I NEVER had the slightest intention of writing a book. Had such a thought entered my mind, I should not long have entertained it. It would have seemed presumptuous. What! I, Fanny Fern, write a book? I never could have believed it possible.

  How, then, came the book to be written? some one may ask. Well, that's just what puzzles me. I can only answer in the dialect of the immortal "Topsy," "I 'spect it growed!" And, such as it is, it must go forth; for "what is written, is written, and—stereotyped.

  So, dear readers (for I certainly number some warm, friendly hearts among you), here is my book, which I sincerely wish were worthier of your regard. But I can only offer you a few "Fern leaves," gathered at random, in shady spots, were sunbeams seldom play, and which I little thought ever to press for your keeping.

  Many of the articles submitted were written for

  Some of the articles are sad, some are gay; each is independent of all the others, and the work is consequently disconnected and fragmentary; but, if the reader will imagine me peeping over his shoulder, quite happy should he pay me the impromptu compliment of smile or a tear, it is possible we may come to a good understanding by the time the book shall have been perused.

FANNY FERN.

  POOR, tired little Frank! He had gazed at that stereotyped street panorama, till his eyelids were drooping with weariness. Omnibuses, carts, cabs, wheelbarrows, men, women, horses, and children; the same old story. There is a little beggar-boy driving hoop. Franky never drives hoop;—no, he is dressed too nicely for that. Once in a while he takes the air; but Peter the serving-man, or Bridget the nurse, holds his hand very tightly, lest he should soil his embroidered frock. Now little Frank changes from one foot to the other, and then he creeps up to his young mamma, who lies half-buried in those satin cushions, reading the last new novel, and lays his hand on her soft curls; but she shakes him off with an impatient "Don't Franky;" and he creeps back again to the window.

  There winds a funeral slowly past. How sad the mourners look, clad in sable, with their handkerchiefs to their eyes! It is a child's funeral, too; for there is no hearse, and the black pall floats from the first carriage window, like a signal of distress. A sudden thought strikes Franky,—the tears spring to his eyes, and,

  The young mother says, abstractedly, without raising her blue eyes from the novel she is reading, "What did you say, Frank?"

  "Mamma, must I die, too?"

  "Yes—no! What an odd question! Pull the bell, Charley. Here, Peter, take Frank up stairs to the nursery, and coax Bruno along to play tricks for him;" and Frank's mamma settles herself down again upon her luxurious cushions.

  The room is very quiet, now that Franky is banished; nobody is in it but herself and the canary. Her position is quite easy; her favorite book between her fingers,—why not yield herself again to the author's witching spell? Why do the words, "Must I die, too," stare at her from every page? They were but a child's words. She is childish to heed them; and she rises, lays aside the book, and sweeps her white hand across her harp-strings, while her rich voice floats musically upon the air. One stanza only she sings, then her hands fall by her side; for still that little, plaintive voice keepings ringing in her ear, "Must I die, too, mamma?"

  Death!—why, it is a thing she has never thought of;—and she walks up to the long mirror. Death for her, with that beaming eye, and scarlet lip, and rosy cheek, and sunny tress, and rounded limb, and springing step?

  "Well, which is it, my pet, the opera, the concert, or Madama B.'s soiree? I am yours to command."

  "Neither, I believe, Walter. I am out of tune to-night; or, as Madame B. would say, 'Vaporish;' so I shall inflict myself on nobody. But—"

  "O, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Rose; I am fond of a merry face, too. Smile, now, or I'm off to the club, or the billiard room; or, as husbands say when they are 'hard up' for an excuse, I have 'a business engagement.' What! a tear? What grief can you have, little Rose?"

  "You know, Walter, what a strange child our Frank is. Well, he asked me such an odd, old-fasioned question to-day, 'Must I die, too, Mamma?' in that little flute-like voice of his, and it set me thinking, that's all. I can't rid myself of it; and, dear Walter," said she, laying her tearful cheek upon his shoulder, "I don't know that I ought to try."

  "O, nonsense, Rose!" said the gay husband, "don't

  Say you so, man of the sinewy limb and flashing eye? See!—up Calvary's rugged steep a slender form bends wearily beneath its heavy cross! This sinless side, those hands, those feet are pierced—for you. Tortured, athirst, faint, agonized,—the dark cloud hiding the Father's face,—that mournful wail rings out on the still air, "My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken me?"

  The dregs of live, our offering for all this priceless love, O sinless Son of God! The palsied hand, and clouded brain, and stammering tongue, and leaden foot of age, thy trophies? God forbid! And yet, alas! amid dance, and song, and revel, that "still small voice" was hushed. The winged hours, mis-spent and wasted, flew quickly past. No tear of repentance fell; no sup-

  "Must I die, too?"

  Sweet child!—but as the sun dies; but as the stars fade out; but as the flowers die, for a resurrection morn! Close the searching eye beneath the prisoning lid; cross the busy hands over the pulseless heart. Life—life eternal! for thee, thou young immortal!

  Joy to thee, young mother! From that grave, so tear-bedewed, the flower of repentance springs, at last. No tares shall choke it; no blight or mildew blast it! God's smile shall be its sunshine, and heaven thy reward.

  Dear reader; so the good Shepherd hides the little lamb in his arms, that she who gave it life may hear its voice and follow.

  "FATHER is coming!" and little, round faces grow long, and merry voices are hushed, and toys are hustled into the closet; and mamma glances nervously at the door; and baby is bribed with a lump of sugar to keep the peace; and father's business face relaxes not a muscle; and the little group huddle like timid sheep in a corner, and tea is dispatched as silently as if speaking were prohibited by the statute book; and the children creep like culprits to bed, marvelling that baby dare crow so loud, now that "Father has come."

  "Father is coming!" and bright eyes sparkle for joy, and tiny feet dance with glee, and eager faces press against the window-pane; and a bevy of rosy lips claim kisses at the door; and picture-books lie unrebuked on the table; and tops, and balls, and dolls, and kites are discussed; and little Susy lays her soft cheek against the paternal whiskers with the most fearless "abandon;" and Charley gets a love-pat for his "medal;" and momma's face grows radiant; and the evening paper is read,—not silently, but aloud,—and tea, and toast, and time vanish with equal celerity, for jubilee has arrived, and "Father has come!"

  "WELL, Bridget, what do you think of the bride?"

  "O, she's a pretty young thing; but if she had known as much as you and I do of her husband's mother, she never would have come to live with her. She's a regular old hyena, and if she don't bring the tears into those blue eyes before the honey-moon is over, my name is n't Bridget. Why, she's the most owdacious old thing! She overhauled all her wardrobe yesterday, before she could get here; and, as I passed through the entry, I heard her muttering to herself 'Silk stockings, humph!—ruffled under-clothes! Wonder if she thinks I'll have them ironed here? Embroidered night-caps, silk dresses! Destruction and ruin!'"

  "What! tears, Emma?—tears!" said the young husband, as he returned from his counting-room one day, about a month after their marriage; and, with a look of

  "What, then, is your pet canary sick? Can't you dress your hair to suit you? Or are you in despair because you can't decide in which of all your dresses you look prettiest?"

  "Don't be ridiculous, Harry!" said Emma, laughing and crying together. "I feel nervous, that 's all. I 'm so glad you 've come home."

  Harry felt sure that was not all; but he forebore to question her, for he felt very sure she would tell him all in good time.

  The truth was, Harry's mother had been lecturing her daughter-in-law, all the morning, upon the degeneracy of the times;—hoped she would not think of putting on all the fine things her friends had been so foolish as to rig her out in!—times were not now as they used to be!—that if Harry gave her pocket-money, she had better give it to her to keep, and not be spending it for nonsense;—that a young wife's place was in her husband's house;—and she hoped she would leave off that babyish trick, of running home every day to see her mother and sisters.

  Emma listened in silent amazement. She was a warm-hearted, affectionate girl, but she was very high-spirited. The color came and went rapidly in her cheek; but she

  After old Mrs. Hall retired, she sat for a moment or two, recalling her words. "'Babyish,' to love my own dear home, where I was as merry as a cricket from morning till night; where we all sang, and played, and read, in mother's dear old room, and father and mother the happiest of us all—'babyish!' I won't be dictated to!" said the young wife. "I'm married if I am only nineteen, and my own mistress;" and the rebellious tones would come in spite of her determination. But then she thought of Harry,—dear Harry,—whom she had already learned to love so well. Her first impulse was, to tell him. But she had a great deal of good sense, if she was young; and she said to herself, "No, that won't do;—then he 'll have to take sides with one or the other, and either way it will make trouble. It may wean his love from me, too. No, no, I 'll try to get along without; but I wish I had known more about her, before I came here to live."

  And so she smiled and chatted gayly with Harry, and hoped he had set it down to the account of "nervousness." Still the hours passed slowly, when he was absent at his business; and she felt uneasy every time she heard a step on the stairs, lest the old lady should subject her to some new trial.

  "I wonder what has come over our Emma?" said one

  Shortly after this, Emma's mother sent her some little delicacy, manufactured by herself, of which she knew her daughter to be particularly fond. Mrs. Hall brought it into her room, and set it down on the table as if she were testing the strength of the dish, and said, "I wonder if your mother is afraid you 'll not have enough to eat here. One would think you were a child at a boarding-school."

  Emma controlled herself by a strong effort, and made no reply, simply taking the gift from her hands, with a nod of acknowledgment. Every day brought her some such petty annoyance; and her father-in-law, who was old and childish, being quite as troublesome as his wife in these respects, it required all of Emma's love for Harry to carry her through.

  She still adhered to her determination, however, to conceal all her trouble from her husband; and though he noticed she was less vicacious, perhaps he thought the mantle of matronly dignity so becoming to his young wife, that he felt no disposition to find fault with it. In the mean time, old Mrs. Hall being confined to her room with a violent influenza, the reins of government were very unwillingly resigned into Emma's hands. What endless charges she received about the dusting and sweeping, and

  "Emma," said Harry, "how should you like living five miles out of the city? I have seen a place that just suits my fancy, and thought of hiring it on trial."

  Emma hesitated. She wished to ask, "Does your mother go with us?" but she only said, "I could not tell, dear Harry, how I should like the place, till I saw it; but I should fear it would take you too much from me. It would seem so odd to have five miles' distance between us for the whole day. O, I 'm very sure I should n't like it, Harry!" and the thought of her mother-in-law clouded her sunny face, and, in spite of herself, a tear dropped on her husband's hand.

  "Well, dear Emma, now I 'm very sure you will like it,"—and his large, dark eyes had a look she did not

  "O, what a little Paradise, Harry! Look at that cluster of prairie roses! What splendid old trees! See how the wind sweeps the drooping branches across the tall grass! And that little, low window, latticed over with sweet briar; and that pretty terraced flower-garden,—O, Harry!"

  "Well, let us go inside, Emma;" and, applying a key he held in his hand, the door yielded to his touch, and they stood side by side in a little rustic parlor, furnished simply, yet so tastefully. Tables, stands, and mantel, covered with vases, sending forth fragrance from the sweetest of wild-wood flowers; the long, white muslin curtains, looped away from a window, whence could be seen wooded hill, and fertile valley, and silvery stream. Then they ascended into the old chamber, which was quite as unexceptionable in its appointments. Emma looked about in bewildered wonder.

