SUPPLEMENT TO THE AUCKLAND EVENING STAR.

A Rainy Evening at Mt. Desert.

The lurid, deceptive gleams of the setting sun faded away; the gray fog slowly drifted back again, and soon settled into a pitiless drizzle, worse even than any thing that had come before. For a whole week—seven days and nights—we at Bar Harbor had watched the sky; at least we had watched it whenever the shifting fogs permitted us a glimpse of the heavens above. The weather-wise now shook their heads und Captain Jiodiek himself no longer ventured to enliven us with cheerful promises of 'a sunny day to-morrow, and a sky, miss, every bit as blue as your eves. The implied compliment, or perhaps the sublime trust manifested by the captain— our host—had, up to this time, invigorated MS but now we rebelled, and sturdily refused longer to pin our faith on the ancient mariner. Eepeated disappoint ments had destroyed all faith in him. We were at an end, too, it seemed to our weary souls, of all our resources. Our prima donna resoluta was hoarse ; it must be confessed that our demands upon her good nature had been merciless. The glorious voice of our contralto had been smothered by the fogs. The tenor had tamed sulky, and the basso, no longer wobusto, was vanquished by a cold in the &cad. Charades had been played to the bitter end. The steamer being weather bound at Southwest Harbour had de prived the men of their newspapers. The -women could not gossip, for there •was nothing to gossip about, and scandal is a poisonous plant that finds no foothold in the healthy atmosphere of Mt. Desert. The leader of the forlorn hope was soon discouraged. People would not talk, and no one threw back the conversational ball. By far the greater number of the girls and the men were unoccupied, when suddenly some one of course a woman had a bright thought, and the words • Stories—ghost stories!" were passed One young woman of dramatic instincts at once proceeded to manipulate the * She turned them far down, and we, in our keen desire that the «mise en scena' should be perfected, were politely ob livious to the odour of kerosene oil. At last all the important arrangements beine completed, everybody was ready to listen; but who should begin? The draw ing of lots was suggested, and the first story was told by a saturnine individual, who made us all shiver by a clever tale, fa which skeletons and skulls played no some extraordinary spiritual developements, as narrated by an enthusiastic believer. A fair-haired girl. who sat at my side, leaned forward, with Sender hands closely locked together her lips half parted, listening w.th breathless iXrpst ' Ah!' she murmured, as silence fell upon us, • if I could but know that the dead were permitted to revisit the earth. If I could but believe that taey might return to bring consolation and hope to Few as have been the weeks since that, night, they have been long enough to make clear to her vision the great vision of death. Thinking of her earnest eyes and the depth of longing expressed m them, I seem again to feel the caressing touch of those white fingers, and to hear about the rustle of angels wmgs. 'Fanny/ said a manly voice from the further corner of the room, 'you remem ber that pretty girl who used to visit Aunt Dora's in Beacon street when you were a child. She certainly had no air of being gifted with second sight; and yet I can tell you of something con. nected witb her that is totally mexphe able by any known laws that govern the universi Some years ago I went into Aunt Dora's one winters night, just before dinner, and found aunty in great distress. Old John her coachman, had gone off suddenly on one of his periodi cal sprees, and she had no one to send to se?trton' to meet Miss S., who was eoine to pay a long talked of visit. gßj;i said,'don't iret; I will go with pleasure.' I easily set aside her objection-that I had never S «en the ex pected guest-and after asking her to LcribeJVliss S., I hurried off, reaching the station just in time to see_the ong passenger train come in. I■ J* *e£ Suickly through the cars and had little T J difficulty in finding Miss 8 Prompt, however, as I flattered myself I had been in my successful efforts some one was before me, and a. I reached the young lady. I found her greeting with no Stle agitation, my old friend Phil An drews I waited for a moment before either of them noticed me and then going forward, introduced myself to the lady, and was kindly received by her. I saw enough, however, in the brief moments we stood together, to convince me that neither of them would have com plained of aunt Dora had she neglected to send for her guest. I was afterwards told that Miss S. and Phil were engaged, and only ' waited until prudence permitted them to marry. All these facts, however, were at that time only guessed at by me and had I known them I certainly could not have found therein any explanation of the state of painful agitation into which Miss" S. was evidently plunged. 1 What is it, sweetheart, ?' I heard Phil whisper tenderly. ' Are you ill ?' • No, no,' she answered huskily. *I am foolish and nervous.' 'Has any one dared to insult you?' asked Phil with a ferocious air.

