SUPPLEMENT TO THE AUCKLAND EVENING STAR.

THE STORY OF STERICKER.

imrse it doesn't really matter in the 4 .253 i, b u t I have a distinct recollection that the, opera of the evening waß the oft-repeated . (Trovalor of Verdi. I had been wondering yet once again at the peculiar circumstances attending that crime of infanticide of which the gipsy woman, Azucena, had been guilty. HaviDg resolved upon burning the baby of her deadliest foe, it was certainly, to say the least of it, a stupid mistake to make that roasting of her own child instead. I had arrived at the trite decision that really she had not deserved to be a mother, in re gard to her proved incapacity for taking care of her offspring. The invisible tenor—l rather think it was Tamberlik, for I am re ferring, or about to refer, to something that happened .some years since—had delivered his famous song from his prison in the tower, and forthwith, being much applauded, had appeared upon the stage, by special permis sion, as it were, or upon some sudden relent ing of his fierce jailer, the Count Di Luni, to bow gratefully, to receive further congratu. lations, and then to return to captivity, in order that the story might proceed in the usnal way. All this we had gone through very comfortably indeed. We had really enjoyed our Verdi, even to his trombones ; the soprano had sung her best, her soaring notes seemed to ring musically against the very ceiling of the house like good coin upon a counter; the basso had produced rich tones from strange depths, as a bounteous host might bring forth luscious and potent wines from subterranean regions ; the tenor bad shot amongst us, now and then a shrill C above the line,, that lodged in our ears, rending them as though it had been a barbed arrow. Altogether the representation had been most unexceptionable and admirable, when suddenly there occurred an excitement in the^theatre which could not be ascribed to Verdi or his interpreters. Something of a gasp was audible-something of a cry. the sound of something falling, of people rising from their seats, of questioning and conversing in hurried sentences, without any regard to the transactions of the stage. An opera-glass had fallen from one of the ■upper private boxes on the head of a gentle man sitting in the stsills. Now I had seen tide glass fall, had seen a round, white, braceleted arm and a gloved hand stretched out, as it seemed to me, to arrest its descent. But, of course, it was all done in a moment—3o rapidly, indeed, that there was scarcely time for the thing to impress itself upon my mind, and, the instant after it happened, I began to doubt whether I had really seen what I had seen. It was so much more as though I had imagined the thing than actually witnessed it. However, that the accident had occurred there could be no question. The gentleman, upon whose cranium the glass had descended had been carried into the lobby. He was said to be stunned if not killed by the blow. A belief prevailed that his skull had been fracttred. In any case, an ugly wound had been inflicted upon his head, which, by the way, was bald, except for a crescent-shaped fringe at the back, and a few scanty locks arranged over the crown. The blood had .flowed freely, dabbling and disfiguring his .white cravat and embroidered shirt front. It was really altogether a very shocking thing. There was no attending to the oper a after it. The tragic matters happening upon the stage were quite quenched by this serious accident in the stalls^ Who could now care about the Count De Limi's behead ing his long-lost brother, pr Azncena's bitter scream of "Sei vendicata, 0 madre?" The fate of our bald comrade was of much more concern to us. I hastened to make inquiries as to how he fared. He was not dead. So much was presently clear. In fact he was gradually recovering consciousness. Some one was loosening his collar and tie; some one else was dabbling his wound with a wet cloth. He had just risen from his seat, I learned, when the opera-glass struck him, i which, indeed, he ,»till held tightly in his hand. He was breath ing heavily, rocking a little to and fro, and moaning at intervals. He was a middle aged man, pursy of figure, with luxuriant whiskers that might owe something of their rich brown hue to art, linked together, as it Were, by a branch line of moustache running "cross his upper lip, and a shaven chin such M» indeferenice to the peculiar and unpictu 'esque fancy of the^ommander-in-chief, had ..been for some time the vogue with the Bri *»* army. Still I was of opinion, though I nwdly know on what grounds exactly, that the unfortunate man was not a member of the military service of my country. Then he started, lifted his head, and turned an eye toward me. Immediately, but to my 'peat surprise, I recognized him. Jt was Stericker. I have said, advisedly, ' hat he tiMned an eye toward me. His other eye wa* f w t closed; seemed, indeed, to have sunk back into his head. Then he moved a Emulous hand in my direction.. He knew me, it seeme d. He , *neat 0 s P*ak' bQt « was some time before he could utter, any intelligibly so *nd. At last we discovered his meaning, He had lost something^ ne deake^meaning j *V*a and the bystanders, to,sea^fo r A I, S^ eh according!^. After a while, very near to the stall he ; haf 6o ■ copied, there was .picked up-a «1. 88 1 « was a new fact to me, though of course^ wan not a convenient .opportunitjJfor ponf

dering upon it, that Stericker wore or pos sessed a glass eye. I had never perceived any deficiency of his organ of sight, or even suspected it. The glass eye had always seemed to me a genuine article—by which I mean one that he really could see with.

