SUPPLEMENT TO THE AUCKLAND EVENING STAR.

LAXTON'S NEW YEAR'S EVE.

BY JOHN BLACKMAN

Lemuel Laxton is a man of fifty, and reached Auckland some six months ago with other immigrants, and lives in a cottage at Newton. As he is still amongst us, I must refrain from giving either his real name or his personal history, as lie is in the habit of reading the Evening Stak, and might not he pleased with his life-story in print.

Laxton sat in his wooden habitation on the eve of the present year, in company with his only daughter, Nancy. He had

been reading the newspaper which dealt with the social vices and moral infirmities of mankind, and which increased, rather than diminished, the gloom of Laxton's New Year's Eve. " What disconsolate news have yott got there?" said Nancy; "let us endeavour to he cheerful in the immediate presence of the New Year." Laxton wiped his spectacles, and read paragraphs of individual distress, and. of calamities by sea and land.

"Sad, indeed," said Nancy, "but there are tales of joy as well as woe, and surely you caa find some sweet story for New Year's Eve. Tell me one of your old stories, and let us endeavour to meet the advent of 1875, with cheerful faces."

"Well Nancy," replied Laxfon, "perhaps circumstances will improve as the New Year advances. As I look out upon the darkling clouds, which indicate coming showers and disappointments to the innocents of the Sunday schools, who vill be thus prevented from a summer frolic in the shadows of the Domain, my thoughts are carried back over many New Year's Eves to one which I passed at Lyndham, in the English county of Sussex, at the home of the Eadford's. Across those pleasant cornfields and over Cherry thorpe downs was one of my favorite Sunday walks, and Lyndham House is still one of the sweetest pictures my memory affords me, because it was there that I won the heart of jour mother, Nancy. The walk from Cherry thorpe to Lyndham was considered by many

persons dull and uninteresting, and no doubt it was so to them. But to me that tranquil woodside walk through flowery meads, and over the brook bridge, was a scene of ever-

varying delight. >"ot only bad nature scat tered her charms over the landscape, but love led the way to Lyndham and clothed its every nook with a mantle of beauty. People now-a-days generally prefer the

sensational vanities of the town to

genuine pleasures of the country. In fact, since those days of which I speak, the

aspects of things are entirely changed, and the old stage coach has passed among the thing 3 that were. Swift travelling is now the order of the day, and Shakespeare's saying about putting a girdle round the earth in forty minutes is approaching its realisation. Our old national ballads were about to .be thrown aside for nigger melo dies, which young men in black faces have been wont to hum, if not to the edification, certainly to the rapturous amusement ef a certain order of their fellow citizens. Our literature also in a great measure partakes of the sensational and the nauseous; few young persons in Auckland care for the

" Vicar of Wakefield," " Mansfield Park,"

" Tbe Heart of Midlothian," or " Westward Ho I" books which are right-hearted, and calculated to impart sound knowledge in relation to history and character. The spirit of progress however, while it sweeps away some good customs, banishes many bad ones ; and, after all, I believe the balance of good is in our favour. lam not unfavorable to progress, nor am I among those who foolishly mourn over the past, for 'Tis folly to look to the past with regret, While we hold a fair portion of happiness yet.

Lyndham is one of those old world-nooks of beauty and repose, where its inmates are not taxed by fashion, nor fooled by false sympathies. It was one of my privileges in early life, as already intimated, to visit

Lyndham, and so frequently that the way

thither was as familiar to me as the stone church at Cherrythorpe. I remember the

scenes as though I had seen them but yes terday. There was the hazel copse on one side, and the upland farmsteads on the other, and it was a real pleasure to look down from the hilliest field upon Cherrythorpe, with its White spire glittering among the elms. Lyndham House faces a little green which,

*n the spring time of the year, is covered

with " sheets o' daisies white." and is agree *% sheltered from the sharp easterly Winds, by an avenue of beech trees. The Eadforda have lived at Lyndham ever since toe days of Queen Anne. The family resi ence is more ancient origin, strongly ai "t more substantially built. Every part °£ the house reminds the spectator of c Pas^ > the oaken beams across the itchen, the broad stone flooring, the clumsy, creaking doors, and the wide stair «■* are evidently of another age. Some of c diamond-shaped glass of the windows of / euPPerr°OmS are of an amber hue, after 6 style of the Romans of early times, and Mrentide the rays of the setting sun upon We a P^fcy effect. Kadford, how % neither troubled himself about the | e^f riesofthe Past, nor the poetry of the ' Li^ mgl n^ r- *he genealogy of his family. Thou ! SemiJ >le ™an> as the world goes> his ~Mth WS * fiX6d °hiefly upon his farm> mtC IGW t0 the personal comfort of hii ' er>andthe happiness of his home.