  "But who lives here now, Harry?"

  "Nobody."

  "Nobody? What a tease you are! To whom does all this furniture belong,—and who arranged everything with such exquisite taste? I have been expecting every minute to see the mistress of the mansion step out."

  "Well, there she is," said Harry, leading her gayly up to the looking-glass. "I only hope you admire her half as much as I do. Do you think I've been blind and deaf, because I've been dumb? Do you think I've not seen my high-spirited little wife, struggling with trial, day by day, suffering, enduring, gaining the victory over her own spirit, silently and uncomplainingly? Do you think I could see all this, and not think she was the dearest little wife in the world?" and tears and smiles struggled for mastery, as he pressed his lips to her forehead. "And now you will have nobody to please here, but me, Emma. Do you think the task will be difficult?"

  The answer, though highly satisfactory to the husband, was not intended for you, dear reader; so please excuse Fanny Fern.

  SHE might have had twenty other names, but that was the only appellation I ever heard. It was, "Get out of the way, Hatty!"—"I dare say, Hatty broke that vase, or lost that book!"—"Don't come here; what a fright you are, Hatty!" till the poor, sensitive child almost felt as if she had the mark of Cain upon her forehead. She had brothers and sisters, but they were bright, and saucy, and bold, and cunning; and, when they wished to carry out a favorite scheme, could throw their arms about the parental neck, flatter some weak side, carry the day, and then laugh at their juvenile foresight; so their coffers were always filled, while poor Hatty's was empty;—and she laid all these things up in her little grieved heart, and, as she saw duplicity better rewarded than sincerity, began to have little infidel doubts whether the Bible, that her father read so much out of, was really true; while Joseph's "coat of many colors" flaunted ever before her tearful eyes! All their sweet, childish impulses were checked and crushed; and, where the sweet flowers of love and confidence should have sprung up, the weeds of distrust and suspicion took bitter root!

  She took no part in the conversation of the domestic circle. "She was stupid," so they told her; and she had heard it till she believed it true. Sometimes, as was often the case, some talented person made part of the family circle; on such occasions, Hatty would listen in her corner till her great, wild eyes glowed and burned like living coals of fire. But there was one spot where none disputed Hatty's right to reign,—a little lonely room at the top of the house, which she had fitted up in her own wild way, and where she was free from reproof or intrusion.

  You should have seen her there,—with her little yearning heart half broken by neglect,—doubtful of her own powers, and weeping such passionate tears, that she was "so stupid, and ugly, and disagreeable," that nobody could ever love her! And so she made friends with the holy stars, the fleecy clouds, and the brilliant rainbow, the silver moonbeam, and the swift lightning; and an artistic eye, seeing her soul-lit face at that small window, might have fancied her some Italian improvisatrice! There, the fetters fell off, the soul was free, and the countenance mirrored it forth. Back in the family circle, she was again "Our Hatty!"

  "That young daughter of yours differs very much from the rest of the family, Mr. Lee," said a maiden lady, who was visiting them.

  "Yes, yes," said the old man, with a shrug. "She don't look much like a Lee; in fact, she's very plain. She's a strange, unaccountable child,—likes her own company better than anybody's else, and don't care a rush-light for all the nick-nacks other girls are teasing for. Sometimes I think she belongs to another brood,—got changed in the cradle, or something."

  "How does she spend her time?" said Miss Tabetha.

  "I'm sure I don't know. Wife says she has a little den at the top of the house, where she sits star-gazing. Queer child, that Hatty!—plain as a pike-staff;" and Mr. Lee took up his newspaper, and put his feet on the mantel.

  Miss Tabetha was counfounded! She had an uncommonly warm heart, for an old maid. She had never been a parent;—she wished she had, just to show some people what a nice one she'd have made! She inwardly resolved to know more of "Our Hatty."

  Rap, tap, on the door of Hatty's little den,—what on earth did it mean? She hoped they were not going to take that away from her; and, with a guilty, frightened look, she opened the door.

  Miss Tabetha entered.

  "Are you vexed with me for coming here, child? You don't look glad to see me."

  "No, no!" said Hatty, pushing back a tangled mass

  "And why not, Hatty?"

  "Well, I don't know," said she, with touching meekness and simplicity; "unless it's because I'm 'stupid, and ugly, and disagreeable.'"

  "Who told you that, Hatty?"

  "All of them down stairs," said she; "and I don't care about it, only—only,"—and the tears rolled down her cheeks,—"it is so dreadful to feel that nobody can ever love me!"

  Miss Tabetha said, "Humph!"

  "Hatty," said she, "come here. Do you ever look in the glass?"

  "Not since a long while," said the girl, shrinking back.

  "Come here, and look in this little mirror. Do you see those large, dark, bright eyes of yours? Do you see that wealth of raven hair, which a skilful hand might render a beauty, instead of that tangled deformity? Do you see those lithe, supple limbs, which a little care and training might render graceful as the swaying willow? There is intellect on your brow; soul in your eyes; your voice has a thrilling heart-tone. Hatty, you are a gem in the rough!—you cannot be 'ugly;' but, listen to me. It is every woman's duty to be lovely and attractive. You have underrated and neglected yourself, my poor

  "O, Miss Tabetha, please don't! It's only a little scribbling, just when I felt wretched!—please don't!"

  "Yes, but I shall, though. It's just what I want to see most;" and she went on reading paper after paper, while Hatty stood like a culprit before her. When she had finished, she said, very slowly and deliberately:

  "Hatty, come here! Did you know that you were a genius?"

  "A what, Miss Tabetha?"

  "A genius, you delicious little bit of simplicity,—a genius! You 'll know fast enough what it means; and to think I should have been the first to find it out!" and she caught the astonished child in her arms, and kissed her, till Hatty thought a genius most be the most delightful thing in the world, to bring so much love with it.

  "Look here, Hetty,—does anybody know this?" holding up the manuscripts.

  Hatty shook her head.

  "So much the better. 'Stupid, ugly and disagreeable!' humph! Do you know I'm going to run off with you?" said the little old maid. "We shall see what we shall see, Miss Hatty!"

  Five years had rolled away. A new life had been opened to Hatty. She had grown into a tall, graceful woman. Her step was light as a fawn's. Her face,—not beautiful, certainly, if tried by the rules of art,—and yet, who that watched its ever-varying expression, would stop to criticize? No one cared to analyze the charm. She produced the effect of beauty; she was magnetic; she was fascinating. Miss Tabetha was satisfied;—"she knew it would be just so."

  They had almost forgotten her at Lee house. Once in a while they wondered "if Miss Tabetha was n't tired of her." Miss Tabetha thought she would let them know! Unbounded was their amazement, when Miss Tabetha ushered "Our Hatty" in. It was unaccountable! She was really "almost pretty!" Still there was the same want of heart in their manner to her; and the little old maid could not have kept within bounds, had she not had powerful reasons of her own for keeping quiet awhile.

  "By the way, Miss Tabetha," said Mr. Lee, "as you are a blue-stocking, can you enlighten me as to the author of that charming little volume of poems, which has set all the literary world astir? It is n't often I get upon stilts, but I 'd give something to see the woman who wrote it."

  Miss Tabetha's time had come. Her eyes twinkled with malicious delight. She handed him a volume, saying, "Well, here is a book I was commissioned to give you by the authoress herself."

  Mr. Lee rubbed his glasses, set them astride his nose, and read the following on the fly-leaf:

  "To my dear father, James Lee; from his affectionate daughter, The Author."

  Mr. Lee sprang from his chair, and, seizing his child by both hands, ejaculated, "Hatty Lee! I'm proud of you!"

  Tears gathered slowly in her large eyes, as she said, "O, not that! Dear father, fold me once to your heart, and say, 'Hatty, I love you!'"

  Her head sank upon his shoulder. The old man read his child's heart at last; he saw it all,—all her childish unhappiness,—and, as he kissed her brow, and cheek, and lips, said, in a choking voice, "Forgive your old father, Hatty!"

  Her hand was laid upon his lips, while smiles and tears chased over her face, like sunshine and shadow over an April sky.

  O, what is Fame to a woman? Like the "apples of the Dead Sea," fair to the sight, ashes to the touch! From the depths of her unsatisfied heart, cometh ever a voice that will not be hushed,—Take it all back, only give me love!

  "YOU have two children," said I.

  "I have four," was the reply; "two on earth, two in heaven."

  There spoke the mother! Still hers, only "gone before!" Still remembered, loved and cherished, by the hearth and at the board;—their places not yet filled; even though their successors draw life from the same faithful breast where their dying heads were pillowed.

  "Two in heaven!"

  Safely housed from storm and tempest. No sickness there, nor drooping head, nor fading eye, nor weary feet. By the green pastures, tended by the good Shepherd, linger the little lambs of the heavenly fold.

  "Two in heaven!"

  Earth less attractive. Eternity nearer. Invisible cords, drawing the maternal soul upwards. "Still small" voices, ever whispering, Come! to the world-weary spirit.

  "Two in heaven!"

  Mother of angels! Walk softly!—holy eyes watch thy footsteps!—cherub forms bend to listen! Keep thy spirit free from earth taint; so shalt thou "go to them," though "they may not return to thee!"

OR, "WILL IS MIGHT."

  "IT is really very unfortunate, that forgery of Mr. Grant's. I don't see what will become of Emma. I presume she won't think of holding up her head after it. I dare say she will expect to be on the same terms with her friends as before,—but the thing is—"

  "Quite impossible!" said the gay Mrs. Blair, arranging her ringlets; "the man has dragged his family down with him, and there 's no help for it that I can see."

  "He has no family but Emma," said her friend, "and I suppose some benevolent soul will look after her; at any rate, it don't concern us;" and the two friends (?) tied on their hats for a promenade.

  Emma Grant was, in truth, almost heart-broken at this sad faux pas of her father's; but, with the limited knowledge of human nature gleaned from the experience of a sunny life of eighteen happy years, she doubted not the willingness of old friends to assist her in her determination to become a teacher. To one after another of these summer friends she applied for patronage. Some "could n't in conscience recommend the daughter of a

  In one of these discouraged moods she recollected her old friend, Mr. Bliss. How strange she should not have thought of him before! She had often hospitably entertained him, as she presided at her father's table; he stood very high in repute as a pious man, and very benevolently inclined; he surely would befriend with his influence the child of his old, though fallen, friend. With renewed courage she tied on her bonnet, and set out in search of him. She was fortunate in finding him in; but, ah! where was the old frank smile, and extended

  A deep red spot burned on Emma Gray's cheek, as she retraced her steps. Her lithe form was drawn up to its full height; there was a fire in her eye, and a firmness and rapidity in her step, that betokened a new energy. She would not be crushed by such selfish cowardice and pusillanimity; she would succeed,—and unaided, too, save by her own invincible determination. It must be that she should triumph yet.

  "Will is might," said Emma, as she bent all her powers to the accomplishment of her purpose; and when was that motto ever known to fail, when accompanied by a spirit undiscouraged by obstacles?

