kind of animal will now appear."

After some time a little Frenchman came;
One hand displayed a rushlight's trembling flame,
The other held a thing they called culotte;
An old striped woolen nightcap graced his head,
A tattered waistcoat o'er one shoulder spread;
Scarce half awake, he heaved a yawning note.
Though thus untimely roused he courteous smiled,
And soon addressed our wag in accents mild,

Bending his head politely to his knee:
"Pray, sare, vat vant you, dat you come so late?
I beg your pardon, sare, to make you vait;

Pray tell me, sare, vat your commands vid me?"

"Sir," replied King, "I merely thought to know, As by your house I chanced to-night to go ̄

(But really, I disturbed your sleep, I fear), I say, I thought that you perhaps could tell, Among the folks who in this quarter dwell, If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here?"

The shivering Frenchman, though not pleased to find The business of this unimportant kind,

Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer, Shrugged out a sigh that thus his rest was broke, Then, with unaltered courtesy, he spoke :

"No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges here." Our wag begged pardon, and toward home he sped, While the poor Frenchman crawled again to bed.

But King resolved not thus to drop the jest ;
So, the next night, with more of whim than grace,
Again he made a visit to the place,

To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest.
He knocked,-but waited longer than before;
No footstep seemed approaching to the door;

Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound.
King with the knocker thundered then again,
Firm on his post determined to remain;

And oft, indeed, he made the door resound.
At last King hears him o'er the passage creep,
Wondering what fiend again disturbed his sleep.
The wag salutes him with a civil leer;

Thus drawling out to heighten the surprise,
While the poor Frenchman rubbed his heavy eyes,
"Is there a Mr. Thompson-lodges here?"

The Frenchman faltered, with a kind of fright,
Vy, sare, I'm sure I told you, sare, last night
(And here he labored with a sigh sincere),
No Monsieur Tonson in the varld I know,
No Monsieur Tonson here,-I told you so;
Indeed, sare, dare no Monsieur Tonson here!"
Some more excuses tendered, off King goes,
And the old Frenchman sought once more repose.
The rogue next night pursued his old career.
"Twas long indeed before the man came nigh,
And then he uttered, in a piteous cry,

"Sare, 'pon my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here!"