Mrs Radford was left with three sons, and three brothers could scarcely be more distinct in taste and temperament. William was a farmer, and his study was the im provement of his land. Ambrose, delicate

I and sensitive, was a painter; and James was, what Solomon would have called ' the heaviness of his mother.' He seemed to have no special object in life, and when any plan was proposed for his special benefit, he would say, < What's the use?' He enlisted in the army, and died fighting in India. Ambrose detested war; it was all a mistake; he imitiated Landseer's picture of "Peace and War" in proof of this, and transferred impressions of scenes of quiet life to his canvas. The sitting-rooms walls were crowded with his simple transcripts of rustic life. He died of consumption, and it was at once the pride and pain of his mother's heart to point out the beauties of his sketches to her visitors, finishing with tha pathetic sentence, " Memories of poor Ambrose I" William, the elder and only remaining son of Widow Radford, lived to console her declining years. William was fast approaching the meridian of manhood, and unmarried. The busy bodies of Lyndham said: '-Ah, he will die a bachelor, and. the family will die out." His mother also had her misgivings in this direction, and would sometimes say to him, " William, I wish you would marry some worthy lass. What will become of you when I am gone?" "Well, mother," he would reply, "Perhaps' I may be a dutiful son some day, and take your own advice, but my day is not yet." * * * * -:<■ -a It was one of the sweetest of summer evenings ;—never did a richer sunset glow upon the cottage windows of Cherry thorpe, and there, in the parson's lime-tree walk, stood a group of fair young girls, chatting together. Occasionally tkey spoke of Lynd ham and of William Eadford.

" Ah," said Jane Bligh. " Yes," remarked Eanny Lisle, " you may go to Eadford's, Alice, if you like, but you will get nothing. You will only be disap pointed. I called on him for a subscription to the Missionary Society, but the stingy fellow would not contribute a mite. He had the impertinence to say that we should sweep our own. doorway cjean first, and t'aen talk

about missionaries to foreign lands."

" Oh, the hard-hearted man," said Jano Jane Bligh, " a man must be worse than the heathen not to contribute for the spiritual freedom of the poor innocent blacks."

" They say that Radford is rather close in his habits," replied Alice Ray, " but 1 will see what I can get out of him for our Sunday school." "Good luck to you," said the two former spsakers, "we hope you'may succeed with him," and they tripped out of the lime tree walk towards Cherrythorpe.

Alice Eay was a bustling young woman of twenty-two, with bright, intelligent eyes. She was exceedingly neat in her attire, and courteous in her conduct. Her father was a

tradesman in Cherrythorpe, who had some difficulty in keeping straight with the world. Alice was not handsome — beauty often

has a damaging effect upon pretty women, spoils their temper, and makes them fantastical ; while on the other hand, girls who are not paiticularly handsome, become beautiful through suavity of manners and sweetness of disposition. Alice Ray was one of the latter class ; she had a merry heart, and possessed those use ful qualifications which are of more worth than merely physical charms. She was frank and outspoken, and her sympathies were so wide that she was the light and sun shine of the social circles of Cherrythorpe. Such persons as Alice Ray may scarcely be conscious of the happy influences of their lives upon those around them ; they may not know how many sad thoughts their cheery laughter rings away, but the world is all the brighter for their presence.

Alice Ray kept her word, and the next day eke went on her mission to Lyndham.