  It did not. True, Emma rose early, and sat up late; she lived on a mere crust; she was a stranger to luxury, and many times to necessary comforts. Her pillow was often wet with tears from over-tasked spirits and failing strength; the malicious sneer of the ill-judging, and the croaking prophecy of the ill-natured, fell upon her sensitive ear; old friends, who had eat and drank at her table, "passed by on the other side;" and there were the usual number of good, cautious, timid souls, who stood on the fence, ready to jump down when her position was certain, and she had placed herself beyond the need of their assistance! Foremost in this rank was the correct and proper Mr. Bliss, who soiled no pharisaical garment of his, by juxtaposition with any known sinner, or doubtful person.

  At the expiration of a year, Emma's school contained pupils from the first families in the city, with whose whole education she was entrusted, and who, making it their home with her, received, out of school hours, the watchful care of a mother. It became increasingly popular, and Emma was able to command her own price for her services.

  "Why don't you send your daughter to my friend, Miss Grant?" said Mr. Bliss to Senator Hall; "she is a little protege of mine—nice young woman!—came to me at the commencement of her school for my patronage;—the consequence is, she has gone up like a sky-rocket. They call it the 'Model School.'"

  Condescending Mr. Bliss! It was a pity to take the nonsense out of him; but you should have seen the crest-fallen expression of his whole outer man, as the elegant widower he addressed turned on him a look of withering contempt, saying,—"The young woman of whom you speak, sir, will be my wife before the expiration of another week; and, in her name and mine, I thank you for the very liberal patronage and the manly encouragement you extended to her youth and helplessness in the hour of need."

  It is needless to add how many times, in the course of the following week, the inhabitants of ——, who had

  Alas! poor human nature!

  NO, NEVER! Every cloud has a silver lining; and He who wove it knows when to turn it out. So, after every night, however long or dark, there shall yet come a golden morning. Your noblest powers are never developed in prosperity. Any bark may glide in smooth water, with a favoring gale; but that is a brave, skilful oarsman who rows up stream, against the current, with adverse winds, and no cheering voice to wish him "God speed." Keep your head above the wave; let neither sullen despair nor weak vacillation drag you under. Heed not the poisoned arrow of sneaking treachery that whizzes past you from the shore. Judas sold himself when he sold his Master; and for him there dawned no resurrection morning! 'T is glorious to battle on with a brave heart, while cowering pusillanimity turns trembling back. Dream not of the word "surrender!" When one frail human reed after another breaks, or bends beneath you, lean on the "Rock of Ages." The Great Architect passes you through the furnace but to purify. The fire may scorch, but it shall never consume you. He will yet label you "fine gold." The narrow path may be thorny to your tender feet; but the "promised land"

  "PERCY, dear Percy, take back those bitter words! As Heaven is my witness, they are undeserved by me. See, my eye quails not beneath yours; my cheek blanches not. I stand before you, at this moment, with every vow I made you at the altar unbroken, in letter and spirit;" and she drew closer to him, and laid her delicate hand upon his broad breast. "Wrong me not, Percy, even in thought."

  The stern man hesitated. Had he not wilfully blinded himself, he had read truth and honor in the depths of the clear blue eyes that looked so unflinchingly into his own. For a moment, their expression overcame him; then, dashing aside the slender fingers that rested upon him, he left her with a muttered oath.

  Mary Lee had the misfortune to be very pretty, and the still greater misfortune to marry a jealous husband. Possessing a quick and ready wit, and great conversational powers, a less moderate share of personal charms would have made her society eagerly sought for.

  As soon as her eyes were opened to the defect alluded to in her husband's character, she set herself studiously to avoid the shoals and quicksands that lay in the matri-

  Mary was no coquette. Nature had given her a heart; and superior as she was to her husband, she really loved him. To most women, his exacting unreasonableness would only have stimulated to a finished display of coquetry; but Mary, gentle and yielding, made no show of opposition to the most absurd requirements. But all these sacrifices had been unavailing to propitiate the fiend of jealousy;—and there she sat, an hour after her husband had left her, with her hands pressed tightly together, pale and tearless, striving, in vain, to recall any cause of offence.

  Hour after hour passed by, and still he came not. The heavy tramp of feet had long since ceased beneath the window; the pulse of the great city was still; silence and darkness brooded over its slumbering thousands. Mary could endure it no longer. Rising, and putting aside the curtain, she pressed her face close against the window-pane, as if her straining eye could pierce the gloom of midnight. She hears a step! it is his!

  Trembling, she sank upon the sofa to await his coming, and nerve herself to bear his bitter harshness.

  Percy came gayly up to her and kissed her forehead! Mary passed her hand over her eyes and looked at him

  "Percy regrets his injustice," she said to herself. "Men are rarely magnanimous enough to own they have been in the wrong;" and, with the generosity of a noble heart, she resolved never to remind him, by speech or look, that his words had been like poisoned arrows to her spirit.

  The following day, Percy proposed their taking "a short trip into a neighboring town," and Mary, glad to convince him how truly she forgave him, readily complied. It was a lovely day in spring, and the fresh air and sweet-scented blossoms might have sent a thrill of pleasure to gladder hearts than theirs.

  "What a pretty place!" said Mary. "What a spacious house, and how tastefully the grounds are laid out! Do you stop here?" she continued, as her husband reined the horse into the avenue.

  "A few moments. I have business here," replied Percy, slightly averting his face, "and you had better alight too, for the horse is restive and may trouble you."

  Mary sprang lightly from the vehicle and ascended the capacious stone steps. They were met at the door by a respectable gray-haired porter, who ushered them into a receiving room. Very soon, a little, sallow-faced man,

  As they left, a respectable, middle-aged woman entered, and invited Mary to take off her hat. She declined, saying, "she was to leave with her husband in a few minutes."

  The old woman then jingled a small bell, and another matron entered.

  "Better not use force," said she, in a whisper. "Poor thing! So pretty, too! She don't look as though she 'd wear a 'strait-jacket.'"

  The truth flashed upon Mary at once! She was in a Lunatic Hospital! Faint with terror, she demanded to see her husband,—assured them she was perfectly sane; to all of which they smiled quietly, with an air that said "We are used to such things here."

  By and by, the little wizen-faced doctor came in, and, listening to her eloquent appeal with an abstracted air, as one would tolerate the prattle of a petted child, he examined her pulse, and motioned the attendants to "wait upon her to her room." Exhausted with the tumult of feeling she had passed through, she followed without a show of resistance; but who shall describe the death-chill

  Some refreshment was brought her, of which she refused to partake. She could not even weep; her eyes seemed turned to stone. She could hear the maniac laughter of her fellow-prisoners,—she could see some of the most harmless marching in gloomy file through the grounds, with their watchful body-guard.

  Poor Mary! She felt a stifled, choking sensation in her throat, as if the air she breathed were poison; and, with her nervous, excitable temperament, God knows the chance she stood to become what they really thought her. To all her eager inquiries she received only evasive answers; or else the subject was skilfully and summarily dismissed to make place for one in which she had no interest.

  Little Dr. Van Brunt daily examined her pulse, and "hoped she was improving"—or, if she was n't, it was his interest to issue a bulletin to that effect, and all "company" was vetoed as "exciting and injurious to the patient." And so day after day, night after night, dragged slowly along. And Percy, with the meanness of a revengeful spirit, was "biding his time," till the punishment should be sufficiently salutary to warrant his recalling her home. But while he was

  "Leave me, please, will you," said Mary to the nurse, as she turned her cheek to the pillow, like a tired child. "I want to be alone."

  The old woman took her sewing and seated herself just outside the door, thinking she might wish to sleep. In a few moments she peeked cautiously through the open door. Mrs. Percy still lay there, in the same position, with her cheek nestling in the palm of her little hand.

  "She sleeps sweetly," she muttered to herself as she resumed her work.

  Yes, Dame Ursula, but it is the "sleep" from which only the trump of the archangel shall wake her!

  Mary's secret died with her, and the remorse that is busy at the heart of Percy is known only to his Maker.

  "HAVE you called on your old friend, James Lee, since your return?" said Mr. Seldon to his nephew.

  "No, sir; I understand he has the misfortune to have a blue-stocking for a wife, and whenever I have thought of going there, a vision of inky fingers, frowzled hair, rumpled dress, and slip-shod heels has come between me and my old friend,—not to mention thoughts of a disorderly house, smoky puddings, and dirty-faced children. Defend me from a wife who spends her time dabbling in ink, and writing for the papers. I 'll lay a wager James has n't a shirt with a button on it, or a pair of stockings that is not full of holes. Such a glorious fellow as he used to be, too!" said Harry, soliloquizingly, "so dependent upon somebody to love him. By Jove, it 's a hard case."

  "Harry, will you oblige me by calling there?" said Mr. Seldon with a peculiar smile.

  "Well, yes, if you desire it; but these married men get so metamorphosed by their wives, that it 's a chance if I recognize the melancholy remains of my old friend. A literary wife!" and he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

  At one o'clock the next afternoon, Harry might have been seen ringing the bell of James Lee's door. He had a very ungracious look upon his face, as much as to say,—"My mind is made up for the worst, and I must bear it for Jemmy's sake."

  The servant ushered him in to a pretty little sitting-room, not expensively furnished, but neat and tasteful. At the further end of the room were some flowering plants, among which a sweet-voiced canary was singing. Harry glanced round the room; a little light-stand or Chinese table stood in the corner, with pen, ink, and papers scattered over it.

  "I knew it," said Harry; "there's the sign! horror of horrors! an untidy, slatternly blue-stocking! how I shall be disgusted with her! Jemmy 's to be pitied."

  He took up a book that lay upon the table, and a little manuscript copy of verses fell from between the leaves. He dropped the book as if he had been poisoned; then picking up the fallen manuscript with his thumb and forefinger, he replaced it with an impatient pshaw! Then he glanced round the room again,—no! there was not a particle of dust to be seen, even by his prejudiced eyes; the windows were transparently clean; the hearth-rug was longitudinally and mathematically laid down; the pictures hung "plumb" upon the wall; the curtains were fresh and gracefully looped; and, what was a greater marvel, there was a child's dress half finished in a dainty

  A little lady tripped lightly into the room, and stood smilingly before him; her glossy black hair was combed smoothly behind her ears, a knotted upon the back of a remarkably well-shaped head; her eyes were black and sparkling, and full of mirth; her dress fitted charmingly to a very charming little figure; her feet were unexceptionally small, and neatly gaitered; the snowy fingers of her little hand had not the slightest "soupcon" of ink upon them, as she extended them in token of welcome to her guest.

  Harry felt very much like a culprit, and greatly inclined to drop on one knee, and make a clean breast of a confession, but his evil bachelor spirit whispered in his ear,—"Wait a bit, she's fixed up for company; cloven feet will peep out by and by!"

  Well, they sat down! The lady knew enough,—he heard that before he came;—he only prayed that he might not be bored with her book-learning, or blue-stockingism. It is hardly etiquette to report private conversations for the papers,—so I will only say that when James Lee came home, two hours after, he found his old friend Harry in the finest possible spirits, tete-a-tete with his "blue"

  However, his objections, silent though they were, were over-ruled. There was no fault to be found with that table-cloth, or those snowy napkins; the glasses were clean, the silver bright as my lady's eyes; the meats cooked to a turn, the gravies and sauces perfect, and the dessert well got up and delicious. Mrs. Lee presided with ease and elegance; the custards and preserves were of her own manufacture, and the little prattler, who was introduced with them, fresh from her nursery bath, with moist ringlets, snowy robe, and dimpled shoulders, looked charmingly well cared for.