•Indeed, no, said Miss S ; 'it is only the old stery. Phil looked troubled and annoyed, but said no more, and Miss S. turning away gilently, struggled for composure. The luggage was at last found, and we all soon stood in my aunt's warmed, well-lighted and flower-scented rooms.

Aunty received Miss S. with loving arms, and I heard her say,' Well, dearie, has all gone well with you to day ?'

That something definite was intended by the question was certain from tbe earnestness of the girl's tone as she an swered: 'Aunt Dora' —all young peo pi > called her aunt-—' I could never hav< summoned courage to travel by rail to-da} had it not been to visit yo«. Phil took his leave, Miss jS., accompa nied by her hostess, soon Went to her own apartment, my aunt begging me to remaii until the came down again, which," how ever;'was not until I had grown very tired waiting for hwr^si ,3 tos /

Aunty came in with a worried expres sion on her gentle face. ' Were I in the least superstitious,' she said as she took the easy chair I had drawn toward the fire for her,' I should implore Miss S. never to put her foot within a railway car again. I must tell you, Phil, the strangest story. I don't know whether to call it a dream or a trance. You will doubtless put it down as merely imagination ; it is nevertheless true that for many years Miss S. has never travel led by trait without having a most singu lar dream. The dream in itself is singu lar from its vividness ; but more singular from the fact that in its many repetitions

the details never vary.' 'But,' I exclaimed, with, I admit, lamentable lack of gallantry, ' why, in the name of wonder, is Miss S. so stupid as

to go to sleep in the cars if their motion or their noise gives her bad dreams ?' 'She does not really sleep/ cried my aunt energetically ; ' she is I think in a mesmeric trance.'

' Pshaw !" I answered ; ' that is all nonsense. Let us hear the dream how ever.'

And my aunt, prefacing her story with the entreaty that Miss S. should never know that the subject had been mentioned to me. went on to say that Miss 8. could only be induced to give a vague description of noise, hurry and confusion, of pain and anguish, not as endured by herself but as going on about her. From all this confusion, however soon emerged one central figure, and- that a woman's head, crowned by a braid of blonde hair fastened by knots of black velvet. This head seemed to be derated above a surging crowd, and to be borne slowly past the windows of the car. 'Of course,' said my aunt, 'I told her that she had dreamed of some tragic event in the French Revolu tion—of the Princess Lemballe, perhaps.'

' At the same time,' continued my super stitious aunt, ' I could not but shudder as I glanced at her own fair hair, and the knots of black velvet that adorned it/

'My dear boy/ she continued, with a reproachful look at my unimpressed smiling countenance —' you must remem ber that this dream or trance, or what ever you please to call it, is not a thing that has occurred once or twice, but dozens of times in the last five years. Kern ember, too, that Miss S. has never bad any fear of any accident to herself— that she does not regard the dream as any premonition, or indeed as in any way per sonal, and dreads its recurrence only as a shock to her nerves.'

' But aunty/ I questioned, ' is the head seen but once in the dream ? And whose are the features of the face ?'

* The head/ answered my aunt gravely, • is carried on a pike as it were, many times to and fro. Or, as Miss S. describes the scene, a procession of heads all alike, and giving the impression of being one and the same, are born slowly past the windows of the car, in the glare of torches. The poor child has never seen the features,for the face is always covered by a delicate, half transparent handker chief, in the corner of which is a coronet and cipher of delicate embroidery. Miss 8. says that she is conscious of a vivid curiosity at each recurrence of this dream only as to the cipher on the handkerchief; she never thinks whose features it veils.'

' I dare not/ coutinued my aunt, 1 counsel her never to travel by rail, lest I should inspire her with fears which hith erto she has never felt For alas ! I feel absolutely certain that some fearful ac cident will happen to her !' • Some fearful accident will happen to me/ I said, laughing, 'If I sit longer by this too tempting fire. I must be off and to bed, for I have a long journey before me to-morrow.'

The next day I went South, and was detained there week after week. Spring in fact reached Boston before I did. Of course I at once went to call on Aunt Dora whom I found rather out of spirits and lonely, as Miss S. had left her a day or two before, having been suddenly sum moned to the far West by an invalid sister. While we sat talking in the soft dusky twilight, the servant entered with the, evening paper. I took it from his hand, and carelessly opening it, my eye fell upon the heading' Fearful Railroad Accident.'

First on the list of •killed' wag the name of Misß S. My aunt saw my agitation and insisted on being told its cause. Thankful enough was I, that she was not alone when the sad intelligence reached her.