Alice found the walk to Lyndham House peculiarly delightful. A gentle rain had fallen in the early part of the day; the pearly drops still lingered on twig and flower, and gave a refreshing aspect to the surrounding scenery, everything brightly glowed in the warm noontide, and man, and bird, and beast, were apparently joyous in the fragrant effulgence of summer. As Alice approached the gateway to the ancestral home of the Radfords on Lyndham Green, she was met ,by the mistress of the house and her son, who tendered her a hearty welcome and proffered a chair. "Good morning, Mr Radford," said Alice, "I am come a-begging." : " Then you are come to the wrong house, Miss "Ray," replied Radford. "I think not," rejoined Alice, "particu larly when you know the nature of my -errand. lam endeavouring to increa«e the funds of our Sunday-school. You know' how important it is that the children of the poor should Jiave religious as well as elemen tary instruction, so that they may be ; furnished to some extent for the coming; battle of life !" "You are quite right, Miss Ray, in your remarks upon the utility of kraowledge; among the people, and I will subscribe a; 'guinea towards so worthy an object; not! that I have been won over by the eloquence, of your pleadings to support the school, but

1 1 have long been of opinion that a nation's welfare depends greatly upon the intellectual , condition of the people. lam sure, also, that the educated man is the more efficient and useful man in any sphere of life and labour, and especially co when hi 3 religious and moral sentiments have received due attention."

Mrs Radford, hitherto a silent listener, nodded in approbation of these remarks. She like Alice was of a cheerful disposition, and the free and unreserved manner of Alice, so distinct from affectation and girl-like pride,-at once initialed Alice into the friend ship of Mrs. Radford, consequently the evening passed very pleasantly. Alice must stay to tea, look over the house, and inspect the folio of pictures—treasured " memories of poor Ambrose !"—a name never uttered without a sigh, and frequently with a tear. Then came the after tea conversation, and the walk at sunset round the garden. So much indeed had the old lady to say and to shew, that by-and-bye twilight stole, almost imperceptibly, over the landscape, and the star s one by one began to shine in the silent sky. " Dear me i" said Alice, " and is it so late ? The moon is rising, and I have two solitary miles to go." "But not alone," said Mrs Radford, "William will accompany you through the tields as far as Cherrylhorpe. He won't mind the walk. "You must come and see me again Miss Ray. Come soon. Remem ber, we are now friends." "I will do so," said Alice. " I will not forget you." William Fadford accompanied Alice through the fields that evening. I know not for certain the nature of their conversation by the way, but you may guess ; it is eoough to say that many bright thoughts touching their futute were busy at the her.it of that practical lover, and that the visit to Lynd ham was repeated so often that Alice came to be regarded by her aged friend jilmost in the light of one of the family.

At length, on a blight English spring morning, in the presence of a- thousand

flowerp, there were great preparations at

Lyt.dhsm. The village gossips opened their eyes and mouths with such exclamations :;s, " 1 thought as much," " the school did thi3 for A ice Er.y," the dtseives to be a lady," " may God bles-.s her."

The young year was advancing towards the summer; the hawthorns, chesnuts, and lilacs were blossoming ; early primroses were blowing under the warm spring hedges, and the woods were full of wild flowers, as the Vicar of Cherrythorpe stepped from the lime-tree walk to the little church at the southern end of the village.

" I thought as much," muttered an old woman, as the Cherrythorpe bells rang out a merry peal, " they are married at last."

MARK DILLON'S BOLD GAME.

" I'm getting into terribly bad habits, Dora. Breakfast at half-past nine 1 Ju&t fancy my indulging in such hours three years a*,o, darling, before the world made up its naiad that 1 painted respectable pictures, and chose to pay me accordingly."

And young Melville Austin rose from the daintily-spread breakfast-table at which he and his wife were sitting.

" I hope you're going to remain at. home this morning," Dora said, in a soft, coaxing tone, that well became her -petite figure and blonde-haired, girlish beauty. "Do you know, Austin, that you have not painted an atom of canvas this week ? There's your

new picture of Antony and Cleopatra :

"Yes, my love," the young artist inter rupted, "I plead guilty to have shamefully neglected Antony and Cleopatra ; but this morning's engagement will occupy much time, and I shall be home in an. hour" I trust, ready to begin work. In the meanthne while, Dora, if that model of whom I was speaking should make her appearance, just ask her to wait in the studio."