  As soon as the two gentlemen were alone, Harry seized his friend's hand, saying, with a half smile, "James, I feel like an unmitigated scoundrel! I have heard your wife spoken of as a 'blue-stocking,' and I came here prepared to pity you as the victim of an unshared heart, slatternly house, and indigestible cooking; but may I die an old bachelor if I don't wish that woman, who has just gone out, was my wife."

  James Lee's eyes moistened with gratified pride. "You don't know half," said he. "Listen;—some four years since I became involved in business; at the same time my health failed me; my spirits were broken, and I was get-

  The entrance of Emma put a stop to any further eulogy, and Harry took his leave in a very indescribable and penitential frame of mind, doing ample penance for his former unbelieving scruples, by being very uncomfortably in love with a "Blue-Stocking."

  IT is only a little pauper. Never mind her. You see she knows her place and keeps close to the wall, as if she expected an oath or a blow. The cold winds are making merry with those thin rags. You see nothing of childhood's rounded symmetry in those shrunken limbs and pinched features. Push her one side,—she 's used to it,—she won't complain; she can't remember that she ever heard a kind word in her life. She 'd think you were mocking if you tried it.

  She passes into the warm kitchen, savory with odorous dainties, and is ordered out with a shout by the portly cook. In the shop windows she sees nice fresh loaves of bread, and tempting little cakes. Rosy little children pass her on their way to school, well-fed, well-clad and joyous, with a mother's parting kiss yet warm on their sweet lips.

  There seems to be happiness enough in the world, but it never comes to her. Her little basket is quite empty; and now, faint with hunger, she leans wearily against that shop window. There is a lovely lady, who has just passed in. She is buying cakes and bon-bons for her

  Not so fast, little one! Warm hearts beat sometimes under silk and velvet. That lady has caught sight of your little woe-begone face and shivering form. O, what if it were her child! And, obeying a sweet maternal impulse, she passes out the door, takes those little, benumbed fingers in her daintily gloved hands, and leads the child,—wondering, shy and bewildered,—into fairy land.

  A delightful and novel sensation of warmth creeps over those frozen limbs; a faint color tinges the pale cheeks, and the eyes grow liquid and lovely, as Meta raises them thankfully to her benefactress. The lady's little girl looks on with an innocent joy, and learns, for the first time, how "blessed are the merciful."

  And then Meta passes out, with a heavy basket, and a light heart. Surely the street has grown wider, and the sky brighter! This can scarcely be the same world! Meta's form is erect now; her step light, as a child's should be. The sunshine of human love has brightened her pathway! Ah, Meta!—earth is not all darkness—bright angels yet walk the earth. Sweet-voiced Pity

  "DEAR Mary," said Harry —— to his little wife, "I have a favor to ask of you. You have a friend whom I dislike very much, and who I am quite sure will make trouble between us. Will you give up Mrs. May for my sake, Mary?"

  A slight shade of vexation crossed Mary's pretty face, as she said, "You are unreasonable, Harry. She is lady-like, refined, intellectual, and fascinating, is she not?"

  "Yes, all of that; and, for that very reason, her influence over one so yielding and impulsive as yourself is more to be dreaded, if unfavorable. I 'm quite in earnest, Mary. I could wish never to see you together again."

  "Pshaw! dear Harry, that 's going too far. Don't be disagreeable; let us talk of something else. As old Uncle Jeff says, 'How's trade?'" and she looked archly in his face.

  Harry did n't smile.

  "Well," said the little wife, turning away, and patting her foot nervously, "I don't see how I can break with her, Harry, for a whim of yours; besides, I 've promised to go there this very evening."

  Harry made no reply, and in a few moments was on his way to his office.

  Mary stood behind the curtain, and looked after him as he went down the street. There was an uncomfortable, stifling sensation in her throat, and something very like a tear glittering in her eye. Harry was vexed,—she was sure of that; he had gone off, for the first time since their marriage, without the affectionate good-by that was usual with him, even when they parted but for an hour or two. And so she wandered, restless and unhappy, into her little sleeping-room.

  It was quite a little gem. There were statuettes, and pictures, and vases, all gifts from him either before or since their marriage; each one had a history of its own,—some tender association connected with Harry. There was a bouquet, still fresh and fragrant, that he had purchased on his way home, the day before, to gratify her passion for flowers. There was a choice edition of Poems they were reading together the night before, with Mary's name written on the leaf, in Harry's bold, handsome hand. Turn where she would, some proof of his devotion met her eye. But Mrs. May! She was so smart and satirical! She would make so much sport of her, for being "ruled" so by Harry! Had n't she told him "all the men were tyrants," and this was Harry's first attempt to govern her. No, no, it would n't do for her to yield.

  So the pretty evening dress was taken out; the trimmings re-adjusted, and re-modelled, and all the little et ceteras of her toilette decided. Yes, she would go; she had quite made up her mind to that. Then she opened her jewel-case; a little note fell at her feet. She knew the contents very well. It was from Harry,—slipped slyly into her hand on her birth-day, with that pretty bracelet. It could n't do any harm to read it again. It was very lover-like for a year old husband; but she liked it! Dear Harry! and she folded it back, and sat down, more unhappy than ever, with her hands crossed in her lap, and her mind in a most pitiable state of irresolution.

  Perhaps, after all, Harry was right about Mrs. May; and if he was n't, one hair of his head was worth more to her than all the women in the world. He never said one unkind word to her,—never! He had anticipated every wish. He had been so attentive and solicitous when she was ill. How could she grieve him?

  Love conquered! The pretty robe was folded away, the jewels returned to their case, and, with a light heart, Mary sat down to await her husband's return.

  The lamps were not lit in the drawing-room, when Harry came up the street. She had gone, then!—after all he had said! He passed slowly through the hall, entered the dark and deserted room, and threw himself on the sofa with a heavy sigh. He was not angry, but he was grieved and disappointed. The first doubt that

  "Dear Harry!" said a welcome voice at his side.

  "God bless you, Mary!" said the happy husband; "you 've saved me from a keen sorrow!"

  Dear reader,—won't you tell?—there are some husbands worth all the sacrifices a loving heart can make!

  IT would puzzle a Philadelphia lawyer to tell why Kitty Gray looks so serious as she sits by her latticed window this bright summer morning. Is she not the undisputed belle of ——?—adored by the young men, envied by the girls, who try in vain to find out the spell by which she monopolizes all hearts. Has she, at last, found one insensible mortal, cold-hearted enough to resist all love's artillery? That would be a novelty for Kitty! Has she detected a gray hair stealing in among her tresses, or an incipient crow's-foot at the corner of her eye? Banish the thought, at sweet eighteen!

  Mirror never reflected back lovelier tresses, brighter eyes, a fairer brow, or more symmetrical form. The hand her cheek rests on is faultless, and her foot is as perfect as a model. Ah, Miss Kitty, you were cut out for a coquette, but spoilt in the making! Nature gave you a heart. You are neither making a female Alexander of yourself by sighing for fresh hearts to conquer, nor considering profoundly the fashion of your next ball-dress. You have lived eighteen years in this blessed world, and your life has been all sunshine. Why not?

  Beauty and wealth have made you omnipotent; but

  And so Kitty sat leaning her cheek upon her hand, and wondering if a woman's power, if her nice tact and delicacy, were not bestowed upon her for something better than to further her own selfish purposes? Harvey was sensitive, proud and high-spirited,—it must be a very gentle hand that could turn him back from that dizzy precipice. Could she not save him? She resolved

  It was a gay scene—that ball-room! The fairy forms that floated down the dance, with flowing tresses, and sparkling eyes, and snowy necks, might have bewildered the sober head of age. Soft, entrancing music, brilliant lights, and the overpowering perfume of myriad sweet flowers, all lent their aid to complete the spell. Kitty shone, as usual, the brightest star of the evening. One cannot gaze long at a "star" without being dazzled; so how can I describe it? I can only say Kitty was irresistible. One minute you 'd think it was her eyes; then, the little dimpled hand that rested on your arm; then, her golden ringlets, or the tiny feet that supported that swaying, graceful figure. As to her eyes, whether black, or blue, or hazel, you could not tell. You only knew it was very dangerous looking at them long at a time, unless you had made up your mind to surrender.

  Well, Kitty had received her usual share of homage, with her usual sweet nonchalance, and now accepted the arm of a gentleman to the supper-table, where wit flew like champagne corks, and hearts were lost and won with a celerity worthy this progressive age. Harvey was as handsome as he well could be, and be mortal; in high good-humor, and as felicitous as only he knew how to be, in saying a thousand brilliant nothings.

  Kitty followed him with her eyes, and saw him, ere long, retire to a side-table, and, turning out a glass of wine, hold it to his lips. In an instant she was by his side.

  "It is mine!" said she, playfully, extending her little hand to grasp it; but there was a deep glow upon her cheek, and an earnest, imploring look in her eye, that said more than her words, and deepened the flush on Harvey's temples.

  "As you will, fair lady," said he, with a slight shade of embarrassment; "but wherefore?"

  "O, only a woman's whim!" said Kitty. "You are no true knight, if you cannot serve a lady without a reason."

  "I 'd serve you forever!" said Harvey, as he looked admiringly upon her changing countenance.

  "Then drink no wine to-night, unless I fill the glass for you," said she, smiling, as she joined the dancers.

  "Only a woman's whim!" Harvey did n't believe it. "How very lovely she looked! What could she mean? Could it be she thought him in danger? Had he gone so far, almost imperceptibly to himself? Could Kitty think that of him? Pshaw! it could n't be;" and he drew himself proudly up. "It must be some girlish nonsense,—a wager, or a bet of some kind. But that imploring, timid look! O, there was something in it,

  There 's an end to all things, and balls are no exceptions. Happy cavaliers were performing the agreeable duty of settling refractory shawls upon round, white shoulders. "Rigoletts" were to be tied under pretty chins, and lace kerchiefs around swan-like throats.

  These interminable matters being concluded, Kitty accepted Harvey as her escort home. They talked about a thousand little nothings, about which neither cared, when Harvey cut it all short, very suddenly, with,

  "Miss Gray, will you tell me frankly why you 'tabooed' that glass of wine?"

  All Kitty's practised self-possession forsook her. She hesitated a moment;—she feared to wound his feelings. No, she would not falter! So she said, in a clear, low voice, while her long lashes swept her cheek, "Because I knew that to you it was a poisoned draught, Mr. Fay; and I were no true friend did I fail to warn you. You will not be vexed with me?" said she, with winning sweetness, as she extended him her hand.

  Harvey's answer is not recorded; but it is sufficient to say, that the secret of his high legal eminence is known only to the belle of ——.

  Alas! that woman, gifted with an angel's powers, sent on an angel's mission, should so often be content with the butterfly life of a pleasure-seeking fashionist!

"Greater is he who ruleth his spirit, than he who taketh a city."

  "COME here, sir!" said a strong, athletic man, as he seized a delicate-looking lad by the shoulder. "You 've been in the water again, sir! Have n't I forbidden it?"

  "Yes, father, but—"

  "No 'buts!'—have n't I forbidden it, hey?"

  "Yes, sir. I was—"

  "No reply, sir!" and the blows fell like a hail-storm about the child's head and shoulders.