'And Phil!' I said, hurriedly reading on, only to find his name among the in jured. Weeks passed before Phil was sufficiently recovered to be brought to his brother's house and a still longer time elapsed before the name of Miss S. passed his lips. '■You remember,' he "said to me one night, breaking a long sad silence—■' you remember the strange persistent warn ings recived by Christine—warnings to which she paid so little heed, to which we all were so shamefully indifferent —but you do not know,' he continued, ' all the details of the tragedy. I must unseal my lips to you now, for if I lie here longer and brood in solitude over the mystery and horror of.it all, I shall certainly go mad.'

In vain did I beg my poor friend to wait until he was stronger.

' I shall never be stronger,' he said • until I have spoken. You know/ he murmured as a convulsive shudder shook the bench on which he lay, * that Chris tine was killed instantly—but you do not know that I was not at her side at the time of the accident; I was in the smok ing car, and was not myself hurt at that time. My injuries were received after ward from the fall of a burning beam of the station house. When Miss S. was found ihe body was decapitated; the sjuillotine itself might have done the ireadful deed. In my anguish no thought of her dreams came to me. But when a oitying woman's hand veiled with tender reverence the pale, tranquil features of <ny dead love and I saw the masses of fair hair all undisturbed, there came a dash of memory.' Phil was silent. At ast he spoke. ' Give me that desk, dear "fiend/

Reluctantly and with many fears, I gave tto him. He took from it with trembling ■maciated fingers a small package. Rever ently opening it, he unfolded a delicate landkerchief. In the corner was the •oronet, uuder it the cipher—all as had been foreshadowed to Miss S.

' Xes,' said Phil's trembling voice, • here it is. That day we bad noticed ana

admired a French woman, evidently of rank, whose seat was near ours, and she it was who completed the dream's fulfil ment.'

As Phil uttered these words his sister entered the room with peremptory injunc tions to silence. I was only permitted to clasp his hand in warm sympathy, and to say good night to him, a,s I now do to you all. And the speaker hastilly left the room.

The fire gave one expiring flicker. The pale moon, shining through a rift in the clouds, glanced in at the small windows.

Silence claimed us for her own, The strong emotion of our friend had made its mark. We all wished ourselves safe in our beds. At last one lover of Shakes peare murmured under his breath:

There are more tilings in Leaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

And so ended the seance, — Galaxy,

Water Lillies.

Philip Baymond was a bachelor—rich, handsome and thoroughly educated. I have placed the adjectives in the order in which they are usually recognized in society when considered with reference to the elegibility of any party in the matri monial line. For years his name had headed the lists as the greatest' catch'— the most distinguished of the set in which he moved. He had adopted a niece, the daughter of a widowed sister, who acted as mistress of his establishment, and it was generally conceded she would inherit his immense wealth, together with young Phil., a cousin far removed, a lawyer by profession and a great favourite with Philip Senr. The profession suffered little, however, at his hands, unless, in deed, from neglect, for Phil spent most of his time at his cousin's town house in Winter, rusticating at his country seat in Summer, and enjoying all the privileges of his opera-box, fast horses and the con stant companionship of Maude Henessy. It will be readily understood that this constant companionship had resulted in a more intimate relationship, and the time was not far distant when Maude and Phil were to become one, and by that means, so the gossips said, keep all the money in the family. In the meantime Philip Senr. went his way, as though there was no such thing as matrimony to engage or agitate the mind of man. It was all in vain that the most astonishing costumes were devised and executed and afterwards exhibited on the persons of their fair owners for kis especial bewilderment. In vain that intriguing mammas made ths most frantic and prolonged efforts to entertain and please—in vain.that all their beautiful and accomplished daughters brought directly to bear the powerful battery of their com bined charms. He walked in their midst impassive, immoveable —though attacked on all points yet invulnerable—till at last he acquired the sobriquet of Sphynx, and the young ladies would allude to him in their playful way as ' Sphynxy dear.' But the Sphynx had a heart; it only needed the right touch to set it peating in a very impulsive and every-day manner. It was an opera night—one of the nights when the Queen of Song was to thrill every heart in the charming opera of ' Sonnambula.' Of course the Ray monds were going ; everybody went, and when Maude Henessy came down, her white opera-cloak over her arm, Phil thought he had never seen her look so lovely. They were waiting for her, and Uncle Phil said, as he tapped her cheek; ' Late; my dear; we shan't be in time for the overture.' They were indeed late, for as the carriage turned into Irving place the faint sound of distant music was wafted to their ears. There was a long line of carriages, and while waiting their turn there came a sweet voice through the open window:' Lilies —water lilies—fresh gathered to-day, lady,' and a little brown hand held up an exquisite bunch of fra grant water-lilies, while two magnificent eyes beamed on Maude in the darkness. ' Oh, Uncle Phil! just see those beaut ties! Oh, how sweet they are! Let me have them, won't you? I haven't any bouquet, and these will make me the belle of the evening. And such a pretty little girl—l declare her eyes are lovely. What is your name, little girl ?' ' Jessie Graham,' timidly replied the child. But while Mr. Raymond was plagueing her for her lilies they all noticed that her cheeks were burning and her large eyes dilating with a strange, un natural excitement. She clasped her little hands, and her breath came and went in quick convulsive gasps. ( Why do you look so, child ?' said Maude ; ' what do you hear ?' • The music, lady; don't you hear it ? Oh! it must be like heaven to be in there.'