" I am anxious to see this divinity, Mel villa. Is she so very beautiful 1"

" After a certain type, yes," the husband answered, carelessly. Then, while his hand some face lit up with sudden brightness, he added, in lower tones, " You know there is but one woman in the world Dora, whose beauty can thoroughly satisfy me."

For some time after her husband's depar ture that morning Dora Austin remained buried in what, judging from the happy smile that played about her mouth, and danced in the blue depth of her tender eyes, must have been thoroughly agreeable

thoughts. " Was ever woman so blessed?" she mur mured presently, as if asking the ques tionable of her own]heart. "Three years to-morrow since we were married, aad still the same devoted love from dear Melville. How foolish I was ever to dream that1 his worldly excesses would cool the ardor of that love I Nothing can ever change him — nothing !" " The young woman has has called, ma'am and is how waiting outside. Shall I show

j her into Mr Austin's studio ?" ' Dora's meditations had been abruptly broken by the voice of the stately butler who stood at her elbow.

"Oh ? You mean Mr Austin's model ?" she Baid, a little confusedly. " Yes, James, I believe your master wishes her to wait iv» the studio till his return. By the way, James

You may manage to let her pass through this room. 1 wish to see her." The man bowed, and departed to execute Mrs Austin's order, returning presently, followed by a poorly-clad woman, of whose face Dora merely caught a momentary glimpse as she hurried towaris the adjoining studio. "How beautiful!" the young wife mur mured; " and whab a face for Cleopatra! She seemed anxious to escape my notice, poor woman ! I wonder if she is ashamed of her vocation? You told her, James, did you not"*-addressing.the butler, who returned at this moment—"that xMr Austin would return very shortly ?" " Yes, ma'am." James was nob absent from the breakfast room five minutes before he again made bis appearance there. A rather shabby man desired to see Mrs Austin. -Should he admit him ? But the ceremonious butler had scavcely finished speaking when a grnff voice sounded from the entrance of the room. A rough-looking, heavily-bearded man was standing on the threshold, directly opposite to Dora, who was seated near one of the windows. " You may go, my good fellow," the man said. " I'vo particular business with Mrs. Au3tin. " Yes—James—you—may—go." rJ he words were gasped forth somehow from Dora's white lips. If the servant observed the agitation which had suddenly overpowered his mistress, he was too well trained to manifest the least surprise, and quietly withdrew fiom the room, closiug tho door after him. "Ob ; heaven ! is it you, Murk Dillon V I thought you dead—l " She had risen while speaking the above worrls, but the hoarsa whisper in which she uttered them died to slience beforo she had finished, and Dora Austin fell heavily for ward in a dead swoon at the sti anger's ftcfc.

The sound of her fall was quickly followed by thtt of an opening d<;oratthe further end of the room, ss Mr. Austin's model, weaiiog, a started look on her beautiful face, hurried iti from the adjoining studio. But the stranger's back was turned to her as she bent over the prostrate figure of Dora.

Nor was he aware of the woman's presence

in the apartment until she touched him lightly on the shoulder, and in a rather timid voice said, "Is the lady ill, sir? I was in the next room, and heard Heavens,

Mark ! you here !"

" Ellen !" The man had suddenly turned his face towards the the speaker, while still stooping over Mrs Austin's senseless body. " Oh, 1 recollect," he coutiuued, sternly, "you told me that you went out as a model,

and this women's husband is an artitt. Ilia accounts, perhaps, for your being here, and jrou may thank your stars for hiving so good an excuse. If I thought you .had followed me -" The angry flash of hia dark eyes finished the sentence more powerfully th-.\,n words could have done.

