LYRICS.

By John Bi_ck_an. I

1-ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE GIRL.

She came ao summer fancies bright, I C-m-i with thff sportive, summer hours; She wert a. evening's roseate light Pass o'er the s^rrc-test earthly flowers; She came, a snored gift, God-given, She went at meetest time for heaven. She. gentle, winsome child of lovs, Smiled lik* an opening bud of spring, ___c some yousg promise yet to prove A lastine- joy on pleasure's wing. The promise only could we see, The virionod joy was not to be. She psi-r rportcd by the hearth And rorop.d p.mong- the forests fair, We thought Mnid such childish rpirth No withering blight could bring despair; Thst _T_jbt of ill, with fevered breath, Could still hor prattling voice in death. She camo to ur as visions bright, Among er.rth'. faireßt, love-lit bowerß ; Sh9 went like radiant gleams of light, In Sabbath eves, 'tween sparkling showers; f nd while we weep with tearful eyes, She lives 'neath other, happier, Bkies.

2.-THE BROOK IN THE WAY.

A picture should silently speak to the heart, Some feel-OX that slumbered should bring into play, gome love brnming- truth, sweetly circled impart, Some lesson of wisdom in gladness convey jo the sense and the soul, like the brook in the way. That Bheeny brook calmly meanders along, >Neath many an outstretching, blossomy spray ; It babbles of joy in its soft undersong-,— My heart would fain list to its murmuring lay llong the damp, mossy stones of the brook in the way. 'Tis the glory methinks of the artist to teach, And blend with his colours some heart-stirring ray, T_at"tbe slumbering soul of the dullard may reach, And hjre from the haunts of tho flippant and gay, To the sunshine of truth and the brook in the way. Tia sweet, unoppressed by the world's wear aud stife, To wander from city Bcenes, far far a-way; To leave all the sins and the sorrows of life, To walk among roßes in fragrant array, And cross with fair Freedom the brook in the way. By tfiat brook I could muse till the bright star of eve Would shine in the golden decline of the day; And then, and then only, the scene would I leave, Then turn to my rest with my unfinished lay, And dream of that clear winding brook in the way.

3.-THE SOUR PHILOSOPHER.

I A. philosopher sat In his chamber alone, And strange it appears, yet 'tis true man ; Be was w iting v. treatise, so heartless he'd grown, To prove that aU mischief was woman, Heonce loved a lady, he called her his Mary, -.nd believed she was loyal and true ; Sh* married his rival, then sighed he '■ be charry Yjung men, should a lassie e'er smile upon you." Thru deceived and deserted he mused all alone, Onlife's evils and crimes so inlwman, Till his heart, once so soft, became hard as a stone, And more pages he wrote against woman. Tien; rat-tat he heard at his lone chamber door, _nda lass saw as fair as his Bister ; Hi* per dropped, he could write against woman no more. He presed her white hand and he kissed her.

4.-THE MISANTHROPIST.

, " I h* the throes and storms of life, ■M"baseleßS dreams molesting; As biwling brats and scolding wife Cciinue in attesting " Echo—" You are jesting." " If I shold go to an hotel And bnxe back rather mellow, My wife Sags at me like a bell, And 11- a bull does bellow." Echo —"Ah, poor fellow." " Among m fancy's choicest flowers, The faiigt, least objective; Rank wee* respond to summer showers, Ungenia. unattractive." _cho—_' Life is active." " From Nature, so-called pleasure-springs, No ray of hcae I borro-v; E'en fortune, Ttth her gauzy wings, May fly away -o-morrow." Echi—" Foolih sorrow." " E'en woman, with her blarde.t smiles, Is ever a deceiver; With laughing eyes _nd wiisome smiles, I never can believe her " Echo—" Seek th. river."

S.— G OLD.