'A queer enough heaven, youngster/ laughed Phil. Junr, 'The music isn't so bad, but you'd find the angels decidedly ' of the earth, earthy.'' * Hush ! Phil.,' said Maude, 'you shan't plague the child. Just look at her eyes! I declare they frighten me:' Mr. Raymond, too, had been watching that which betokened so.plainly a soul within, and now he said kindly, ' Would you like to go in, little girl, and hear the music ?' And turning to Maude he added, 'Let us take her in the box and see what she will do; there's plenty of room/

• Oh, yes!' said Maude, while Phil. Junr. sneered slightly, saying, ' Another of the Sphynx's unaccountable freaks; but everything is allowable when it is done by you, uncle.' The little girl had looked, up on hearing his question, and, seeing by his kind face that he was not trifling with her, she began 'Oh, sir; go in thereP' but even the thought was too much for joy, and two large tears dropped down on the brown cheeks. They were answer enough, and taking her by the hand he led. the way. Great was the consternation among the circle in. which Philip .Raymond moved when they saw him enter his box leading the little flower girl by the hand. Between the acts they crowded around, anxious to be informed what it all meant; but Maude laughed it off as one of Uncle Phil's queer freaks. To the occupants of the box themselves, however, it was pleasure enough to watch the changing expression of the little girl's face as she gazed upon that brilliant and fascinating scene and listened to the sweet and touching strains of' Amina.'

She gazed, she laughed, she wept; and when,after a superb rendering of 'Ah non guinge,' the cantatrice was encored, and

f about to repeat it, she rose in the box, seem ingly unconscious of everything around her, and listened, breathless, till the last notes had died away. Then she said dreamily, ' I can sing it; I can sing it;' and, while thunders of applause were echo ing through the house, recalling the prima donna, she sang in a strong, clear voice the notes of the air, even to the very last, and when she had finished she bowed her face in her hands and burst into a flood of passionate tears. The trio in the box looked at her, and at one another, in amazement. There were tears in Maud's eyes, and a very suspicious moisture in uncle Phil's too, as he said, softly, 'Little girl, music has a wonderful effect upon you; you love it over much, do you not, and you have a strong voice and a remarkably correct ear for one so young. Who taught you to sing ?' •My 'mother, sir,' said Jessie; ' but I have not heard any one sing since she died.'

• Is your father living ?' ' No, sir; I live with the gardener, and sell flowers.'

Mr. Eaymond thought a few moments and then handed a card to the little girl, saying, • Come to me to that address to morrow, and I will see what can be done for you.' The party returned home very much impressed with the scene which they had witnessed. This was evidently no ordi nary child. She had manifested an ex quisite susceptibility to the influence of harmony that indicated a finely organized nature, and her own uncultivated voice was sweet and thrilling. Maud and Phil rattled on, discussing. these and all other events of the evening, but Mr. Eaymond was unusually silent and thoughtful. On the day following, the little Jessie came to him as he requested, and having further questioned her, and found she had no relatives living, no one who had any claim upon her, he asked her how she would like to go where she could learn to sing such music as she heard the night before. The child' 3 delight may be readily imagined—she would do anything, go anywhere, so her passion for music could be gratified. His plan was already ma tured. He placed her in an institution where, under the care of competent teachers, her voice could be brought out and cultivated without neglecting other branches of a liberal education. The little girl improved her time well while becom ing proficient —excelling, indeed, in many branches—yet she gave the most of her time and thought to music. It was her passion. She cherished it as the one great delight of her life, and would pass hours, scarcely knowing they were min utes, at the piano over the exquisite melodies in which her soul delighted. She was going to teach, she said, and oh! she did so wish Uucle Phi] would let her sing in opera. He had taught her to call him Uncle Phil, as did Maud : and he watched with eager interest the gradual unfolding of that generous girlish heart Almost unconsciously to himself, the thought of those glorious eyes and that magnificent voice had become a part of his very life. He could not imagine himself living with out it, and when he thought of her leaving him, then he knew how deeply, how fer vently he loved Jessie Graham. Yes ! loved her with all the might of a manly heart, that had never known before what it was to love. But she! so young, so beautiful, so accomplished, how could she ever love a man so much older than her self—a quiet, domestic, middle-aged man P No ! It was not to be thought of, he could not hope to link her young life to his. Five years had passed since the night of the opera. Jessie had quite finished her education» and had come home to her guardian's house, to spend a little time before going out into the world to begin her career as a teacher. Her voice proved to be all that was predicted of it—few, even upon the stage could equal her. Maude and she were the best of friends, and the household was a very happy one, bnt this was destined not to last.