He was gratified at the recovery of his glass eye. He was well enough now to dus it with his handkerchief, and—but this he did not accomplish without considerable difficulty—to replace it in the socket it usually filled. Certainly the aspect of that portion of his visage was benefitted by the more tenanted and furnished character it n<sw again assumed. He then took from his pocket a miniature mirror j not much laiger than a crown-piece, and gazed at the artifi. cial organ. He desired to see that it wag properly adjusted, and what artists call "in drawing," with regard to his other features. There was something curious, I thought, about the severity with which his real eye scrutinized his sham one; while yet, as it seemed, the sham eye was of more import ance to him, more cherished by him than the real one. But something else was missing. A shirt stud. For this also diligent search was made, and again with success. It was found on the floor of the lobby— a curious looking stud ; a'pearl I thought in the first instance; but it was not a pearl exactly; no, nor a | white cornelian, which was my second sup position. It was of an oblong shape, milky white, and semi-trasparent, in a handsome setting of brilliants. Stericker expressed great satisfalion, in a rather incoherent way, that the stud had been found. He clearly prized it—if not for its intrinsic worth, which, without doubt, was considerable, however—then, as I judged, for some asso ciations, possibly of a tender kind, connected with it. He was so far recovered that he was left solely to my care. Tbe opsra was over. I forgot whether there was or not a ballet in those days, but I think not. In any case the theatre was emptying fast. He sat for a few minutt s longer, then rose almost briskly and said-— "lam glad you were here old fellow ; I do not know what I should have done without you. A strip or two of plaster over the wound, and I shall be able to g&t on again pretty well, I dare say. .Any chemist can manage that for me, and perhaps a glass of hot brandy and water would pull me toge ther a3 much as anything." I was glad to find him equal to the pro posed proceeding. I had not ventured to hope for so rapid a recovery. " £fot but what it was a nasty shock to a fellow," he said. I quite agreed that it must have been a very nasty sho^k—a most unfortunate acci dent. At this he laughed rather wildly. " Whatever ybucall it don't call it that," he said. " You mean that it was not an accident." It appeared that he did not mean that. " But I saw the glass fall," I said. "You moan that you saw her throw it down ?" "Saw ? Who?" I demanded, uncocsciously adapting the interro»atives of Hamlet. " Arabella 1" I jthought him wandering in his mind. I knew nothing of Arabella. I could not remember that I had ever encountered, out of works of fiction, any woman of that name. And then I came to ask myself what, after all did I really know of Stericker himself ? In truth it was very little. "It was Arabella, 'of course," ha con tinued. " I know that very well. 1 know the opera-glass for the matter of that. I gave it to her—l gave it to her." " Where I had first met Stericker -I am by no means clear. I am almost certain that I was never formally introduced to him. But I had seen him at various places upon numberless occasions, until I seemed to have acquired quite a habit of seeing him. So at last (the thing was becoming quite absurd) there was no help for it but to recognise him as an acquaintance at any rate. Finding each other so frequently/face to face in the same place, beneath the same roof, and even at the same table, what could we do even tually, but laugh and nod, and say, "What! you hero •" and then we shook hands.

Still I protest that I knew little of him beyond what he told me. But then what does one really know of any man beyond what he tells one of himself ? And certainly that is not always to be relied on. I did not, I may add like Stericker, still less did I res pect him, although I had perhaps no special reason for not respecting him beyond [mere prejudice of a fanciful, and posßiblyof an unwarrantable kind. He was by; no means however the man I should have selected for a friend or even for an acquaintance had choice been permitted me in the matter. But it wasn't. I was doomed to meet Stericker incessantly, and so it chanced that we came to be almost on term* of intimacy with each other. At least he came to be on terms of intimacy with me. And he called me " old , fellow." I did not approve of this, indeed I thought it a liberty; but what could I do! I was"not really, at any rate not ao very old." Bat no doubt I had arrived at that period of life when the question of age in relation to one's self is rather to be avoided t than dis cussed, lest there should arise personal ap plication which could hardly be otherwise than inconvenient. .