  Not a tear started from Harry's eye, but his face was deadly pale, and his lips firmly compressed, as he rose and looked at his father with an unflinching eye.

  "Go to your room, sir, and stay there till you are sent for. I 'll master that spirit of yours before you are many days older!"

  Ten minutes after, Harry's door opened, and his mother glided gently in. She was a fragile, delicate woman, with mournful blue eyes, and temples startingly transparent. Laying her hand softly upon Harry's head, she stooped and kissed her forehead.

  The rock was touched, and the waters gushed forth. "Dear mother!" said the weeping boy.

  "Why did n't you tell your father that you plunged into the water to save the life of your playmate?"

  "Did he give me a chance?" said Harry, springing to his feet, with a flashing eye. "Did n't he twice bid me to be silent, when I tried to explain? Mother, he's a tyrant to you and to me!"

  "Harry, he 's my husband and your father!"

  "Yes, and I 'm sorry for it. What have I ever had but blows and harsh words? Look at your pale cheeks and sunken eyes, Mother! It 's too bad, I say! He 's a tryant, mother!" said the boy, with a clenched fist and set teeth; "and if it were not for you, I would have been leagues off long ago. And there 's Nellie, too, poor, sick child! What good will all her medicine do her? She trembles like a leaf when she hears his footsteps. I say, 't is brutal, mother!"

  "Harry"—and a soft hand was laid on the impetuous boy's lips—"for my sake"—

  "Well, 't is only for your sake,—yours and poor Nellie's,—or I should be on the ocean somewhere—anywhere but here."

  Late that night, Mary Lee stole to her boy's bedside, before retiring to rest. "God be thanked, he sleeps!" she murmured, as she shaded her lamp from his face. Then, kneeling at his bedside, she prayed for patience

  "No, no, not that!" said Harry, springing from his pillow, and throwing his arms about her neck. "I can forgive him for what he has done to me, but I never will forgive him what he has made you suffer. Don't pray for him,—at least, don't let me hear it!"

  Mary Lee was too wise to expostulate. She knew her boy was spirit-sore, under the sense of recent injustice; so she lay down beside him, and, resting her tearful cheek against his, repeated, in a low, sweet voice, the story of the crucifixion. "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do!" fell upon his troubled ear. He yielded to the holy spell.

  "I will!" he sobbed. "Mother, you are an angel; and if I ever get to heaven, it will be your hand that has led me there."

  There was hurrying to and fro in Robert Lee's house that night. It was a heavy hand that dealt those angry blows on that young head!

  The passionate father's repentance came too late,—came with the word that his boy must die!

  "Be kind to her!" said Harry, as his head drooped on his mother's shoulder.

  It was a dearly-bought lesson! Beside that lifeless corpse, Robert Lee renewed his marriage vow; and now, when the hot blood of anger rises to his temples, and the hasty word springs to his lip, the pale face of the dead rises up between him and the offender, and an angel voice whispers, "Peace, be still!"

OR, DARKNESS AND LIGHT.

  SUCH a gloomy room as it was! You may sometimes have seen one just like it. The walls were dingy, the windows small, the furniture scanty and shabby. In one corner was a small bed, and on it a boy of about nine years; so pallid, so emaciated, that, as he lay there with his long lashes sweeping his pale cheek, you could scarce tell if he were living. At the foot of the bed sat a lady, whose locks sorrow, not time, had silvered. Her hands were clasped hopelessly in her lap, and her lips moved as if in silent prayer.

  "Good morning, Mrs. May," said the doctor, as he laid aside his gold-headed cane, very pompously. "I have but a minute to spare. General Clay has another attack of the gout, and can't get along without me. How's the boy?" and he glanced carelessly at the bed.

  "He seems more than usually feeble," said the mother, dejectedly, as the doctor examined his pulse.

  "Well, all he wants is something strengthening, in the way of nourishment, to set him on his feet. Wine and

  "Wine and jellies!" said the poor widow; and the tears started to her eyes, for she remembered sunnier days, when those now unattainable luxuries were sent away untasted from her well-furnished table, rejected by a capricious appetite; and she rose and laid her hand lovingly on the little sufferer's head, and prisoned the warm tears 'neath her closed eyelids.

  Little Charley was blind. He had never seen the face that was bending over him; but he knew, by the tone of her voice, whether she was glad or grieving; and there was a heart-quiver in it now, as she said, "Dear, patient boy," that made his little heart beat faster; and he pressed his pale lips to her hand, as if he would convey all he felt in that kiss; for love and sorrow had taught Charley a lesson—many of his seniors were more slow to learn—to endure silently, rather than add to the sorrow of a heart so tried and grief-stricken. And so, through these tedious days, and long, wearisome nights, the little sufferer uttered no word of complaint, though the outer and inner world was all darkness to him.

  Gently, noiselessly a young, fair girl glided into the room. She passed to the bedside; then, stooping so low

  "That's your kiss, Lena," said he, tenderly. "I 'm so glad you have come!" and he threw his wasted arms about her neck. "Put your face down here,—close, Lena, close. The doctor has been here, and mamma thought me sleeping; but I heard still. He said I must have wine and jellies to make me well, and dear mamma so poor, too! O, you should have heard her sigh so heavily! And, Lena, though I cannot see, I was sure her eyes were brimming, for her voice had tears in it. Now, Lena, I want you to tell her not to grieve, because Charley is going to heaven. I dreamed about it last night, Lena. I was n't a blind boy any longer; and I saw such glorious things."

  "Don't, don't, Charley," said the young girl, sobbing. "Take your arms from my neck. You shall live, Charley,—you shall have everything you need. Let me go, now, there's a darling;" and she tied on her little bonnet, and passed through the dark, narrow court, and gained the street.

  "Wine and jellies!"—yes, Charley must have them; but how? Her little purse was quite empty, and the doctor's bill was a perfect night-mare to think of. O, how many tables were loaded with the luxuries that were strength, health, life, to poor Charley!—and she walked on despairingly. The bright blue sky seemed to mock

  At least so thought Ernest Clay; for he stopped and looked, and passed, and looked again. It was the embodiment of all his artist dreams. "I must sketch it," said he to himself. "She is poor,—that is evident from her dress; that she is pure and innocent, one may see in the holy expression of her face." And low and musical was the voice which expressed his request to Lena. His tone was respectful; but his ardent look embarrassed her, and she veiled her bright eyes with their long lashes, without replying.

  "If your time is precious, you shall be well paid;—it will not take you long. Will money be any object to you?"

  "O, yes, yes!" said Lena, despair giving her courage. "O, sir, I have a brother, sick, dying for necessaries beyond our reach! Give me some wine to keep him from sinking—now, if you please, sir!"—and she blushed at her own earnestness,—"then I will come to you to-morrow. My name is Lena May."

  "Dear, dear mother!—wine for Charley, and more when this is gone."

  "Lena!" said her mother, alarmed at her wild, excited manner.

  "An artist, mother, gave me this, if I would let him make a sketch of me. Dear Charley!"—and she held the tempting luxury to his fever-parched lip,—"drink, Charley. Now you 'll be strong and well, and all for this foolish face;" and she laughed hysterically; then her hands fell at her side, her head drooped; the excitement was too much for her,—she had fainted.

  "There, that will do; thank you. Now turn your head a trifle to the left, so;" and the young artist's eye brightened as his hand moved over the canvas. In truth it were hard to find a lovelier model. That full, dark eye and Grecian profile; that wealth of raven hair, those dimpled shoulders. Yes, Lena was the realization of all his artist dreams;—and then, she was so pure, so innocent. Practised flatterer as he was, professionally, praise seemed out of place now,—it died upon his lip. He had transferred many a lovely face to canvas, but never one so holy in its expression.

  And little Charley, day by day, grew stronger; and rare flowers lay upon his bed; and he inhaled their fra-

  "Well, Lena," said Ernest, "your picture will be finished to-day. I suppose you are quite glad it is over with?"

  "Charley misses me so much!" was love's quick evasion.

  "There are still many comforts you would get for Charley, were you able, Lena?"

  "O, yes, yes!" said the young girl, eagerly.

  "And your mother, she is too delicate to toil so unremittingly?"

  "Yes," said Lena, dejectedly.

  "Dear, good, lovely Lena! they shall both have such a happy home, only say you will be mine."

  Dear reader, you should have peeped into that artist's home. You should have seen the proud, happy husband. You should have seen with what a sweet grace the little

  "WELL, Colonel, what engrosses your thoughts so entirely this morning? The last new fashion for vests, the price of Macassar oil, or the misfit of your last pair of primrose kids? Make a 'clean breast' of it."

  "Come, Minnie, don't be satirical. I 've a perfect horror of satirical women. There's no such thing as repose in their presence. One needs to be always on the defensive, armed at all points; and then, like as not, some arrow will pierce the joints of his armor. Be amiable, Minnie, and listen to me. I want a wife."

  "You! a man of your resources! Clubs, cigars, fast horses, operas, concerts, theatres, billiard-rooms! Can't account for it," said the merciless Minnie. "Had a premonitory symptom of a crow's foot, or a gray hair? Has old Time begun to step on your bachelor toes?" and she levelled her eye-glass at his fine figure.

  The Colonel took up a book, with a very injured air, as much as to say,—Have it out, fair lady, and when you get off your stilts, I'll talk reason to you.

  But Minnie had no idea of getting off her stilts; so she

  "Well, then, negatively, I don't want a literary woman. I should desire my wife's thoughts and feelings to centre in me,—to be content in the little kingdom where I reign supreme,—to have the capacity to appreciate me, but not brilliancy enough to outshine me, or to attract 'outsiders.'"

  "I like that, because 't is so unselfish," said Minnie, with mock humility. "Go on."

  "You see, Minnie, these literary women live on public admiration,—glory in seeing themselves in print. Just fancy my wife's heart turned inside-out to thousands of hearts beside mine, for dissection. Fancy her quickening ten thousand strange pulses with 'thoughts that breathe and words that burn.' Fancy me walking meekly by her side, known only as Mr. Somebody, that the talented Miss

  "Because they can't help it," said Minnie, with a flashing eye. "Why does a bird carol? There is that in such a soul that will not be pent up,—that must find voice and expression; a heaven-kindled spark, that is unquenchable; an earnest, soaring spirit, whose wings cannot be earth-clipped. These very qualities fit it to appreciate, with a zest none else may know, the strong, deep love of a kindred human heart. Reverence, respect, indeed, such a soul claims and exacts; but think you it will be satisfied with that? No! It craves the very treasure you would wrest from it, Love! That there are vain and ambitious female writers, is true; but pass no sweeping condemnation; there are literary women who have nonetheless deserved the holy names of wife and mother, because God has granted to them the power of expressing the same tide of emotions that sweep, perchance, over the soul of another, whose lips have never been touched 'with a coal from the altar.'"

  "Good morning, Colonel," said Minnie; "how did you like the lady to whom I introduced you last evening?"

  "Like her? I don't like her at all,—I love her!

  "I thought she'd suit you," said Minnie, not trusting herself to look up. "She's very attractive; but are you sure you can secure her?"