t Trembling iv every limb, the woman an swered, pleadingly : "I had no thought of following you, Mark. I never imagined that you knew thiß lady. I—" " Leave the house instantly, Ellen. Don't hesitate a moment, but go at once." The woman shuddered, and turned to wards the door leading into the studio. " I may explain this matter to you some other time," the man continued; "but re member, I warn you against remaining in this house a moment longer than you can help." When the studio door had closed behind the woman's retreating steps, Mark Dillon once more bent over the white face of Dora Austin. A faint shiver convulsed her frame at this moment, and while |his gave was I eagerly fastened upon her countenance, the silken kshes slowly lifted themselves from her eyes. " Then it was no dream," she murmured, hoarsely rising from her fallen posture, assisted by the man she addressed. " You have come," she presently continued, "to reveal all to —to Melville Austin." She sank back in an arm-chair now, with a weary, gasping sigh. " I haven't come to do anything of the sort, Dora Dillon," the man said, with a kind of sullen emphasis in his gruff tones. " I don't wish to claim you as my wife. You believed me dead, three years ago, and mar ried Melville Austin ; there's nothing parti cularly culpable about your conduct as far as I can discover. I shall be the last one, depend. upon it, my dear Mr3. Austin, to reveal anything disagreeable concerning your antecedents."

"And why will you reveal nothing? Let there be no disguise " between us, Mark Dillon. I know your brutal nature tho roughly. You came here this morning to sell your silence. It is not so'"

" You are perfectly right, Mrs Austin— or Mrs Dillon. Which is it to be, by the way ?" Bis tones were defiantly supercilious ; his keen, cruel eyes were fixed upon the agonised woman with something of a serpent's pitiless gaze when the prey is within easy distance, and possession has become a certainty. But Mark Dillion staitad back with; amazement, aa Dora acawered him, calmly, scornfully and decisively, in the following words : "I shall not deceive the man to

whom I owe all the happiness I have ever enjoyed in this world—the man whom I love, honor, and reference, as only a nature like Melville Austin is worthy of being regarded. When I married him, Mark Dillon, I acted upon my firm conviction of your death. Now, I know myself to have to have been in error, and a single course is left to me. The instant that Melville Austin returns home, I shall inform him of the truth." "Ate you mad, Dora Dillon?" he ex-

claimed; every trace of his supercilious nature gone, and nothing but a sort of furious surprise remaining. "Are you mad, thus to throw away the position you have won ?—to make of yourself a beggarly out cast ?—to—" " Enough of this, Mark Dillon," she inter rupted, haughtily, " Your game was a bold one, but it has proved a failure. Ah, my husband !"

Melville Austin had suddenly entered the apartment. Glancing afc • the ashen pale countenance of Dora, a look of amazement overspread his own. Then, turning towards the stranger, who stood 'beside the chair in which she was seated, Mr. Austin said, "It strikes me that I heard your voice, raised in rather a disrespectfully loud tone, as I stood in the hall a moment ago. Were you ad dressing this lady, sir ? Dora, who is this person ?" A slight tremor shook Dora Austin's frame, and her ghastly lips quivered for an instant. But only for an instant. She had risen now, and was addressing Melville, who listened silently until she had ceased speak ing, stupefied, doubtless, by the dreadful import of what she uttered. "That man, Melville, is my husband. Five years 3go, before you and I had ever met, poverty had reduced my mother and myself to the last stages of want. On my mother's death, and while I was still almost a child in years, Mark Dillon asked me to ' become his wife. We were married, and I soon discovered that my wretched, friend less position had been exchanged for one of still great misery. I had become united to a man from whose vile, wicked life my whole nature turned in loath ing. One evening, in a fit of drunken fury, he struck me. That nighfc I fled from his house. During the year that followed, I succeeded in supporting myself comfort ably on the proceeds of needlework. Two months before chance had made mo ac quainted with you, Melville, I had learned accidently of my huab'and's death in France. You know what followed. To-day I learn, for the first time since our marriage, that Mark Billion lives."

" O, Gorl, can this be true ?"

The words seemed wrung from the very depth of Melville Austin's agonized soul. Staring first at his wife, and then afe the moody, crestfallen man beside her, his face expressed the keenest intensity of mental suffering. And now the icy calmness with which Dora had spoken melted to a passion of sob 3. Stealing toward her husband's side, she murmured, brokenly : " Before we part, Melville, say that you forgive me for being tbe cause of so much future wretchedness— for having brought to your noble heart a sorrow it has so little deserved." "Part, Dora? We must not—we shall not part !" He had drawn her to his breast, with a wild, impulsive movement. At the same instant, the door of the studio was sud denly unclosed, and a -woman's voice cried out in clear, ringing tones, " Mark Dillion lies, Mrs. Austin, where he dares to call himself your husband ! I—wronged, de serted, outraged as I have been, am none the less his lawfully-wedded wife, married to him seven years ago in Manchester. Let him deny it if he dares. You need not scowl and glare at me," the woman went on, hotly ; " what I speak is the truth, and I dq not fear to utter it."