" The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that." Bnbns. A treasure lies in Nature's breast, Which utters forth nor sound nor -wice; Which beams of comfort and of rest, And manes the heart rejoice. Deep buried in the rifted hills— But not too deep for man's emprise; Among the curves of sunless rills The golden treasure lies. '' For this the miner risks his powers, And delves in caverns dark and deep; Through nights serene and starless hours, While others calmly sleep. E'en though Heaven's glorious 01 b of light, TJnveilß the splendours of the day. He faun with all his burning might, To shadow gold's display. Men pass fhe sweet unvarnished flower And rush towards the busy mart, - To pay to gold's entrancing power The homage of the heart. O'er stormy oceans thousands come, " A-.anxious thousands came before, Jrorn all the loves and joys of home, To dig for golden ore. Gold!—There Is magic In tbe word, — A charm beyond th« poet's fame, That moves the spirit's deepest chord, And gilds the passion-flame. , Among the more attractive mean-, Which Heaven for human weal decrees, , - Gold draws men forth from crowded scenes* To lands across the seas. Gold beautifies the barren spot, when with the stream of toil it flows ; - • And cheers the.honest labourer's cot, _-<' With blessings and repose. " Gold tames the pathless worlds of death, Which savage men have darkly trod; , And makes the solitudes of earth, The paradise of God. | '■"" \ ; „ - VOICES OF THE DEAL). ' (JPBOH-_Ste SPrCTATOB.) ■ ir*lßW_liOW->mtche-on the mountain-aide, ■"-..- BW "nits, f -im.-nake» from the--ebbing tide, - L i;!i;«_¥^_, l'»mer-ib(!j-ea words of malice spent, A p? of-fjome dead ma_'* ill intent,— "■'•'_?'_ mn<* hurt us, all their sting i.-gono,-. ■ ■:-.-' _gPl__oll.r<rf «acl and .bitterness Is done; - BtnT6^"."* Hno,"r» and fiercest lashing seaa " I n t nit inch cold or bitter thoughts as these. " __H I_t3__^? b"lio_ dropped hy childish-hands,' -■- tt^Sl? 64 tlTnTl-«-Wooms from distant lands, P«w^™eeil^'r^rßnaUtJß oi «omo lest friend, ! " «po»oi lov-Boai. dear dead fingers penned-* An'ia^H1 * lov. to soo, -' :l Jl" ttt_SSi 9j?ate Preae-fle seom. in them to bo; ■ v ■!lia-S^!M?'_- b- !ooau,» m,M fT99'a --d _fty- . , "• -iw ttungbtt of tovo tr. sweet as thoy. j'' . .',.',..*;'■' -■' ■'•'■ :■:■■:'■ ...... ........ .... ....

THE MARRIED FLIRT.