  "Well, I flatter myself," said the Colonel, glancing at an opposite mirror, "I shall, at least, 'die making an effort,' before I take No for an answer. Charming woman! feminine from her shoe-lacings to the tips of her eyebrows; no blue-stockings peeping from under the graceful folds of her silken robe. What a charmed life a man might lead with her! Her fingers never dabbled with ink, thank Heaven! She must be Mrs. Col. Van Zandt, Minnie!"

  She was "Mrs. Col. Van Zandt." A week after their marriage, Minnie came in, looking uncommonly wicked and mischievous. "What a turtle-dove scene!" said she, as she stood at the door. "Do you know I never peep into Paradise, that I don't feel a Luciferish desire to raise a mutiny among the celestials? And apropos of that, you recollect 'Abelard,' Colonel; and the beautiful 'Zeluka,' by the same anonymous writer; and those little essays by the same hand, that you hoarded up so long? Well, I've discovered the author,—after a persevering investigation among the knowing ones,—the anonymous writer, with the signature of 'Heloise.' You

  "Laugh away, Minnie! You might have played me a worse trick,—for instance, had you married me yourself! 'Heloise' or Amy, 't is all one to me, so long as I can call her wife. I'm quite happy enough to be willing you should enjoy your triumph; and quite willing to subscribe, on my knees, to your creed, that a woman may be literary, and yet feminine and lovable; content to find her greatest happiness in the charmed circle of Home."

  MEN'S rights! Women's rights! I throw down the gauntlet for children's rights! Yes, little pets, Fanny Fern 's about "takin' notes," and she 'll "print 'em," too, if you don't get your dues. She has seen you seated by a pleasant window, in a railroad car, with your bright eyes dancing with delight, at the prospect of all the pretty things you were going to see, forcibly ejected by some overgrown Napoleon, who fancied your place, and thought, in his wisdom, that children had no taste for anything but sugar-candy. Fanny Fern knew better. She knew that the pretty trees and flowers, and bright blue sky, gave your little souls a thrill of delight, though you could not tell why; and she knew that great big man's soul was a great deal smaller than yours, to sit there and read a stupid political paper, when such a glowing landscape was before him, that he might have feasted his eyes upon. And she longed to wipe away the big tear that you did n't dare to let fall; and she understood how a little girl or boy, that did n't get a ride every day in the year, should not be quite able to swallow that great big lump in the throat, as he or she sat jammed down in a

  Yes; and Fanny has seen you sometimes, when you 've been muffled up to the tip of your little nose in woolen wrappers, in a close, crowded church, nodding your little heads, and keeping time to the sixth-lie and seventh-lie of some pompous theologian, whose preaching would have been high Dutch to you, had you been wide awake.

  And she has seen you sitting, like little automatons, in a badly-ventilated school-room, with your nervous little toes at just such an angle, for hours; under the tuition of a Miss Nancy Nipper, who did n't care a rush-light whether your spine was as crooked as the letter S or not, if the Great Mogul Committee, who marched in once a month to make the "grand tour," voted her a "model school-marm."

  Yes, and that ain't all. She has seen you sent off to bed, just at the witching hour of candle-light, when some entertaining guest was in the middle of a delightful story, that you, poor, miserable "little pitcher," was doomed never to hear the end of! Yes, and she has seen "the line and plummet" laid to you so rigidly, that you were driven to deceit and evasion; and then seen you punished for the very sin your tormentors helped you to commit. And she has seen your ears boxed just as hard for tearing a hole in your best pinafore, or breaking a

  And when, by patient labor, you had reared an edifice of tiny blocks,—fairer in its architectural proportions, to your infantile eye, than any palace in ancient Rome,—she has seen it ruthlessly kicked into a shattered ruin, by somebody in the house, whose dinner had n't digested!

  Never mind. I wish I was mother to the whole of you! Such glorious times as we 'd have! Reading pretty books, that had no big words in 'em; going to school, where you could sneeze without getting a rap on the head for not asking leave first; and going to church on the quiet, blessed Sabbath, where the minister—like our dear Saviour—sometimes remembered to "take the little children in his arms, and bless them."

  Then, if you asked me a question, I would n't pretend not to hear; or lazily tell you I "did n't know," or turn you off with some fabulous evasion, for your memory to chew to a cud till you were old enough to see how you had been fooled. And I 'd never wear such a fashionable gown that you could n't climb on my lap whenever the fit took you; or refuse to kiss you, for fear you 'd ruffle my curls, or my collar, or my temper,—not a bit of it; and then you should pay me with your merry laugh, and your little confiding hand slid ever trustingly in mine.

  O, I tell you, my little pets, Fanny is sick of din, and strife, and envy, and uncharitableness!—and she 'd rather, by ten thousand, live in a little world full of fresh, guileless, loving little children, than in this great museum full of such dry, dusty, withered hearts.

  "HOW is it," said I, despondingly, to Aunt Milly, "that you, who have been steeped to the lips in trouble, can be so cheerful?"

  "Listen to me, Ellen. You know my first great sorrow,—the loss of my husband. When the grave closed over him, the star of hope faded from my sky. I could see no mercy in the Hand that dealt that blow. The green earth became one wide sepulchre; the sweet ministrations of nature had no healing power. In my selfish despair, I would have shrouded the blue heavens in sable, and thrown a pall of gloom over every happy heart. Months passed by slowly, wearily, and I found no alleviation of my sorrow; no tears came to ease that dull, dead pain that seemed crushing the life from out my heart; no star of Bethlehem shone through the dark cloud over my head.

  "I was sitting one afternoon, as usual, motionless and speechless. It was dark and gloomy without, as my soul within. The driving sleet beat heavily against the windows. Twilight had set in. My little Charley had patiently tried for hours to amuse himself with his toys,

  "'No, no, Charley!' said I, as I clasped him to my heart with repentant tears. 'No, no!—I'll cloud your sunny face no longer.'

  "Alas, dear Ellen, I but turned from one idol to another;—I gave God the second place, and lived only for my boy; and so my wayward heart needed another lesson. The grave took in my last earthly treasure. But when the Smiter had done his work, those little lips, though silent, still said to me, 'God loveth the cheerful giver;' and so, smiling through my tears, I learned to say, 'Thy will be done.' Dear Ellen, if the good Father takes away with one hand, he gives with the other. There is always some blessing left. 'Ilka blade of grass keeps its ain drap o' dew!'"

  ARE there no martyrs of whom the world never hears? Are there no victories save on the battle-field? Are there no triumphs save where one can grasp earth's laurel crown? See you none who rise early and sit up late, and turn with a calm, proud scorn from a gilded fetter to honest toil? Pass you never, in your daily walks, slight forms, with calm brows, and mild eyes, whose whole life has been one prolonged self-struggle? Lip, cheek and brow tell you no tale of the spirit's unrest!

  The "broad road" is passing fair to look upon. The coiled serpent is not visible 'mid its luxurious foliage. The soft breeze fans the cheek wooingly, laden with the music of happy, careless idlers. Youth, and bloom, and beauty,—ay, even silver hairs, are there! No tempest lowers; the sky is clear and blue. What stays yonder slender foot? Why pursue so courageously the thorny, rugged, stumbling path? The eye is bright; the limbs are round and graceful; the blood flows warm and free; the shining hair folds softly away from a pure, fair brow; there are sweet voices yonder to welcome; there is an

  Ah! the foot-prints of Calvary's sufferer are in that "narrow path!" That youthful head bends low and unshrinkingly to meet its "crown of thorns." The "star in the east" shines far above those rugged heights, on which its follower reads,—"To him that overcometh, will I give to eat of the Tree of Life."

  Dear reader, for a brief day the Cross; for uncounted ages the Crown!

  A MOTHER had laid her darling in the earth. Many mothers have done this; it is an every-day occurrence. Myriads of little sculptured forms have been thus laid to rest, with blinding tears,—like little Mary.

  Friends and acquaintances accompany them to "the narrow door," and there they leave them. Not so the mother! Ah! there is an empty crib in the nursery; there is an untenanted chair at the table; there are little frocks hanging up in the wardrobe; there are half-worn shoes about, with the impress of a chubby little foot; there is a little, useless straw hat in the entry; there are toys that have borne its wearer happy company; there are little sisters left,—and they are loved. But, O, not like the dead! It was the first-born, and every mother that reads this will understand the height and breadth, and length and depth of that word. In all the wide earth there is no spot so dear to her as the little mound that covers her child, and she weeps and shudders when the cold wind sweeps past at night, and would fain warm its chilled limbs in the familiar resting-place. She knows the casket is rifled of the gem, but

  So felt my bereaved friend, Emma ——, and the watchful eye of her husband provided her a temporary home near the grave of little Mary. The rough gardener would draw his hand across his eyes, as he passed her every morning, at early dawn, sitting by that little headstone, covering her child with the flowers she loved best; while the uplifted finger and softened tread of the stranger testified his mute sympathy.

  One evening she expressed a desire to go in after the "gates were closed." She was so restlessly miserable that it seemed a cruelty to deny her, and we effected an entrance through a broken palisade. Amid that silent company we were alone! The stars shone on as brightly as when the rayless eyes beneath had looked lovingly and hopefully upon their radiance. The timid little birds fluttered under the leaves as we passed. The perfume of a thousand flowers was borne past us on the night breeze. In that spiritual atmosphere earth seemed to dwindle, and the spirit, like a caged bird, beat against the bars of its prison-house, and longed to try its pinions in a freer air. There was an unearthly expression on Emma's face which recalled me to myself. I gently drew her away from the grave, but no persua-

  Listen! Distinctly, a sweet, childish voice rings out upon the still air: "Mother! mother!" Emma started to her feet,—clasping me tightly,—with lips apart, and eyes fixed in the direction of the sound. Neither spoke; and, though I am no believer in the supernatural, my limbs tottered under me. With trembling finger, Emma silently pointed in an opposite direction. It was no illusion! There was a little figure, in white, gleaming through the darkness, with outstretched arms, and snowy robe, and flowing hair! "Mother! mother!" As it approached nearer, Emma fell heavily to the ground.

  It was long before she recovered from the shock; and yet, dear reader, the solution of the mystery is simple. Her youngest child, escaping from her bed, and the charge of a careless nurse, had started, with childhood's fearless confidence, to seek us in the dim labyrinthine paths of the cemetery.

  Ah, little Minnie! After all, it was "an angel" that we saw, "robed in white," with that shining hair and seraph face!

  LITTLE Mabel had no mother. She was slight, and sweet, and fragile, like her type, the lily of the valley. Her little hand, as you took it in yours, seemed almost to melt in your clasp. She had large, dark eyes, whose depths, with all your searching, you might fail to fathom. Her cheek was very pale, save when some powerful emotion lent it a passing flush; her fair, open brow might have defied an angel's scrutiny; her little foot-fall was noiseless as a falling snow-flake; and her voice was sweet and low as the last note of the bird ere it folds its head under its wing for nightly slumber.

  The house in which Mabel lived was large and splendid. You would have hesitated to crush with your foot the bright flowers on the thick, rich carpet. The rare old pictures on the walls were marred by no envious cross-lights. Light and shade were artistically disposed. Beautiful statues, which the sculptor, dream-inspired, had risen from a feverish couch to finish, lay bathed in the rosy light which streamed through the silken curtains. Obsequious servants glided in and out, as if

  I said the little Mabel had no mother; and yet there was a lady, fair and bright, of whose beautiful lip, and large, dark eyes, and graceful limbs, little Mabel's were the mimic counterpart. Poets, artists and sculptors had sung, and sketched, and modelled her charms. Nature had been most prodigal of adornment. There was only one little thing she had forgotten,—the Lady Mabel had no soul.