And now had occurred tliisjaccident at the opera-house, [confirming as it were my ac

quaintance with Stericker, and convertirg it almost into a friendship. He expressed great gratitude for the assistance I had ren dered him, although in truth it had been little enough. But again and again he thanked me, and presently, his wounded head having been skilfully dealt with and relieved by the application of strips of plas ter, I found myself at his lodging in Half moon-Etreet, sitting in an easy chair, smoking a cigar, and drinking a temperate mixture of brandy and water. Until then I had never really known where Steiicker lived.

" And you saw her throw down the opera glass ?" he said, returning to the subject of the accident. I corrected him—l had seen no such thing, But he did not pay much attention to what I said.

" And how did she look ? Handsome, of course. She was always that, though she is not now nearly so young as when I first met her—and loved her. For what could Ido then but love her ? Have you ever been in love, old fellow ?" he demanded abruptly. I said I thought I had, for at the moment I felt it was not a thing a man could be qnite certain about, and I rather objected to the question, and on that account preferred to give a somewhat evasive answer. I did not wish painful memories to be awakened; they had been asleep and very still for a good many years. "If you doubt it why then you never have," said Stericker oracularly. "There can be no mistake about an attack of love any more than a fit of the gout. I have suffered from both afflictions. In my time I have loved a good deal, and I have in re turn been loved very much indeed. I say it without vanity." But he said it with vanity, and it was to that object. He outstretched his right arm, bringing an expanse of wristband into vie w, and raised bis right hand to his head as though about to pass his finger through hip hair and crest it up, after the invariable man ner of the self-satisfied and vain-glorious. For the moment he had forgotten how bald he was ! He had forgotten too the strips of plaster that cress-barred his crown! In discoverirg anew these infiunities he cvi. dently experienced considerable mortifica tion. I had heaid Stericker described as hand sonue, but that waß not my opinion of him. No, he was never, he never could have been handsome. He was well dressed, although inclined to make an excessive, and theiefore a rather vulgar display of the jewelry he possessed. His teeth, it is true, were superb, but I was never quite convinced that they weie natural products of his own gums ; and his nose vras of that large, fleshy, Eoman form which has always contained to my thinking an extravagant measure of admi ration from the|world in general. (My nose I may mention, is altogether of smaller di mensions, and of a totally different pattern.) Then he was very upright, carrying before him his protruding waistcoat with consider able dignity. Moreover, there was some thing imposing about his aspect and manner, arising I think from his imperturable and deeply-rooted self-confidence, and his fixed resolution to exact from others, or enforce upon them if he possibly could, his own es timate of himself. Still there was some thing decidedly sinister about the expression of Stericker's face, and especially when he smiled. It was a singularly wicked smile, that wrinkled his nose curiously, produced strange dints and a dark flush upon his fore head, and brought down the inner corners of his eyebrows close to his eyes, after a deci dedly ominous fashion.

" I have loved and been loved," he re peated, "and don't mind owning I have in my time jilted and been jilted." He said this with a morbid Don Giovanni air that 1 thought particularly objectionable. "Arabella jilted me," he resumed, "and has never forgiven herself for it nor me either. How fair she was in those days ! She is fair still for that matter, though she uses more pearl powder now than she did. Fair but false. Women are often that, yon know. Shall I say always." I deprecated such an assertion. According to my experience it was far too sweeping^ He conceded that I was right possibly. Yet, it seemed to me that he despised me for nay moderation. "You remarked this stud?" He pro duced the stud we had searched for at his request, and found in the lobby of the opera house. "It would have pained me very much if I had lost it. I regard it as a pre cious relic. It belonged to Arabella once. In fact—why should I disguise the truth from you ?—this stud is formed out of one of Arabella's front teeth." His smile as he said this was not pleasant to contemplate. His confession had certainly startled me. There was something dreadful about it, aQd he had the air of an Indian brave exhibiting a scalp. He gloried in the possession of Arabella's front tooth ? How had he obtained it, I ventured to de mand. Was it a pledge of affection ? Could they possibly have exchanged teeth as ordi nary lovers exchange locks of hair ? I hardly knew what, I was saying or what I was thinking. , , : - "I was a dentist in those days," he said. What he had been before that and since, what profession he had followed at the", moment of his addressing me, I really had j no idea. " And Arabella was one of my pa- j ticnta. But she was no ordinary patient. She was something [more, much more than

that. She was for a while my affianced bride. I loved her and she loved me—at least we thought that we loved each other." " And yeu didn't ?"