Mr. Weston sits in his study in one of the ' handsome stone fronts of New York, reading hie evening newspaper. His slippered feet rest on the fender, a cheerful fire sparkles in the grate, and, with every comfort and luxury around him, one might reasonably think him a very fortunate and a very happy man. Yet a close observer would see that something weighs upon his mind, for .very often he turns his eyes half impatiently from the sheet before him and fixes them steadily upon the fire as in some deep reverie. Sud denly a voice breaks in upon his musings, and a form all radiant in snowy white abruptly enters. " How do I look to-night, my love ? " and she shakes out her fleecy robe and stands half confidently half saucily before him. " Charming, of course, my dear," and he ■ looks admiringly on his fair young wife, j " you will be the belle of the evening undoubtedly. Do you know, Evelyn, I sometimes wish yon were not so fascinating, j and I could have you more to myself." " Oh, nonsense, Herbert. Don't act the role of the jealous husband, I beg. One likes to have a good time of it, to be sure, but as to caring for any of those fellows one ' smiles upon—pshaw ! the idea is absurd." "I am not jealous, Evelyn," said Mr. Weston, in a serious tone, " that is, not i jealous in the way you mean, but I am extremely sensitive of my wife's reputation, and I do not like to over-hear people calling you a flirt." " They have no business to say any such thing," retorted Evelyn, indignantly ; "it is only envious people who make such ugly remarks." "Never mind, dear," said Mr. Weston, gently, as he put his arm around, his wife, and drew her to a low seat by his side, " 1 know you are not intentionally wrong. Before we go this evening, however, I have one favour to ask of you. It is, that you will not dance with Gus. Montandon " A shade of annoyance crossed Evelyn's fair brow. "How fussy you are, Herbert ! Pray what is the matter with Mr. Montan don ? I think he is the handsomest fellow I ever saw, and so agreeable; and then it is just splendid to to dance with him ; he's the very best partner on the floor." "Quite a list of virtues, truly," said Mr. We3ton, with a dash of sarcasm in his tone. " Nevertheless it is my duty to tell yon that a more unprincipled, dissipated rake never darkened the city of New York with his presence. I was shocked when I saw you dance with him a few nights ago, but I excused it then on the ground of your ignor ance as to his true character. Believe me,' he added more gently, "you will only darken your own character by an acquaintance with him." "Oh, Herbert, how you do talk about people. You are a regular old Puritan. I hate to be tied down in such straight-laced fashion ; and I'm sure I think you are unjust to Mr. Montandon." "I am not unjust," said Mr. Weston, sternly. " Women cannot know men as men know each other, and I insist that you must not dance with him again." " Must not, indeed !" said Evelyn, draw ing herself up to her full height, and looking a very queen in her wrath. " Really, sir, I was not aware that in marrying you I was to lose my personal liberty. Allow me to inform yon that I shall do a* I please." "Evelyn, the time will come when you will regret those words," said Mr, Weston gravely.- "You are vain and wilful, fand your fondness for admiration, no matter from what source, will some day bring its own punishment." He walked over to the window. "The carriage is waiting," he said ; shall we go ? " He wrapped the shawl about her graceful shoulders as quietly and tenderly as though he had not felt a dagger at his heart, and together they entered the carriage and were driven rapidly to the brilliantly light d mansion where they were to spend the even ing. There was a large and fashionable assemblage, for the party was given by one of New York's millionaires. Evelyn des cended from the dressing room, half in doubt whether to ignore Mr. Montandon and please her husband, or carry out har own stubborn will, and show that she dared to do as she chose. She was not given long to decide, for at the foot of the stairs she met Mr. Montandon. One moment she was tempted to turn her back and fly; but he held out his hand so charmingly and seemed so pleased to see her, that, alas for her, her good angel fled. "I have been looking for you," he said. "I wanted to claim you for the first dance. Pray do not tell me I am too late !" " You are not, certainly, since I have but just come. I shall be happy to dance with you, Mr. Montandon." She took hia-arm. and together they enteretf*flie ball-room, and joined the set just forming. "What a handsome, couple they make !" said some one, sof' near, that the words reached Evelyn's ears. *• What a pity they did not meet before Weston carried her off. I'm sure it would have beeiT^ jojiohbejier. match." ." . ;" ..' ~ , r "How Billy you are," was the reply,, svidently from^ the; brother pf the. yonng lady who/hjtd spoken before. lam sur prised to [bme\ yen mention the two men in the Bam/breath. Waston is bo infinitely • -V-i_ ' . --•■ .'- '"': "-' ■-.;; >-.-: v."-'.:

j giiperior to Montandon. Mrs. Weston can J have no idea what a low, gambling -wretch he is, or she surely would not dance with him." j Evelyn felt her cheeks burn with mor tifi- I cation, and from that moment wished from the bottom of her heart that she bad obeyed her husband's wish. But dancing must go on, though hearts ache, and Mrs. Weston went through the figures as correctly as usual. She saw at last that her husband ' ■ was looking at her, and, as she thought, reproachfully. Her old, wicked self came back. "Heis so foolish," she murmured, and, half Intoxicated with the admiration she called forth on every hand, she danced and flirted, and swung, quite regardless of everything save pleasure. But morning came, and with it returning pride. She stood erect in all the magnificence of womanhood, and vowed that none should know she was a deserted wife. She could easily her husband's sudden departure to her friends, would be gay as of yore, and some day. oh ! surely some day he would come back. * * * # -it- Two years have passed since Evelyn's night of sorrow, and she is on the eve of a journey to Europe. Not once in all this weary time has she heard directly from her husband. Once, in her despair, she had ventured to ask Mr. Graves when he had last heard from Mr. Weston, and he had turned his eyes so inquisitively upon her as he answered that he had not heard for i months, and should have to depend on her if he wished his present address, that Bhe was fairly frightened, and never asked again. Rumours too were afloat that Mr. Weston never intended to return, for Evelyn, in spite of her determination to be the same as before, had miserably failed. She felt now, that if she could not better her condition, it would surely be no worse to go abroad. And so she went. Four months she travelled in England, on the Continent, everywhere ; but no trace, not the slightest, did she gain of har husband. She had been staying in' F'orence for weeks when, weary and worn, and sick at heart, tired of foreign faces ancl foreign soil, she decided to return to America. The night before her intended departure, her plans were suddenly changed by a remark she overheard in the hotel parlour. " I am very much interested in a new patient that came into my hands to-day," said a gentleman to a lady sitting near. "He is an American, Herbert Weston by name, and he has taken the fever which is so prevalent in the other portion of this city. I wish I could find a good nurse for him ; these Italian nurses are so ignorant and coreless." Evelyn rose from her seat and stood facing tha physician. •' I will go." she said simply. "Yon ? Pardon me, madame, but do you realise what you are undertaking ? The iever is very malignant, and you are almost certain to take it if you go." "lam perfectly aware of the danger, and lam ready. May Igo at once ? " And Evelyn went. * * * * * "Has that girl taken care of me through all this sickdess, Doctor ? If so, its a won der I'm not in my grave, for I never saw such a careless creature." The speaker was none other than our old friend Weston, looking much as of yore, save that he was a trifle thinner from sickness. The doctor looked at; the retreating form of the dark-eyed Italian girl and Bmiled. "You have had a much better nurse than she, thank God ! An American lady* volun teered to take care of you, and though I did not anticipate that she could bear such cease leas watching, she never once neglected her duty. Let me see—she drapped a photo graph from her satchel one day and I was foolish enough to appropriate it. You needn't smile ; old bachelors will be senti mental occasionally, and she was uncom monly lovely." He took the picture carefully from his wallet and handed it to Mr. Weston. " Did she take care of me ? Is she in Italy ? Why Doctor, it is Evelyn, my wife, whom I have not seen for years." "Compose yourself, my dear fellow, and you shall know all, I never suspected she was your wife, though I did think she showed great solicitude for you, considering you were a stranger. By Jove ! she's a wife to be proud of, though ; I never flaw her equal. If I had I would not have remained a forlorn bachelor tilll now. She cared for yon night and day, sir, in all that long dreadful time when we thought everyday would be your laßt, and when one morning I pronounced you out of danger she fainted quite away from excessive joy. She didn't take the fever, though it's a miracle she didn't; but she has been very sick since that day." "And now," said Mr. Weston impatiently ;.HioK_i^veiprTM_Sl3oi'i't^-j_ie'H_w will die, Doctor." 'iggji-■■■ f . , . - :.v '-■ )M "No; she«better—improving-very day, though very slowly. ; Sho w^3 _itting",up'. ■wlxen I saw her this morning." _ , - " And I may see her soon ?" . ' ''Yes, as soon as "you choose. I half suspected there was something weighing oh; her mind, and yon, I dare say, know what it is, and can do her- more good than all my medicine."- ' '--' " The doctor smiled sagaciously. He was a wise man, and hie read his two, patients completely. , -. ;