  Not that she forgot to deck little Mabel's limbs with costliest fabrics of most unique fashioning. Not that every shinging ringlet on that graceful little head was not arranged, by Mademoiselle Jennet, in strict obedience to orders; not that a large nursery was not fitted up luxuriously at the top of the house, filled with toys which its little owner never cared to look at; not that the Lady Mabel's silken robe did not sweep, once a week, with a queenly grace through the apartment, to see if the mimic wardrobe provided for its little mistress fitted becomingly, or needed replenishing, or was kept in order by the smart French maid. Still, as I said before, the little Mabel had no mother!

  See her, as she stands there by the nursery window, crushing her bright ringlets in the palm of her tiny hand. Her large eyes glow; her cheek flushes, then pales; now the little breast heaves; for the gorgeous west is one sea

  WHAT a pity people will not fulfil their destiny, and stay in their own proper niche in this world's gallery! Why will they mistake their vocation? Now don't think this is a great portico before a little building, for the matter I am about to speak of is a "crying evil."

  Yesterday was a beautiful Sunday,—just such a day as makes one feel devotional, whether or no;—quiet and still, soft and balmy. Little children,—the flowers and poetry of life's wayside,—looking fresh and sweet as if the Saviour's hands had just blessed them; and fathers and mothers, forgetting life's cares and turmoil, to look heavenward; the dim, subdued light of the time-honored chapel; the grand, solemn voluntary on the organ,—all were suggestive and impressive. The clergyman rose, and read that beautiful hymn,—

"There is a land of pure delight."

  Shade of Watts!—how it was murdered! Commas, semicolons and periods, of no account at all. The perspiration stood in drops on my forehead. I could have rushed through the eye of a needle, had I as many humps

  HOW it flew from one laughing lip to another!—trembling on the tongue of decrepitude; lisped by prattling infancy, and falling like a funeral knell on the ear of the grief-stricken!

  Little, busy feet were running to and fro, trumpeting the fame of "good Santa Claus." The pretty blue-eyed maiden blushed, as she placed her Christmas gift on the betrothal finger. Yes, it might have been ten times colder than it was, and nobody would have known it, everybody's heart was so warm.

  See that great house opposite! How bright the fire-light falls on those rare old pictures; on marble, and damask, and gold and silver! Now, they are decking a Christmas-tree. Never a diamond sparkled brighter than those children's eyes. 'T is all sunshine at the great house.

  Kathleen sits at her low, narrow window. She sees it all. There are no pictures on her walls; though she has known the time when they were decked with the rarest. There is nothing there, now, that the eye would look

  Last Christmas the wealth of a noble heart was laid at her feet. Now she is written widow! How brief a word to express such a far-reaching sorrow! Walter and she were so happy. "Only one voyage more, dear Katie, and then I will turn landsman, and stay with you on shore;" and so Kathleen clung, weeping, to his neck, and bade him a silent farewell. And since! * * * O, how wearily pass time's leaden footsteps, to the watchful eye and the listening ear of love! "Her eyes were with her heart, and that was far away."

  Day after day crept on. Then came, at last, these crushing words,—"All on board perished!"

  With that short sentence, the light of hope died out in her heart, and the green earth became one wide sepulchre. The blight fell early on so fair a flower. There were many who would gladly have lit again the love-light in those soft, blue eyes; but from all Kathleen turned, heart-sick, away to her little, lonely room, to toil, and dream, and weep, and pray.

  And now the twilight has faded away, and the holy stars, one by one, have come stealing out, to witness her sorrow. There she sits, with a filling eye and an aching heart, and watches the merry group yonder. Life is so bright to them; so weary to her, without that dear arm to lean upon. Could she but have pillowed that dying

  Blessed sleep!—touch those sad eyes lightly. Torture not that troubled heart with mocking dreams. See, she smiles!—a warm flush creeps to her cheek, and dries away the tear. Sleep has restored the dear one to her. Dream on while you may, sweet Kathleen!

  "That is the house, sir. God bless me, that you should be alive! That one, sir, with the small window. No light there. Find the way, sir?"

  Tap, tap, on the window! Kathleen wakes from that sweet dream to listen. She does not tremble, for grief like hers knows neither hope nor fear. She is soon apparelled, and, shading the small lamp with her little hand, advances to the door. Its flickering ray falls upon the stalwart form before her. What is there in its outline to palsy her tongue, and blanch her cheek? This torturing suspense! If the stranger would but speak!

  "Kathleen!"

  With one wild cry of joy, she falls upon his neck.

  Ah, little Katie! Dreams are not always a mockery! A merry Christmas to you!

  "I WONDER who made God? Mamma don't know. I thought mamma knew everything. The minister don't know, because I asked him. I wonder do the angels know? I wonder shall I know, when I go to heaven?"

  Dear little May! She looked like an angel then, as she stood under the linden-tree, with her eyes fixed on the far-off sky, and the sunlight falling on that golden hair, till it shone like a glory round her head. You would have loved our little May,—not because her face had such a pensive sweetness in it, or that her step was light as a fawn's, or her little limbs so gracefully moulded,—but because her heart was full of love for every living thing which God had made. One day I rambled with her in the wood. She had gathered her favorite flowers,—the tiniest and most delicate;—the air was full of music, and the breeze laden with fragrance; the little birds were not happier than we. Little May stood still; her large eyes grew moist with happy tears, and dropping her little treasures of moss, leaves, and flowers, at my feet, she said, "Dear Fanny, let me pray."

  She knew that the good God scattered all this beauty so lavishly about us, and she could not enjoy it without thanking Him. Dear little May! we listen in vain for her voice of music now.

A DASH AT A CHARACTER WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN.

  MR. NICODEMUS NEY is a philanthropist,—so the world says; (and I, as in duty bound, have a great respect for the opinion of the world;) that is, he goes about collecting ninepences and half-dollars from poor, overtasked servant girls, and half-fed clerks, for the founding of "charitable institutions" for all sorts of distressed persons, who never knew what an unfortunate situation they were in, until he told them.

  How much of the money thus obtained is paid out for the purpose specified in "nothing to nobody!" He often takes long journeys to Niagara, and other places of fashionable resort; but it would be very malicious "to put that and that together." Some of the donors, too, are occasionally impertinent enough in inquire, point blank, what has become of their funds! As if a man who belongs to the church, wears such a long face, fortified with such a white and stiff cravat, makes such long prayers, and has such a narrow creed, could be anything but the quintessence of honesty! It is astonishing how

  Should Mr. Nicedemus Ney sit toasting his feet at the fire, after a surfeiting dinner, and should a poor, down-trodden creature come in for relief, you could not expect him to disturb his digestion by attending to such a petty case of distress. He is a great man, and only does things on a large scale,—on a scale that will tell! Beside, it is his forte to draw money out of people's pockets, not to put it in.

  Very circumspect is Nicodemus. It would puzzle you to keep track of any of his personal or domestic expenditures; all his bargains are strictly "private," and he was never known to answer the simplest question without first doubling Cape Look-out! Is he attacked? He goes whining to "Dives;" and I would like to see any dog bark when a rich man tells him to hold his tongue.

  And so Nicodemus grows fatter and sleeker every year, keeping wrinkles and rumors at bay. The poor draw a long, hopeless sigh as he passes them, and the uninitiated touch their hats respectfully, and say, "It is Nicodemus Ney, the great philanthropist!"

"The tear of a loving girl is like a dew-drop on a rose; but on the cheek of a wife, is a drop of poison to her husband."

  IT is "an ill wind that blows nobody any good." Papas will be happy to hear that twenty-five dollar pocket-handkerchiefs can be dispensed with now, in the bridal trousseau. Their "occupation's gone"! Matrimonial tears "are poison." There is no knowing what you will do, girls, with that escape-valve shut off; but that is no more to the point, than—whether you have anything to smile at or not; one thing is settled—you must not cry! Never mind back-aches, and side-aches, and head-aches, and dropsical complaints, and smoky chimneys, and old coats, and young babies! Smile! It flatters your husband. He wants to be considered the source of your happiness, whether he was baptized Nero and Moses! Your mind never being supposed to be occupied with any other subject than himself, of course a tear is a tacit reproach. Besides, you miserable little whimperer! what have you to cry for? A-i-n-t y-o-u m-a-r-r-i-e-d? Is n't that the summum bonum,—the height of feminine ambition? You can't get beyond that! It

"No person should be delicate about asking for what is properly his due. If he neglects doing so, he is deficient in that spirit of independence which he should observe in all his actions. Rights are rights, and, if not granted, should be demanded."

  A LITTLE "Bunker Hill" atmosphere about that! It suits my republicanism; but I hope no female sister will be such a novice as to suppose it refers to any but masculine rights. In the first place, my dear woman, "female rights" is debatable ground; what you may call a "vexed question." In the next place (just put your ear down, a little nearer), granted we had "rights," the more we "demand," the more we shan't get them. I 've been converted to that faith this some time. No sort of use to waste lungs and leather trotting to Sigh-racuse about it. The instant the subject is mentioned, the lords of creation are up and dressed; guns and bayonets the order of the day; no surrender on every flag that floats! The only way left is to pursue the "Uriah Heep" policy; look 'umble, and be desperate cunning. Bait them with submission, and then throw the noose over the will. Appear not to have any choice, and as true as gospel

OR, SUNNY DAYS.

  IT was a sulty morning in August when I first halted under the shade of Jeremiah Crispin's old sycamore trees. Bless the old house, with its red eaves, and the little shoe-maker's shop adjoining, where for many a long year he had hammered away at his lap-stone, at peace with all mankind! His wife slept quietly in the moss-grown church-yard near by; and Jeremiah and his daughter Xantippe were sole tenants of the red-eaved house. I beg pardon of Miss Xantippe, for allowing her father to precede her! It is a sin I should not dare to be guilty of, were there not a good twenty miles between us; for, truth to tell, the old man's shop was the only place where he could reign unmolested by petticoat government. Dear old Jeremiah! When the house was too hot for us, what an ark of refuge was the old shop; and what cosey talks we used to have over that old lap-stone! With what native politeness he would clear a place for me to sit beside him, where "my dress should not be soiled!" What long, wonderful stories I used to hear about "the Brit-

  God be thanked,—in this day of many creeds, of intolerance, and sham piety,—these memories sweep over my soul's dark hours, soothing as the sweet music of David's harp to Saul's chafed spirit.

  Jeremiah's simple, unpretending piety, and childlike trust and love, chase away every shadow of unbelief, and again I am a guileless child, listening with round-eyed wonder to lessons of wisdom,—then but half understood,—from the silver-haired patriarch, over the old lap-stone.

"The new Empress of France had fifty-eight splendid wedding dresses made a few days previous to her marriage. Her pocket handkerchiefs, it is said, cost 2000 francs apiece."