"Well, we didn't, as it happened, love each other quite as much as we thought we did. In fact, both were disappointed, and perhaps a trifle deceived. She thought I had money—l hadn't. I had been told that she was an heiress. Well, she was nothing; of the kind. Still I am a man of integrity though you may not think it. I promised marriage ; I fully proposed to be as good as m> word. The way of terminating our en gagement did not come from me. But Ara bella's temper was imperfect; ehe was far from patient, she was ambitious, and—l must add—avaricious and deceitful. She trifled with me, she still held me enchained —but she encouraged the addresses of an other and a richer suitor. She designed to employ me merely as of a means of irritating his jealousy, and of stimulating him to de clare himself. Then I was to be flung aside as something worthless, because it had served her purpose, and wra done with. In good time I discovered her treachery. I had intercepted her letters—no matter how —and I knew all. But of that she enter tained no sort of suspicion. She had always fond smiles for me, and false words and ar tificial caresses. It was maddening. Well, she was, as I have said, my patient, and Bhe suffered much frem the toothache. She came to me in order that I might extract a tooth that pained her. It was arranged that the operation should be performed under the influence of chloroform." He paused.

" But surely you didn't—1

" Hear me out," he said, and he smiled, I thought, horribly. "It was accident, of course, pure accident. I was dreadfully nervous. Was that surprising ? I loved her and she was amazingly beautiful. It was accident, as I have said, or call it, if you will, an error of judgment, but-nothing worse than that as you value my friendship." (As a matter of fact I did not value his friend ship in the slightest degree, but I did not say.) "My conduct, Ido assure you, was strictly professional. I did not even kiss her; but I extracted the wrong tooth."

" Ths.t was your vengeance," I interjected.

" No. She said so, but it wasn't true. I extracted, as I believed, the tooth Bhe had pointed out, desiring me to extract it. Was it my fault that it was a perfectly Bound tooth, and a front one, too ! She eaid it was ; but women, you know, are not reasonable in such cases. I wan a dentist then, with a reputation to lose; I was a lover then, though a deceived one. HoweA^er, there was no pacifying Arabella. She wae persuaded that I had done it on purpose, frhe was most violent. She had predetermined upon a quarrel with me, although she had not per haps fixed upon the precise period for its occurrence. Well, she brought it on then. It was an awful scene. How she abused me. What language she permitted, herself to nse. How ehe screamed. What hysterics she went into. However, the tooth was out, and there was no mis bake about that."

Here he smiled again, most malevolently,

as it seemed to me.

" Her treachery toward me was punished, although, as I have stated, by pure accident or error of judgment, which you please. But Arabella vowed vengeance against me. In that respect I am bound to say she has been as good as her word. It's no thanks to her that I am living to speak of these thing?, -to night."

" Then you really believe that she let fall the opera glass on purpose !"

§i" I am quite satisfied of it. She meant my death. She knew I was there. I had noticed her before leaning out of her box, and taking note of my position. I was just thinking of changing it, suspecting what might happen, when I was struck down. Arabella is a woman who knows what she is about. She was always that kind of woman. I know her. I've a good reason to. And it's not the first time she's planned to punish me as savagely as Bhe could. You did not know until to-night, perhaps, that one of her eyes was artificial ? No ! natur ally you didn't. Well, that was her doing."

"What! The artificial eye !"

" Don't be stupid," he said, rudely. "No doubt I had been rather obtuse ; but I had heard of ladies painting on glass and doing potichomanie and other strange things in the way of fancy work, and for the moment, altogether, my mind was in rather a con fused state." >'

" No," Stericker continued, " but I owe to her the necessity for wearing an artificial eye. It happened at the flower show in the Botanical Gardens. There was a dense crowd. It was in the tent where the pelar goniums are exhibited. Not that I care about such things, but it so happened. A lady advanced with her parasol held in front of her; Suddenly she seemed to thrust it at me, as a lancer might his lance. Her aim was wonderfully true. The sight of my left eye was gone for ever. It was quite a mercy that the spike of her parasol did not pene trate to the brain. That waa Arabella's doiag, of course. ■ Part of her revenge."

'"And she said nothing ?"