It was again an opera night—a chilly November evening—and Mr. Baymond having ordered the carriage for the rest, betook himaelf to the library under pre tence of being too unwell to go out, though in reality he wanted to remain at home to think. He seated himself before a bright anthracite fire and gave himself up to reverie. He loved Jes&ie Graham, But he had not the slightest reason to hope she loved him in return. She evi dently looked upon him as her guardian and nothing more. Even now hosts of younger men were pressing forward, eager to be the first in the contest for that fair hand. Should he give her up without a single trial ? The very thought of her leaving him was madness. No ?he would try and win her love —she could but refuse him, and then he thought he could let her go with at least not quite so heavy a heart. Lost in thought, he was startled by a knock at his door. Much to his surprise, his ' come in' was followed by the entrance of the subject of his thoughts. ' Why, Jessie, have you not gone with the rest ? Did you not say you wanted so much to hear Mignon ?' 'Yes, uncle Phil.; but I can hear it some other time, and to-night I wished so much to have a talk with you. I feel just in the mood for it, and will, stay if I won't disturb you too much.'

* !N"o, no; of course, child, sit down; what do you want to say to me? Has your dressmaker disappointed you, or has one of your numerous lovers been refer red to me for his answer P'

'Nonsense! I have dresses enough, that you know ; and as for lovers, I care not a rush for all of them. But I want to talk seriously, uncle Phil. It is time now for me to begin to think of taking care of myself. You have taken care of me long enough.'

'This begins to look serious, indeed. And how do you propose taking care of yourself as you call it, little one ?'

• Why, you know .uncle, I have always thought I would teach. You don't want me to sing at concerts; I don't dare to sing opera; so there is nothing else left for me to do. I heard to-day that Madame Alberdo wants a teacher of vocal music for her young ladies. It is a good situation, and would be a good opening; so I thought I would speak to you about it.'

'So you are really anxious to leave me are you ? ' Why, uncle/ and here the dark eyes filled with tears and the sweet voice

shook a little; you know I am not anxious to leave this dear pleasant home, but I thought this too good an oppor tunity to lose.' For some minutes Philip "Raymond leaned his head on his hand, lost in thought; when he raised: it there waa the light of a firm resolve in his eye. 1 Jessie,' said he, ' bring that stool and come and sit here at my feet, where I can see you as I talk to you.' She obeyed him wonderingly, and looking up into his face, said, { well, uncle, what is it?'

' Will it make you unhappy if I refuse my consent to this plan of yours ?' 'No; not if you tell me something better to do. Are you really going to let me sing in opera? Oh, uncle Phil.!' * No, Jessie, I have another plan; but that is not it. Listen, dear. Could you be happy to stay here and teach a private pupil ? ' A private pupil ? How funny! Only one ? I don't understand it; whose child is it ?'

'Not anybody's child, only so far as 'men are but children of a larger growth.'' 'Men? Is it a man? What in the world does a man want to learn singing for. What do you mean —who is it, Uncle Phil f

' It is I, Jessie.'

1 You ? Ha ! ha! ha ! I knew you were joking. You learn to sing P Why, uncle, you never could tell one tune from another.'

' I could try, dear.'

' Not the slightest use, I assure you— labour thrown away. I should want some more promising pupil, than you, uncle.'

'But I think I could learn anything with you to teach me, Jessie.'

Something in the tone of his voice made her look up. He was gazing down upon her, his eyes, his whole face glowing with the mighty love that filled his heart. She understood him now and covered her face with her hands to hide her burning cheeks.