# # # * # # ' Evelyn sat at her window, looking out "on the street and enjoying the warm sun hine that flooded her room. In her lap lay , volume of LonSfellow, open at the story of 'Evangeline," but she did not try to read. A rap sounded on the door. " Come in" me said, indifferently, thinking it only her mrse. The' door opened and Herbert Weston stood face to face with his wife. - flood of joy crossed Evelyn's pale face, and ihe stretched out her arms to him implor ngly. " Oh, Herbert, have you come at ast? I have waited so long, so long, larling." A sudden sob checked all further itterawce, and tears filled her eyes, He took her in his arms and kissed her over and 3yer again. " Evelyn, my darling, my sweet, brue wife, please God, I will never leave you again." And the joy that filled both their hearts was almost sufficient atonement for all that they had suffered. But all pleasure must end at last, and somewhere in the wee small hours, Evelyn donned her wrappings, and, in company with her husband, rode home again. Not a word was said by either. Evelyn thought Herbert might speak first. He knew that he could not speak without anger, and so was silent. When Evelyn came down the next morn ing, somewhere about noon, he was gone, of course, and she moped about in a state of wretchedness, wishing it were five o'clock, and she could hear his familiar step in the hall. She began to feel quite uncomfortable in regard to her last night's conduct, and she determined to be very gracious to Herbert at dinner, so that he might see that she was sorry without exactly saying so. Five o'clock came. She heard a ring at the bell, and, by this time positively _n happy, for Evelyn was not bad at heart, she rushed herself to give her husband admit tance. " Here is a letter for you, ma'am," said a young man whom Evelyn instantly recog nised as a clerk in her husband's employ. She took the letter with trembling fingers, recognising the superscription at once, and wondering with a vague presentiment of coming evil what could be the matter. She shut the door and went up to her own room befoie opening the envelope. The letter read as follows : Wednesda3 r, 9 a.m. Evelyn : When you receive this letter I shall be far away from you, having engaged my passage on the steamer which sails this morning for Europe. After your conduct at Mrs. Ewing's I cannot doubt that it will be a relief to you to be rid of my presence, and to regain entirely that • personal liberty' which last night you charged me with attempting to take from you. I have arranged with my.banker so that you shall always be provided with everything you wieh : and, if you choose, you may account f<>r my absence by the plea that one of the partners in our firm is needed in purchasing abroad. My future plans will of course not interest you. I have loved you almost to idolatiy, Evelyn, and once I thought that you loved me; but that is past. Yon prefer the admiration of the multitude to the devoted love of one faithful heart. If you had loved me, the slight request I made of you would have been nothing to grant; but your heart is shallow, and I have been deceived. That is all- It is hard to give up the love of one's life, and go out into the world a desolate man, but others have lived through such things, and so must I. Yet, strange contradiction 1 while I say these words, and realise what I have feared for months, that we are not fitted to make each other happy, my heart aches to clasp you in my arms as in olden time, my poor lost darling. God bless and guide you, Evelyn. Farewell for ever, H. W. Evelyn did not faint, she did not even cry, but sat with face white as marble and hande ir tightly clasped,, trying to realise, poor child, that she was not dreaming, but that this was stern, hard, inexorable reality. » " Oh be will come," she cried at last, as she opened the shutters and looked out upon the street in the rapidly growing twilight. "He will not, he cannot leave me so, -with out one good-bye, without one kiss. r My God, I must be dreaming. lam wicked, I am frivolous, I know; but oh ! I have not deserved a blow like this. My Herbert, oh, my darling, I did love yon. God knows I loved you better than all on earth. I cannot' live without you." A rap sounded on the door. "Go away, Jane, I don't want any dinner, and Mr. Weston is not coming home to night." The footsteps died away. "Missus has had some trouble, I reckon." said Jane, with a feeling of importance at being the first to communicate the hews. " She's not coming down to dinner, and master hasn't come home." "It's likely they quarrelled over the way she acted last night," said Mary, the cook. " Ann was in here a while ago, and she said her mistress said the way she flirted and carried on last night was amazin". She was more popular than the young ladies, and they were all jealous of her." " Wel£ she is a flirt." said Jane, '* but she don't mean tidthin' wrong. It's bora in her; but I 'speet that Mr. Weston won't stand a great deal, though he Worships the ground she walks on. You can't tell whether she cares for him or not; but I say the woman what can't like a man like Mm don't daserve a husband at all." _, "Oh, she does like him," said Mary warmly. " You, haint knowed her; as long, as I have. When Mr. Weston was sick, last fall, she wouldn't let any one else come near J him, and she nusaed him night and day til] I she wa» nut-in' but a shadder. She's a j ~.- ... ■ ■■' . ':'. -:.';.'-.;.- ~ -~;;." "....■' ■ .;'!■■ ■■ ■ - -','■"' .' " '•".' ".■:"■ ':"' -■ : ,'" ■-