"She said, calmey, "I beg your pardon, It was an accident, and passed on. She looked very handsome. She was superbly dressed. However, that she always is. Her husband is old, but amazingly rich. He labours to gratify her slightest whim—so I

am told. But her only desire—the sole pas sion of her life—is to wreak her vengeance upon me. I feel that. She cannot forget, much less forgive, the loss of her front tooth. You see, she's reminded of that unhappy business every time she looks in glass, which she does frequently, of course. She was always vain. And she means, sooner or later, to be the death of me, that's quite clear. She's |made two very good at tempts ; at the Botanical gardens, and to night, at the opera. The third time perhaps she'll succeed." " But doesn't the thought horrify you V "I accept my destiny," Stericker said, smiling, and with rather an affected air. "It would be something to fall by the hand of such a woman ss that; that would be my consolation; really a fine creature, you know, although, no longer in the bloom of youth ; indeed, removed some distance now from trie bloom of you, but still grand and beautiful, and so resolute. If she had loved me as she hates me !" " You love her still, then ?" " Well; not precisely. But I admire her jnst as I admire the Bengal tigress in the Zoo. If poscible, I should like Arabella to be caged like the tigress ; but as that can't be—well, I wear this stui as a memento of her, for the rest I take my chance. Now, what will you take ? Another cigar ? No ? Some more brandy and water ?" No. I wonld take nothing more. I had, in point of fact, already taken more than was absolutely necessary to me. I left Steiicker. I was much impressed by my experiences of that night, by whit had happened at the opera, and with his extraordinary carrative touching the vengeancs of Arabella. , Was it true ? I was reaUy not in a state of miud to determine. Even now I have a difficulty at arriving a, any distinct conclusion on the subject. But I know that Stericker's face woie, to my thinking, a very remarkable ex pression as I quitted him. His smile was simply awful. And strange to say—at least I think so, though it may not strike others in that light—l never saw Stericker again. He died shortly afterward, as I read in the news papers, the victim of a street accident. He was knocked down and run over in Hyde Park by a pony phaeton driven by a lady. There was, of course, an inquest upon his remains, the jury deciding, however, that he met his death "by misadventure." Some attempt had been made to hold the lady responsible, and to charge her with furious driving. But nothing of the kind was sus tained before the' coroner. Various witnesses gave evidence, acquitting her of all blame in the matter. Her conduct ia court was said to be most becoming. And it was reported that, attired in deep mourning, Bhe had fol lowed Stericker's body to its last resting place in Brompton cemetery. Now, was this lady the Arabella of Stericker's story. She may have been. But I have no certain evi dence of the fact. Nor, indeed, have I any thing further to communicate touching the life and death of my acquaintance Stericker. — All the Year Mound.

THE BLUE-GRASS GIRLS OF KEN TUCKY.

A correspondent of the " New York South" thus describes the beauty of the Blue-grass girls of Kentucky : The fame of the beauty of the girls of the Blue-grass re gion has gone to the ends of the earth. Newspaper correspondents have sung their praises in words that did but little justice to the enchanting subject, and in attempting the task, at which so many have failed, I feel rather timid. First of all, the represen tative Blue-grass girl is a little above the medium height, with a form that might put the Venus of Milo to shame. There is no thing frail about her, and, while she has every appearance of perfect health, there is none of that coarseness in her beauty which calls for the use of such adjectives as "buxom" and "florid." Her com plexion is of an olive colour, which gradually changes to a dainty tinge of red in the cheeks ; her hair varies from light golden to dark brown ; her eyes are brown and full of expression ; her lips are " like a scarlet thread," and as red as crushed strawberries; her smile—but I must call in the poet — Her «mile i« sunlight, and her laugh That sunlight set to music. She is anything but delicate, for the pure, healthy air of the Blue grass region, and her morning and evening services on horse back remove her a great distance from the hot-house flowera of the largo cities.1 There is only one word that will do justice to her beauty, and that word is—perfection. It is a fact that has been before noted that the average intellectual standard of the Southara girls is higher than that of the men. Es pecially is this true of Central Kentucky. There is a chivalrous sentiment in the South that gives a girl greater advantages than fall to the lot of a boy, and a Kentuckian loves his wife and daughters almost as much as he lovea his horses.

" What 1 yon take your mother-in-law out shooting?" says a French sportsman in one of Cham's pictures to another sportsman. "Yes," is the reply, " with a five-dollar gun that I have presented her—there's no know ing what may happen." Walter, a five year-old, was surprised at breakfast by the presence of a diminutive egg, served for his special declaration. He thus accounted for the egg's smallness : "Mamma, I think the chicken was learning to lay." ' -

LOVE ON THE YELLOWSTONE.