'Is it too much to ask, Jessie? Can you love an old fellow like me? See! there is many a thread of silver in my hair, but my heart is young, and it has never loved before all these years; and oh! Ido love you 60, my darling, my darling.' She lifted those grand eyes to his, and for all answer left a trembling kiss on his brow; as she said, 'I will try and be a patient teacher, Uncle Phil.' Just as the carriage drew up, bringing Maud and Phil from the opera, he was saying, 'And I should never have known you, darling, had it not been for those lilies.*

And that is why she wore water lilies on her wedding-day.

The Broken Soldier.

BY JOHN BIACKMAtf.

A hundred paces from the field. Whore mortals fought in dread array; By clustering bushes, half concealed A dying, English soldier lay. He had received a mortal wound, And thither, slowly crept to die j His pillow was a mossy mound, His only roof the boundless sky. The silent eve was cool and clear, The trees otood forth in sunset's glow; But no physician's hand was near To stay his young life's crimson flow, A stillness o'er his senses stole A dreamy feeling, unexpressed, A weariness of heart and soul; A strange, a listless, vague unrest. He oped his eyes in faint distress, And underneath the hawthorne spied Some violets in their russet dress, A sedgy, shimmering rill beside. He gazed on these blue English flowers, And thought on shady English lanes, Of early love 3 and hazel bowers, Of village bells and peasant strains. He saw the cot through memory's tears, Where Love's first throes he keenly felt, And where in childhood's golden years, His earliest, gentlest Teacher dwelt. He traced in fancy all the flowers, And all the friends he knew so well; And felt the warmth of summer hours, Along the grassy village dell. He saw the woodland, smiling there, The grey stone ohurh and cypress tree; And lisped once more the Saviour's prayer, Beside his gentle mother's knee. He saw the form of her he loved, She whom he called his faithful Kate ; Who falsely smiled and faithless proved, And left him to his wayward fate. The violets seemed with warnings fraught, All deeply hued with blue of heaven; He thought of all the ills he'd wrought, And prayed that he might be forgiven. H« graßped the violets 'neath the thorn, In starry twilight, cold and grey ; And e'er tbe breaking of the morn, Alone and dead the soldier lay.

"Heirs of God and' joint heirs with Christ, If so bo that we suffer with Him that we may be alse glorified together."— Romans, 8 chap., 17 ver.

A child of Jehovah, a subject of grace ;

I'm of the seed-royal, a dignified race ; An heir of salvation, redeemed with blood, I'll own my relation—my Father is God.

He loved me of old, and he loveth me still; Before the creation he gave me his will, And portion'd with, greater than India's geld, Which cannot be wasted, or mortgaged, or sold. He gave me a Surety, a Covenant Head, To live in my room and to die in my stead. Ha gave me a rigbteousnes wholly divine, And received all the merits of Jesus aa mine. He gave a Preceptor, infallibly wise, And treasures of grace, to be sent in supplies; Yea, all I can wish for my Father lias given, To bless me on earth and to crown me in heaven.

He gave me a will to accept what He gave. Though I was adverse to His purpose to save, He wrote in His will my repentance and faith, And all my engagement for life or for death.

My trials and comfort?, my conflicts and cares, The spirit of prayer and the answer to prayers, Tbe steps that I tread, and the station I fill, My Father determined and wrote in His will. My croat and my crown are both will'd by my

God; He swore to His will, and then sealed it with

blood, 'Tw proved by His Spirit, the Witness within, 'Tis mine to i'nhorit, I'll glory therein.

A. M. N., Walleiley Strrnt.

A Solemn Sketch.

Puffin g an TTndeetakee, —A Difficult

Undertaking.

' I've taken your paper for twenty-six years,' he commenced, as lie reached the head of the stairs, * and now I want a puff.' He was a very tall, slender man, had a face which hadn't smiled since 1842, and his neck was embraced by a white cravat, and his hands were thrust into black gloves. • I've got a new hearse, a new^ stock of coffins, and I want a local notice,' he con tinued, as he sat down and sighed, as if ready to screw a coffin-lid down. ' My dear sir,' replied the man in the corner, ' I've met you at a great man? funerals, and your general bearing has created a favourable impression. You sigh with the sighers, grieve with the grievers, and on extra occasions you can shed tears of sorrow, even thought you know that you can't get ten per cent of your bill under six months/