A low cry of rage escaped Dillion'a lips, as he sprang towards the woman who had spoken. But with a blow of iron, Mel ville Austin's hand hurled him backward. For a moment the villain stared at his wife's protector with a tigerish fierceness in his dark, dangerous eyes, and then, like the coward he really was, slunk from the apart ment. And from the house, too, never entering it again. An hour afterwards, his wife, Ellen Dillion, followed him, against the earnest entreaty of Meville and Dora.

"He will beat me when I return to him, perhaps," she said, with a mournful smile on her exquisite face, " but I must go, neverthe less. It seems like a curse, sometimes, that in spite of his brutality and wickedness, I cannot hate Mark. But whenever I think of our child at home, I believe that this weakness is all for the beat. 1 can guard him against imitating his father ; and who knows what a son's influence may do in future years ?" Her sad words left Dora and Melville grave and thoughtful for a long time after her departure.. ;• "That woman loves hirn^ Melville," the wife murmured, at in slow, musing tones —"loves him in spite of his villainous: treatment. What a marvellous mystery love is 1" " Marvellous, indeed, Dora 1" "Did you really mean, Melville,, that nothing should part us—not even the know ledge of being another's wife— whea you

spoke so passionately just before Ellen Dil lion entered from the studio ?"

Her soft hand had stolen into his, her tear ful eyes were fixed upon his own, with eager questioning in their blue depths.

Melville Austin's answer was spoken with unhesitating fondness—" I meant that if all the woild had striven to separate us, Dora, I should still have struggled to regaiD you. Until to-day, I have never known the strength and power of my love."

His arms were clasped about her now, and she was sobbing forth her thankfulness upon his faithful breast.

WAIF FROM HANNAFORD'S DAIRY.

" Always complaining ? Gracious Heavens ! Am I expected to keep silence when a deliberate attempt is being made to poison me?"

"Go on ! Is there anything viler you wish to lay at my door, you wicked— wicked—wicked man." " 1 really think Edith you will drive me out of my senses ! Let me know at once what is expected of me ; am I to come as it were like a sheep to the slaughter, and not open my mouth ?" " I wish you had failed to open it as far as I'm concerued, then I should- have been spared the misfortune that befel me of say ing ' Yes ' when asked to be your wife."

'' This is intolerable. Let all take warn ing by me, who (iike I did) go a courting North Road way. Let them bear in mind what at the time escaped my memory, that in that locality stands the Asylum."

" Just six weeks married, and to be called a poisoner and a lunatic. Oh, Fred ! you see whether I won't write mamma and tell her what sort of husband I've got." " Had I not by a mere accident called at the colour shop, your letter to mamma would have been about the Inisband^you had." ' At this juncture the parlour door opened, and a comely matronly lady entered the , room. It required little penetration on her part to perceive that something wrong had happened. So with true womanly tact she set herself to woik ;—firstly, to find out the nature of the misunderstanding; and secondly, to pour oil on the' troubled waters. "Heyday! my dears," said she, "It appears I have arrived at a time when the weather-glass points to ' stormy.' What on earth has happened to bring about the un pleasantness I can plainly see exists between you—' My pcor Babes in the Wood?' " " Your simile is not a happy one Aunt

" Just six weeks married, and to be called a poisoner and a lunatic. Oh, Fred ! you see whether I won't write mamma and tell her what sort of husband I've got."

" Had I not by a mere accident called at the colour shop, your letter to mamma would have been about the Imsband^you had." '

" Your simile is not a happy one Aunt Mary," replied her nephew, " Had you said Babe in the Wood, it would have been more to the point, for I have been the only one likely to have given Bobin Redbreast the trouble of covering with leaves. When 1 think of it, I feel aa if I were going out my mind." So saying, Fred threw himself back downwards on the sofa, and sent his heels quivering upwards towards the ceiling.