  IT can't be possible, my dear woman, that you sold all your bright charms for that silly trash! It is my female opinion, that those "two thousand franc" pocket handkerchiefs will be pretty well tear-stained before you get through with them. You ambitious little monkey! you played your card to perfection. I like you for that, because I like to see everything thoroughly done, if it is only courting; but if you don't get tired to death of that old roue, my name is not Fanny. He bears about as much resemblance to his "uncle," as Tom Thumb does to the Colossus of Rhodes. He is an effeminate, weak-minded, vacillating, contemptible apology for a man;—never has done anything worthy the name of Napoleon, that ever I heard of. Keep him under your thumb, you beautiful little witch, or your pretty head may pay the forfeit,—who knows? It won't require much diplomacy, for you are the smarter of the two, unquestionably; but you had better look as meek as Moses, and "keep dark"

"Rumor tells us that two New York ladies, Mad. R., late Miss L., and Mrs. R., formerly Miss C., have been appointed dames d'honneur of the Empress Eugenia."

  CERTAINLY! it takes American gems to sparkle in foreign diadems. Now, my dears, stand up for your own country, and all its institutions, to your last gasp. Send over here for all your boots and bonnets. Tell them France is a villainous place, and you are never sure you are not eating a defunct frog in your fricassee; that here in America we all have our blessed little homes, full of love and sunlight, and don't go wandering round spending half our lives in a cafe, and the other half in a theatre. Tell them that all the proceeds from the sale of Uncle Tom's Cabin the authoress will devote to liberating and educating, and polishing up all the dark meat in slaverydom (?), and that the American women don't go stampedeing round the country in dickeys and broadcloth, vociferating for "Woman's Rights!" (?)

  Yes, and see you keep a stiff upper lip when that milk and water Napoleon speaks to you, and give those little dapper Frenchmen fits all round. Tell them they make

  And now, good-by; toss your bonnets up in the air every time you see "the stars and stripes;" hiss at the "Marseilles Hymn," and clap your hands till they are blistered whenever our blessed "Yankee Doodle" strikes upon your ear.

  I WISH I could ever take up a paper that endorsed my liberal sentiments. I've always warped to the opinion that good men were as safe as homeopathic pills. You don't suppose they ever patronize false words or false weights, false measures or false yardsticks? You don't suppose they ever slander their neighbors ever making a long-winded exhortation at a vestry meeting? You don't suppose they ever lift their beavers to a long purse, and turn their backs on a thread-bare coat? You don't suppose they ever bestow a charity to have it trumpeted in the newspapers? You don't suppose, when they trot devoutly to meeting twice a day on Sunday, that they overhaul their ledgers in the intermission? You don't suppose they ever put doubtful-looking bank bills in the contribution box? You don't suppose they ever pay their minister's salary in consumptive hens and damaged turkeys? I wish people were not so uncharitable and suspicious. It disgusts me with human nature.

  Now, if I once hear a man make a prayer, that 's enough said. After that, Gabriel could n't make me

  "O, WHAT a nice place to cry!" said a laughing little girl, as she nestled her head lovingly on her mother's breast.

  The words were spoken playfully, and the little fairy was all unconscious how much meaning lay hid in them; but they brought the tears to my eyes, for I looked forward to the time when care and trial should throw their shadows over that laughing face,—when adversity should overpower,—when summer friends should fall off like autumn leaves before the rough blast of misfortune,—when the faithful breast she leaned upon should be no longer warm with love and life,—when, in all the wide earth, there should be for that little one "no nice place to cry."

  God shield the motherless! A father may be left,—kind, affectionate, considerate, perhaps,—but a man's affections form but a small fraction of his existence. His thoughts are far away, even while his child clambers on his knee. The distant ship with its rich freight, the state of the money-market, the fluctuations of trade, the office, the shop, the bench; and he answers at random the little

  Childhood passes; blooming maidenhood comes on; lovers woo; the mother's quick instinct, timely word of caution, and omnipresent watchfulness, are not there. She gives her heart, with all its yearning sympathies, into unworthy keeping. A fleeting honeymoon, then the dawning of a long day of misery; wearisome days of sickness; the feeble moan of the first-born; no mother's arm in which to place, with girlish pride, the little wailing stranger; lover and friend afar; no "nice place to cry!"

  Thank God!—not unheard by Him, who "wipeth all tears away," goeth up that troubled heart-plaint from the despairing lips of the motherless!

"Don't rely too much on the torches of others;—light one of your own."

  DON'T you do it!—borrowed light is all the fashion. For instance, you wake up some morning, fully persuaded that your destiny lies undeveloped in an inkstand. Well, select some popular writer; read over his or her articles carefully; note their peculiarities and fine points, and then copy your model just as closely as possible. Borrow whole sentences, if you like, taking care to transpose the words a little. Baptize all your heroes and heroines; at the same font;—be facetious, sentimental, pathetic, terse, or diffuse, just like your leader. It may astonish you somewhat to ascertain how articles which read so easy, are, after all, so difficult of imitation; but, go on, only take the precaution, at every step, to sneer at your model, for the purpose of throwing dust in people's eyes.

  Of course, nobody sees through it; nobody thinks of the ostrich who hides his head in the sand, imagining his body is not seen. Nobody laughs at your servility; nobody exclaims, "There's a counterfeit!" Nobody says, what an unintentional compliment you pay your leader.

  In choosing your signature, bear in mind that nothing goes down, now-a-days, but alliteration. For instance, Delia Daisy, Fanny Foxglove, Harriet Honeysuckle, Lily Laburnum, Paulena Poppy, Minnie Mignonette, Julia Jonquil, Seraphina Sunflower, &c., &c.

  If anybody has the impertinence to charge you with being a literary pirate, don't you stand it. Bristle up like a porcupine, and declare that it is a vile insinuation; that you are a full-rigged craft yourself, cruising round on your own hook, and scorning to sail under false colors. There's nothing like a little impudence!

  That's the way it's done, my dear. Nobody but regular workies ever "light a torch of their own." It's an immensity of trouble to get it burning; and it is sure to draw round it every little buzzing, whizzing, stinging insect there is afloat. No, no!—make somebody else light the torch, and do you flutter round in its rays; only be careful not to venture so near the blaze as to singe those flimsy wings of yours.

'Don't moralize to a man who is on his back; help him up, set him firmly on his feet, and then give him advice and means."

  THERE'S an old-fashioned, verdant piece of wisdom, altogether unsuited for the enlightened age we live in; fished up, probably, from some musty old newspaper, edited by some eccentric man troubled with that inconvenient appendage called a heart! Don't pay any attention to it. If a poor wretch—male or female—comes to you for charity, whether allied to you by your own mother, or mother Eve, put on the most stoical, "get thee behind me," expression you can muster. Listen to him with the air of a man who "thanks God he is not as other men are." If the story carry conviction with it, and truth and sorrow go hand in hand, button your coat up tighter over your pocket-book, and give him a piece of—good advice! If you know anything about him, try to rake up some imprudence or mistake he may have made in the course of his life, and bring that up as a reason why you can't give him anything more substantial, and tell him that his present condition is probably a salutary discipline for those same peccadilloes!—ask him

  Should you at any time be seized with an unexpected spasm of generosity, and make up your mind to bestow some worn-out old garment, that will hardly hold together till the recipient gets it home, you've bought him, body and soul, of course; and are entitled to the gratitude of a life-time! If he ever presumes to think differently from you, after that, he is an "ungrateful wretch," and "ought to suffer." As to the "golden rule," that was made in old times; everything is changed now; it is not suited to our meridian.

  People should not get poor; if they do, you don't want to be bothered with it. It is disagreeable; it hinders your digestion. You would rather see Dives than Lazarus; and, it is my opinion, your taste will be gratified in that particular,—in the other world, if not in this!

  APOLLO!—what a face! Doleful as a hearse; folded hands; hollow chest; whining voice; the very picture of cowardly irresolution. Spring to your feet, hold up your head, set your teeth together, draw that fine form of yours up to the height that God made it; draw an immense long breath, and look about you. What do you see? Why, all creation taking care of number one;—pushing ahead like the car of Juggernaut, over live victims. There it is; and you can't help it. Are you going to lie down and be crushed?

  By all that is manly, no!—dash ahead! You have as good a right to mount the triumphal car as your neighbor. Snap your fingers at croakers. If you can't get round a stump, leap over it, high and dry. Have nerves of steel, a will of iron. Never mind sideaches, or heartaches, or headaches,—dig away without stopping to breathe, or to notice envy or malice. Set your target in the clouds, and aim at it. If your arrow falls short of the mark, what of that? Pick it up and go at it again. If you should never reach it, you will shoot higher than if you only aimed at a bush. Don't whine, if your friends

  "Now girls," said Aunt Hetty, "put down your embroidery and worsted work; do something sensible, and stop building air-castles, and talking of lovers and honey-moons. It makes me sick; it is perfectly antimonial. Love is a farce; matrimony is a humbug; husbands are domestic Napoleons, Neroes, Alexanders,—sighing for other hearts to conquer, after they are sure of yours. The honey-moon is as short-lived as a lucifer-match; after that you may wear your wedding-dress at breakfast, and your night-cap to meeting, and your husband wouldn't know it. You may pick up your own pocket-handkerchief, help yourself to a chair, and split your gown across the back reaching over the table to get a piece of butter, while he is laying in his breakfast as if it was the last meal he should eat in this world. When he gets through he will aid your digestion,—while you are sipping your first cup of coffee,—by inquiring what you'll have for dinner; whether the cold lamb was all ate yesterday; if the charcoal is all out, and what you gave for the last green tea you bought. Then he gets up from the table, lights his cigar with the last evenings

  "But, what's the use of talking? I'll warrant every one of you'll try it the first chance you get; for, somehow, there's a sort of bewitchment about it. I wish one half the world were not fools, and the other half idiots."

"We are not to suppose that the oak wants stability because its light and changeable leaves dance to the music of the breeze;—nor are we to conclude that a man wants solidity and strength of mind because he may exhibit an occasional playfulness and levity."

  NO, INDEED! So, if you have the bump of mirthfulness developed, don't marry a tombstone. You come skipping into the parlor, with your heart as light as a feather, and your brain full of merry fancies. There he sits! stupid—solemn—and forbidding.

  You go up and lay your hand on his arm; he's magnetized about as much as if an omnibus-driver had punched him in the ribs for his fare; and looks in your face with the same expression he'd wear if contemplating his ledger.

  You turn away and take up a newspaper. There's a witty paragraph; your first impulse is to read it aloud to him. No use! He wouldn't see through it till the middle of next week. Well, as a sort of escape-valve to your ennui, you sit down to the piano and dash off a waltz; he interrupts you with a request for a dirge.

  Your little child comes in,—Heaven bless her!—and utters some one of those innocent pettinesses which are

  Altogether, he's about as genial as the north side of a meeting-house. And so you go plodding through life with him to the dead-march of his own leaden thoughts. You revel in the sunbeams; he likes the shadows. You are on the hill-tops; he is in the plains. Had the world been made to his order, earth, sea, and sky would have been one universal pall—not a green thing in it except himself! No vine would "cling," no breeze "dally," no zeyphr "woo." Flowers and children, women and squirrels, would never have existed. The sun would have been quenched out for being too mercurial, and we should have crept through life by the light of the pale, cold moon!

  No—no—make no such shipwreck of yourself. Marry a man who is not too ascetic to enjoy a good, merry laugh. Owls kill humming-birds!