' Yes,' sighed the undertaker, instinct ively measuring the length of the table with his eye, and wondering to himself why editors' tables weren't covered with crape, with rows of coffin nails around the edges. . •Death, is a very solemn thing, con tinued the man in the corner; ' but still, it is an occasion when one can appreciate a neat thing, I have seen you rub your knuckles against door-posts and never change countenance ; I've seen you listen to eulogies on men whe owed you for twenty years before their death, and you looked "even more solemn than the be reaved widow,; I've seen you back your hearse up to a door in such an easy, quiet way tfiat it robbed death of half its terrors. AH this have I seen and appreciated, but I couldn.t write a puff for you.' ' Why not ?' he demanded. ' For many reasons. Now you have a new hearse. Could Igo on and say : Mr. Sackcloth, the genial undertaker, has just received a fine new hearse, and we hope that our citizens will endeavour to bestow upon it the patronage such enterprise deserves. It rides easy, is handsomely finished, and those who try it once will want no other. Could I say that ?'

' No, not very well.' (Of course I couldn't. You can call a grocer or a dry-goods man a' genial friend' and it's all right, but you aren't genial— you can't be. It's your business to be solemn. If you could be even more solemn than you are, it would be money in your pocket.' • That's so,' he said, sighing heavily. ' If it was an omnibus, or a coal cart, or a wheelbarrow. I could go on and write a chapter on every separate spoke, but it isn't you see.' He leaned baclr and sighed again. ' And as t« your coffins, they are doubt less nice coflius, and your prices are prob ably reasonable, but could I go on and say: —" Mr. Sackcloth, the undertaker, has just received his new styles in Spring coffins all sizes, and is now prepared to see as mauy of his old customers as want something handsome and durable at a moderate price.' Could I say that ?' Another sigh. -' I couldn't say that you were holding a clearing-out sale in order to get ready for the Spring trade, or that, for the sake of increasing your patronage, you had de cided to present each customer with a chromo. I couldn't say that you were re pairing and repainting, and had the most attractive coffin-shop in Detroit. It wouldn't do to hope that people would patronize you or to say that all orders sent in by mail would be promptly filled, and that your motto was,: ' Quick sales and small profits!''

He put on the look of a tombstone and made no reply.

' You see, if you had stoves to sell, or dealt in mackerel, or sold fishing tackle, everything would be lovely. You are an undertaker—solemn, sedate, mournful. You revel in crape, and you never pass a black walnut door without thinking how much good coffin lumber was recklessly wasted. The tolling bell is music to you, and the city hall flag at half mast is fat on your ribs. We'd like to oblige you, but you see how it is.'

' Yes, I see,' he sighed, and he formed in procession and. moved down stairs, looking around now and then to see if the hearse was just thirty-four feet behind the offi ciating clergyman's carriage.

Suggestions to an Inquirer.

One of those astonishing: persons who send questions to the column of' Answers to Correspondents,' in the weekly story papers, asks, in a recent number of the New York ' Startler,' if the editor can tell him the best way of beginning a con versation when he is introduced to a young lady at a party. The editor can't suggest anything, but I think I can; although I have a ■ private opinion that the questioner will succeed better opening' oysters than conversations. A capital plan is to begin by saying something about the weather. The young woman may be startled by the boldness of the subject, but if the weather is cold say so and stick to it. I have heard some good things said about the weather by people who have just been introduced; and I am acquainted with a man who remarked to thirty-seven woman during the evening that' It .looks like rain,' and he said, it every time as if it were a happy thought that just struck him. If a young woman dosen't respond promptly when you allude to the weather, try her on the Neo platonism, and ask her if she thinks the doctrines of Pythagoras had any influence upon the tendency of the Greeks to persist in adhering to the tenets of Pantheism. If she still holds off, try .to draw her out by inquiring if she believes that the doc trine of natural selection has any influence upon the marital relation, and whether the atrobilious temperament is disposed to seek the ' sanguine or the lympathic. If this does not unloose the tongue, you might ask her what kind of a tombstone she would prefer, or if she thinks a dog wood tooth-brush is better than the kind witkbristles, or whether she likes a double nosed pointer better than a liver-colored setter, or whether she believes that St. Paul was in the habit of eating onions. What a man wants at a party is to touch the soul of a woman he is talking to, and if the allusion to Pythagoras does not reach her finger feelings, the reference to ihe tombstone will.-— • ,

Miscellaneous Feminine Foibles.

An Illinios family lived on pudding and milk for two weeks and thereby saved $7 to get a plume for the mother's Winter hat.

Forty per cent of the school girls in In diana are named Maria; half of them call themselves Mariar, and the other half Mari

His name -was Wrath, and when he asked his girl to marry him she gave him a soft answer, and the Soft answer turned away Wratk

Mattie Smith of Chesuncook, Mass., stabbed herself with a pen-knife because her young man would not wait for her at the front gate.