" Oh, Aunty !" cried Edith, " Fred is doing all he can to break my heart." " Now, my dear, I musb insist upon being alone with your wife. Come, come, sir !" said Aunt Mary, with a good humoured show of authority, as Fred again sent his legs skyward, "I will be obeyed I"

So saying, she took him by the arm and led him from the room.

After closing the door, she returned to her neice, who was audibly sobbing with her kerchief to her eyes.

" Come, my love," said the cheery old lady, "This will never do. I am sure Frederick would not willingly wound your feelings ; I think I know that of him."

'•' Oh, Aunty ! it was so unkind of him when I iad plotted such a nice little surprise. Fred, like yourself, having come from the West of England, has often spoken in raptures of certain delicacies peculiar to the county he hailed from j amongst them being "pig's puddings." So I determined, with out his knowledge, to gratify him, and asked Mrs Tremaine, a friend of ours from Cornwall, to come over when Fred was away and show me how to make them. Well, Aunty dear, between us we made a large dishful of white puddings, and hung them up in the storeroom to harden. Last even ing I could not resist the temptation of bringing up the subject, and managed in a careless way to lead the conversation to their excellencies, when Fred said much as he liked White puddings, they were not to be compared to the Hack. So Hack ones I determined he should have !"

" Well, my dear child," said Aunt Mary, 'How did you manage in making them ?"

" Why," said Edith, nestling her head in her Aunt's bosom, " I knew of only one way to do it, and—(here she whispered into her ear the method she had adopted)."

This was too much for the old lady. Rapidly forming her pocket-handkerchief into a ball, she pressed it against her mouth, whilst her whole frame shook witb suppressed laughter.

I Jit was long before-Aunt Mary recovered her gravity; at length by an effort she en forced serenity on her countenance, and having promised to call the next day, and induct Edith into the mysteries of black pudding making, kissed her neice and departed. * * * » '*■''* * * years have gone past since the foregoing. A happier couple than Edith and her hua

band does not exist in Auckland. Fred-KR, oftentimes eDJoyed his choice dainty made by the fair hands of his wife, and many a merry laugh have they had together when recalling to their remembrances the time Edith first essayed to make her husband's favourite dish, and changed the white pud dings to the op posite colour by giving them A COAT OF BLACK PAINT ! ! . . .: .

POETS.

BY THK OREGON POET.

The air is full on 'era. You'll find" 'em away up on mountain tops. You'll find 'em away down in the shadow of valleys, loaf ing, around, a-catching what they call " inspiration." You'll find 'em in marble halls, clad in silk hats and swallow-tailed