(PROM THE " MONTANA AVANT COURIER.") One of Gallatin's fair daughters, while re turning from the Wonderland, stopped with her companions at a Yellowstone ranch. They had been there scarcely an hour when one of the proprietors gained the ear of our heroine, and informed her that hard by was one of the finest, largest and best raspberry patches he ever saw or heard tell of, ',' Why they could scoop .them up," etc. He urgsd upon her the necessity of the berries being plucked immediately, as they were dead ripe, millions of them. She was delighted »at the prospect of going for the berries, but when Bhe ascertained that our hero was bent on acting as her guide, then her ardor be came dampened. However, they started. We bid adieu to any further description of this novel scene, as now follows the conver sation in which a mountaineer woes a former city belle, whom two hours, before he had never seen, showing the absurdity of the old " faint heart " and " fair lady " business :— " Say, do you see them fences ?" "Oh, yes; they'are nice fences." " Well, them fences are ourn." " Whose ?" " My pard's and mine—half is mine and half his his'n, and those fields are ourn, too, and the house, and stock, and chickens, and mortgage, and all on the ranch is ourn—half is mine and half is his'n." "Ah, indeed !" "Yes ; and you don't know how much we got in the bank besides, and if I was to get a wife you bet I'd get more than half. And I suppose you don't know that I'm the best hunter and guide in the Rocky Mountains ? Well, I am ; and, what is more, I have enough quartz to buy but all the Postoffices in Montana and pay for running them be sides. Why, I have a fortune just in one mine alone. The boys tell me it's a brass mine ; but if it ain't brass it's gold, sure, and if it ain't that it'sfgood quartz, anyhow, and don't—don't you think I ought to get mar ried ?" " Most assuredly I do. A young man possessing your wealth and good looks should not hesitate a moment about entering matri mony. lam surprised to think you are still single." - "Are you?" " Well, yes, I suppose so. But say, do you see them granaries ? Well, I just have enough grain over yonder to last two years, and so you see I can stand off the grass hoppers one year anyhow. And you needn't be afraid of Injuns up here ; they don't come this high up — and say, don't you want to marry me 2 There, now." Oh, sir, who —why, this is so unexpected, you know, and besides I—l should deem it my duty to inform you that I am engaged to be married to a gentleman in the States. I regret that your affections are not bestow ed on Eome young lady who is heart-free.- Please do not refer to the subject again." " Well, I wouldn't have done so now, only I heard as how you didn't talk pretty to a nice got-up Bozeman chap, and told him you didn't want to marry him nohow, and I supposed after that I stood a good show of catching you myself. And —and (raising his voice) there's the raspberry patch over there, and come to think of it—l don't think they are as thick now as thty used to be."

LINES

Dedicated) to, and Sung in the presence of, the, Eight Bey. Dr. Croke, Bishop of Auckland, at a xecent Beunion of his former Pupils. "Tis aweet when friends long parted meet, To tell of love maintained, But sweeter far when children greet A father fond regained 80. joy and pride, in mingled tide, - O'etflow the souls to-night Of Colman's .sons—to whom it comes To share this dear delight O'er many lands, o'er mountains grand, Thro' ocean's surging foam, Our well-loved father here has come To see us all at home. Preceptor kind! of giant mind, When we thy Worth recall, From each fall heart comes gushing forth The welcome wished by all. "Where'er on earth our course may lie, .j In near or distant lands, ■■, •,' ■ - Our thoughts will often wander by i Where Alma Mater stands; ■ .- . Who raised its walls? who filled its halls While yet its life was new ? Who made its name, upheld its fame 'Twas you, my Lord, 'twas you. By Auckland's bay, far, .far away, A stately city stands; Its busy streets are thronged each day By men of many lands : ■■',/. With us this night they all unite . As fervently we pr.*y Our God to spare, bless guard, withJcare Your lordship many a day. Not ours the hearts that could witholrt The honour justly due To him who loved us well of old When young and wayward too. We lovod him then— we love him still— Nor shall that lcve decay Until the soil of this green isle Keceive our kindred clay. - We greet our noble master, then, Oar Church and country's pride, Our model, if we would be men, A patriot old and tried- A father fond, a teacher bland, A sterling friend and true. Companion dear of boyhood's year, We toast, my Lord, in you. - .... J.M. Dulhallow, October 1, 1871.

A priest who was examining a confirmation class in the south of Ireland asked, " What is the sacrament of matrimony ?" < A bright little girl at the head of the class answered, "A state of torment into which sowls enter to prepare fora better worruld." That's the answer for purgatory," said the priest. "Put her fut of the class," said the sub-docacon. "Lave her alone," retorted the priest ;**' for anything that you or I know to the contrary she may be perfectly right." Hush-money—The price of a " family cradle.