The New York Mail says " light-headed women are not necessarily blondes." No, but are not blondes necessarily light-lieaded

women ?

When a man dies and leaves a nice young widow with plenty of money, and you see her walking with the executor on Sunday after noon, a change is imminent.

A Milwaukee man hid in a pnblie doorway and jumped out and kissed his -wife. She didn't whoop and yell, as he had expected, but replied : " Don't be so bold, Mister, folia around here know me!"

. Nothing recalls to the mind of the married man the joys of his single life so vividly as to find that the baby has been eating crackers in the bed.

In Springfield (Mans.) recently, a young married woman became possessed with thd idea that her proper vocation was that of a novelist. So she secretly began a thrilling story in which the hero was to be strangled by his jealous wife. Into the murder scene she determined to pour her whole soul, and in, order to properly describe it she went to the bedside of her sleeping spouse, and, placiDg her hands about his neck, choked him into insensibility. He knocked her down with a'chair as soon as he revived, and the novel went into the stove.

In Paris 671 women make a living by serving as models for painters and sculptors.

Is it not a proof that a man is not a free agent when he goes to the expense of enter taining a company in, honor of the birthday of his mother-in-law ?

"O, I've loved before," Said a Detroit woman to her fourth husband, as ihe took a haudful of hair from his head because h« objected to hang out the week'a washing.

The Little People.

A little girl reading the history of Eng land with her mother, and coming to the statement that Henry I never laughed after the death of his son, looked up and said, 'What did he do when he was tickled?'

' If I was a horse now,' mused a big boy as he struggled up Griswold street yester day, ' I'd be stabled, rudded down and fed'; but I'm a boy and I've got to go home, clean off snow, bring in the wood, tote water and rock the old baby for an hour or two.

' Ma,' said an intelligent, thoughful boy, ' I don't think Solomon was so rich as they say he was.' 'Why, my dear, what could have put that into your head ?* 'Why, the Bible says he slept with his fathers, and I think if he had been so very rich he would have had a bed of bis own.'

' Herbert,' said a perplexed mother, ' why is it that you are not a better boy ?* 'Well,' said the little fellow, soberly looknig up into her face with his honest blue eyes, ' I suppose the real reason is that I don't want to be.' We think the child gave the real reason why all of us, big as well as little, are not better than we are.

One of our young ladies whose company is much prized by an enterprising young merchant, took charge of a class of little girls the other Sunday. After the lesson, she told the children that if they wished to ask her any questions she would answer them. ' Will you answer true r asked a bright-eyed cTierub. * Certainly.' said the teacher. 'Well, then,' said the little one hesitatingly, 'do—do you love Mr.B— —P* The teacher collapsed.—

The following is one of the swept little ditties of the Western spelling school: Oh, lead my infant feet to walk Into the spelling school; Let other children sneer end laugh At orthographic rule. But me that better way still lead Till perfectly I spell; So may I shun the path, that leads To where Josh Billings fell.

•j Bob, did you ever stop to think.' said a Michigan avenue grocer yesterday, as he measured out half a peck of potatoes, ' that these potatoes contained sugar, water and starch P' ' Noah I didn't,' replied the boy, • but I heard mother say that you put peas and beans in your coffee, and about a pint of water in every quart 01 milk you sold.'. The subject of natural philosophy was dropped right there.

( A Parisian Incident.—lt was in ' Paris. An elegant lady goes out shop ping. While she is engaged, there is i heavy fall of rain. The streets are flood ed, and, to add to her distress, her car riage stands on the far side of a large, open square, which has become a lake. She signals to the driver, but his horses, being young, will not face the water. She stands on the edge of the curb, stamp* ing her little feet, and not knowing what to do. A gentleman passes and takes in the situation at a glance. Throwing his cigar aside, he steps up to the lady, seizes her by the waist, delicately, plnnsrea into the tide, and lands her safely on the lower step' of her carriage door. Recovering from her astonishment, she turns around and mutters, ' Insolent!' The gentleman loses no time, but steps back to the lady, seizes her by the waist, delicately, plunges into the tide, and lands her where she stood before. He then takes off his hat bows politely, and walks away.

That was real wit in the actor, who while playing ? Borneo 'to Mrs, Mowatt's (<J 'Juliet,' whispered to her in the tomb : : ; scene that they were * putting up umbrellas in the pit to screen themselves from the • tears of the gallery.' ~ i A '/A