coats, drinking champagne and % eating turkey; and you'll find 'em away up in garrets, smoking clay pipes and hacking away on bad poems destined never to ap pear ; bat you'll generally find 'em on; a beautiful summer evening paying homage to the muse, in a Dutch cellar, with a flowing glass of creamy "dreamy lager and a plate of German sausage before consoling themselves for. the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." Genuine poets are a curious class of bipeds—they drown their own cares in the great eea of human trouble; and while they them selves starve, they- weep over seme for lorn suicide, or penniless maiden, who wanders in a snow-stoim with nothing to keep her warm but virtue and goodness. Heaven has made it so that a poet's re ward is what they call " fame;" this species of payment is very dubious. Yon may make money out of the fame, if you are lucky, and then again you may not; it is just according as how fortune takes a notion to have it. A genuine poet ain't got much of an eye, to speak of, in regard to making money out: of anything, especially fame; so fame isn't L oftSO much benefit to him as is generally supposed. No dout'j the soul of Robert Burns takes a great de light nowadays a-flying round, looking in the bookstoies at.his works bound in beautifully embossed morroco, with cream-pressed, paper, illustrated and ornamented in the height and finish of art, price $5 per copy j; no doubt he does ; but I think'he oftentimes sighs to think how acceptable one of those .ss's would have been to him on any of those numerous occasions when he was awfully "hard up." If you want to write an article on ariy thirg, an article that you want to remain a secret and never to be read, all you have to do is to-write it in verse; just compose a poem on it, and have it inserted in the paper, and you may be sure that of the many thousands of daily readers of that paper, not one will ever peruse your poem, and its subject will remain a secret for ever* unless you get some unfortunate friend in a tight place and compel him to hear it. No .' people nowadays don't read poetry/ for there's no_ profit in it. So, if .you are a young man with talent, and have a penchant to rhyme, don't doit—my ybnng fx-iend, don't do it ! Crush the demon in the bud, my young friend, ere it absorb your young being, and destroys all the noble money-making qualities of jOur nature. If your eyes. beh6ld some lofty moun tain towering grandly to t the skies, whose brow is clad in eternal white"; and at whose base slowly roll the dark shadows of gathering mists, don't allow your eyes to rise from the shadows at its base up into its pure and spotless crown above, nor from thence away into the dreamy home of the Btars—the deep, deep unfathom able blue. No, don't I Don't, or you are lost ! Keep your gaze concentrated upon the shadows below, and just calculate to youirself how much land will be worth over there in five years from date, and if the settlement couldn't: stand another rurri mill or grocery store that would be a paying institution. If this article will cause some young man to halt and ponder ere he perpetrates another poem, its mission is accomplished ; if not, society will some day sigh over the ruin of a once promising youth, who might have been perhaps a pawnbroker, a lawyer, a poll tax collector, or a coroner, and lived an ornament to our glorious civilisation, and have died a religious, moral, Christian mil lionaire. •■''"-' v'- - -

THE SOLDIER'S DEATH.

[By Mata Kite.]

On a couch, neglected, dying, Lay a yottthful warrior Bighing, While below the casement, -was.a scene of carnage and of woe ; And the groans, and shrieks of anguish, Wrung from hearts for aid that lanquish'd Sounded sadly thro' the tempest, rising from the crimson'd snow; . Dreams and visions hov'red round him, dreams of home and breathings low. Soft hands Ms damp brow caressing, Warm lips to his wan cheek pressing; ■ " And the breathings of affection thrilling thro' big shatter'd frame; Angel forms around him flitting One beside his death-bed sitting, WMle a faint unearthly perfume stealing o'er hia senses came, Stealing gently o'er his senses, stilling all his dreanw of fame.

Then his wand'rmg thoughts retreating, ' - While his.heartwas wildly beating, ;■ Brought him back to'scenes of gladness, back to happy days of yore; Showing him a maiden stealing, To the river sidej revealing ... ' Charms most radiant, and enchanting cheeks, with blushes mantling o'er, - • Stealing to bis warm caresses, then first giy'n, but nevermore. . ; / ■

Love's soft rapture then out-breaking, ''•• From her lips warm Msses taking, And tho vows of faith undying, then exchanged to last for aye; While the tears unbidden springing, As around her lover clinging, Sparkled in the silv'ry moonbefftas—sparkled in her beaming eye ; And the last fond words are spoken, whose femexn • -, >" ; .brance ne'er, shall die. •:.■,. .. . Now the cold grey light of morning, Bring to him the last dread warning, And his lips are softly breathing forth that name he loves so well; " And tho' gasping, anguish stricken, . Yet he feels his pulses quicken. When he thinks of her, Mio holds him bound by love'ii o'er-mast'rihg spell, As he thinks of those sweet mQments spent within the grassy dell. Now the last sad moment nearing V| O'er his head death's terrors rearing, f , Draws his sP«^earer yet, and nearer to tie heav-nly w-i.l^ B last>fon<i aspiration, woo Uf lthhlß dy™g respiration, Was the name of her he lov'd, she who'd see him nevermore, / :r^l And the angels heard him sighing-" Hilda, farewell evermore." ■

A certain Persian prince's exctrse for polygamy ia amusing and original; Speaking of English kdies, he said, U WaUahJ they are fresher and mor.e lovely affierfort^^ian our women are at twenty^five. ro^^one Englishwoman-;^ is; -worth, a*Hfi3»Vten Persians, and so, we take quantity, j»ak« up for quality^ Had we": Eaglk£Qf»jaen then one weald suffice."