UNKNOWN

By John Blacks! an. '. ■ in Ah, who can tell what happy feeKugikri^S •': ,i H ; When the first baby in the cotlap « " k, ' , ' What raptures thrill the smiling niorJier& jgi»s < E'en though its cries may'intemipffhejKggH.' * % ] ; Though wearied, watching nni-nigkt's^fflffi'^ fT-**T. She finds a voice for Watts's intai t hymn. And o'er hoi- first born rubs her half-elo- eil '»?»'<■ ', IHjj And sings her babe to sleep with liUlaWefOal The father listens while the mother"^ngsl^1;. /i Her baby songs—those blest imagu iv,' , And softly sings a strain of heavenly joy J'sHH 2*# " Sleep, linage of thy father, sle^'piy J.^^S- "C ' 'J And rest in pleasant slumber whfle7oa.'<&a||ni . For cares enough will haunt you' wbea»3Bß§MHa Perchance ere long thy dimpled clieclrs will gfe&ty ■ With cutting teeth, and measles, ho it so— .'•' v' No thorny pathway yet hast thoit to tread, *.-»>-; r- No battle yet to wage? for daily brand; ' ■ v i. i" .';'' " " Bright as thy manly sire, my r-on shall'bfipll I, In form and soiil, and still moiv blest t.lmn hfljaftSfi ■'. - Thy worth, thy fame, thy filial iove^iasfeSH' S fa. May sooth my anxious heart for all the riraj : ' > -''; With Mndly smiles my solitude r-pay, _ ~ And chase the world's ungenerous scorn aWgSS|£ 'Twas thus a mother sang the other •; '; -.XV In a small cottage near to Freeman's Bay; : ■ ;MHm She and her husband traversed ocean o'er .:■ f< » '"# s ' In quest of famed New Zealand'H treas.nvd oiKIbHMIK They came from Home, as otheir. eou:,>, it SceitifH^H With golden views which oft dissolve in dreaii)J3yiS;;<;s- And found that shares are'very insecure,, " ..;?'\C."'"r'" ; And speculations are not always; win-; Their long-prized stock of mon<>y passed awasSH * , And so they settled down by Freeman's Bay>'-:$ -."-■•; "->'"»j. This worthy pair, about their infant, boy. His mother's hope—lns father's fcreiiniing WMM. Have lately had some words, nor rash, xior tnihti.lfflJßM Which we will tell without their proper naine.Hj; 'Twas not a battle between love >nrt hate, M To be disposed of by the magist. ace.- * r • . ■$1 But junta nome about the nam< rf John, ' . M Which for her boy the wife had Used upon. : -?jf|jW " And now," said she, " thatall our frienasT^iiyOTHwJ How much to Heaven for this bright I«< ow<, •.-!}■ Go, put the good news in the Ev xrHf tirkii, ' -\: That we've a son, and we his parents aw ; Hfjfe And when he's registered, and all is done. We'll at St. Matthew's have hiiri.curistem-d JOHit," Her husband said, "My dear, it mattcrn not, ' ./,i: About such forms I do not care a jot, ' - ■ Whether he's christened at the fount, or pump. ' • ,» 1 hi, ;: So long as he is rosy, fat, and plump, "'■•', fk ,\ And like his father, with his father's uopo v And sleep's o! nights in baby-like repose; Baptizedor not, whoe'er his sponsors be, . > ; Namdoi? no name, 'tis all the same to me.'' "Fie,: Thomas, fie," the Christian mother said, jjl, What notions now have crept im,-. ■■■. ir h?:iJ, We must not Bonn forsake ourmother church; ■ And in the dark pursue a futile-searoh. -■ - >?^3» And in a new crusade our thoughts engage, • <f Among theTyndahV of the present age ; ' ': ft Oh, no, our boy shall have a Christian name. * ' 1/en though he miss the fickle world's acclaim"." «& ' The husband said, " Stop, love, ere yon decide-, I love you as when first you were my bride ; I have objections to that common name. •" ■•' If you'll be patient, I will state t)y? same ; I know in most things, Bessie, you are right, But must confess that you are wrong to-night. Now think one moment, should vta Daifte him SoHN;; : : The world would alter that we'd fixed iipon. And call him Jack, could you, my love, stand, thut,- **-; As though our darling were some vulgar brat, / As though he were a child of Chanaery tuner - No, no, my Bessie, that would give you pain. You may remind Erie of old stern John Knox, " : And old reformers—Wickliffe, Calvin, Fox, And otJier Johns along the stream;'3pf tiriie, [in rhyme', " Ot Johns who've preached, and Johxs who've taught^ Although I would concede a woman's tights. I And grant a marge to woman's fancy aighte, While you can make my shirts and get mv tea, To your opinions, love, you shall be free.": " What's in a name, great Shakespeare said, 'tis true, "-'; And about' nothing,' he wrote VMuch Ado.«? V v 1 1 He told us of a King who bore tife name, V> Whose sordid mem'ry bards have clothed with -liame, ; And other Johns, unnoticed and unsung,' " * - At fair Mount Eden for their deeds have swung ;, Sj Now, after these objections, Bessie Bonn : Can you persist, and name the feaby John " } Now Bessie looked as none but woman can, men she's resolved to bend the will of man; '-' v ?. es' onn> I>ve reasons too," she said a«d tsmilea, lor John—the name I've chosen for mv child, . For history^hath wreathed that homely nam-s With star-like splendor on the rail of fame; You know my father, and his fattier too, And his ancestors—men both good and true-^ The elder sons, as far as I can trace, Were Johns, and of the Anglo-Saxon' race'; ■ ' One was a minstrel, one a country squire, And one a parson in an English shire And one it seems had most peculiar freaks, A. fortune lost, and took to thatching-ricis- And one was wild, and yet was fondly loved. : . And went abroad to have his tastes improved - And other Johns have scattered mental light. Have mitten books, and struggled for th?rigbt. tw h° W, f? U ±rom TeaaiQS "Oripttife, Bonn, That the beloved disciple's name <vas Jons Who gently leaned upon his maqfefa br&Mt, And. ielt a foretaste of eternal rest There was John Selden, lawyer, writer sa^e ; The greatest linguist of the Stuart-age •"■' There was John Hampden in the battle field Whose soul to wrong was never bwwn tovika ■ There was John Milton, oft alone..anil Hluti Who gave us those rich treasures of his mind - There was John Evelyn, lover of |liewoods; ' Whose Diaby charms us in our inanv moods ■ ■There was John Bunyan in h« Bbifowi ceD,^ And his internal strife 'tween heaven ariiJteU- There was John Locke, John Diyden) and Jouh Gnv Whose works are read and studi, d e\ v to-day ■ There was John Wesley, hearty, sf.r™^, and'niild, ■ The earnest^preacher—meek Devotion's irhUd " And other Johns in other walks o( Ufv Who daily toil amid the world's j. m strife, Who lumen's ears Ufe's stirring themes-rehearse* In simple prose and sweetly-sounding verie • ' Need I go further to convince you, Bonn, ' lhat these are deathless memorieA linked--' ! oek There was sfeiarket show for dogs and cate • Whose mission is ,to murder mice a,nd fafT' And 'mid tune's changes and its onward, flow* Ihere may be yet an Auckland Baby* Show ' And our fine baby, with his bright In such a show would win the highest prize '■ He's such a darling, such a lovely child ' ' His ci-y is music, Heaven hath on Mm Biniltu • His breath ia like the violets, pure and sweet. - Mis red shoes look so pretty on his'Xeet" • ' His angel features fill my heart witSi joy He is an angel, Oh! the. blessed boy!" ' t {o ? x <me Alas! for hnn who seems designed byTfa. To pay the bach'lor's education Sate' ' Who hears no music from a babjvboy ' s' rtov -' Whose kicks and screams are kfoim'nn.? <•- sr.il- The ch?U oulhJok the matrim «"'*'' .'•' r > Tie cold roundmoon abov^X^enUrces With baby in your arms, or on your knees. Oh, these are joys that bachelorVnever lenow No more examples, let the rogue be John I"

A correspondent of a con^mp^ai^^riticfl^ ." The follwing rather tough bear story waa told in my hearing by art old settler in Russian Eiver Valley. I give, it as I got it : 'You talk about bears ! Why, when I first came to Eooshan Eiver bear,s was plentier than cattle is now, and they waa a little bit the smartest bears that I or anybody trfso ever seen. Why, do yon kuow/thufl was a neighbour of mine had a fine field of core, and-he also had a fine lot of h%,'. In tho fall, when the corn began to,-yoS viu& f ciie . bears would come into the iJeU n,nu ma^c awful work among the corn ; the yt. worn k'S-6 literly cleaDia' it oat, and'tbu hogt sni^a disappearin' too, and tKe oM ffilli^f! couldn't find where the beare had killed "aaV of the hogs, and he was clean boat oist ,v last, when all his hogs *nd a good deal cf his corn had disappeared, he thought it -,y,ia about time to investigate.. So he started out,. After hunting around for somo time he found a trail leading off from *the corn-^old ia the direction of a patch /QljMmberu about three miles away;iHe followed the trail, and when he.got 1o the timber he discovered hja hogs nicely enclosed inja pen, and the beam was a-packin' the corq^put there, and feedin'? it to the hogs, fattening them for their own eatin' for thtir winter meat!"