_uick tempered thing, and a little spoiled by flattery ; but there aint nobody has a better ieart, after all. And while the servants Btill discuss their mistress's affairs, Mrs. Weston dons hat and _hawl and goes out upon the street. She will see Mr. Graves, her husband's partner. He, at least, can tell her whether this letter is really true. But when she reaches the great building, and thinks of encountering Mr. Graves's serious face, her heart fails her and pride comes to her support. He does not know, of course, that they have quar relled, and shall she arouse his suspicions now ? No; she will take her husband's departure as a matter of course ; but at least she must hear what Mr. Graveß will say, and so she enters. " Ah, good evening, Mrs. Weston, I half expected you down this evening. Wives always will be so anxious about their hus bands. Take a chair. Well, I saw your husband off this morning safe and sound, j It was wise in you not to go down. One always feels the parting more when one watches the ship out of sight; and, after all, it can do no good. I should think you would have gone too." "I am very timid of the water," Mrs. Weston ventured to remark. "Ah, indeed? Well, my wife is too. lt is natural enough, I suppose." There was a pause. Evelyn was longing to ask him her hus band's address, and trying to think of some plausible excuse for ber own ignorance, when Mr. Graves said : It was rather a singular freak in your husband, I think, to sever hia connection with the firm, and wander about from post to pillar, as he proposes to do. We shall never know where to send him a letter, shall we ? But I suppose he will write first, of course." Mrs. Weston arose. She felt that she1 should go frantic if she stayed longer, and bidding Mr. Graves good-night, she retarned to her desolate home. Ah ! the hours of that bitter night bore a striking contrast to the gaiety of the night before, as Evelyn rocked to and fro' in her chair and prayed for death. She recalled all the past, and the memory of Herbert's unvarying kindness haunted and stung her continually, and when a gush of tears came to her relief at last, she could only sob that after all, God was just, and she deserved her punishment.

TOPSY TUMBLE.

She wasn't a bad sort of a girl for one who had been brought up in an alley all her days, living with old Mother Hart ever since she was large enough to gather chips around the ship-yard. The boys called her Topsy Tum ble, and nobody knew anything about her parents or relatives. Her hair was long and matted, her face tanned to a brown; her nose always bore a stain of dirt, and she had stone-bruises on her feet, and chapped hands and sore heels, just like the ragged boys with whom she played. The "society" of the alley rather cut Topsy Tumble, but she was independent, and she made faces at " society " from the top of coal-sheds, and allowed herself to be harnessed up beside Bob White when the boys wanted a blooded team to draw a cracking load down around tbe railroad crossing.

The alley was unusually quiet the other week. Topsy Tumble was sick. Mother Hart said bo when Bob White sent te see if Topsy wanted to trade her old jack-knife for a small dog which he had picked up on At water-street. It was a strange thing, her illness. For eleven years she had rolled in the dirt, waded through the snow and splashed around in the mud, and nobody had ever heard her complain of anything more than a stubbed toe. Bob could not make it out. He and Bill Davis and Sam Sharp and Chip Larking sat in the shade of a truck wagon going to decay and talked it over. It would be hard on Mother Hart to have sickness, and bear a doctor's bill, and they wondered if Topsy would get well in time to go with them the next week.

The doctor said it was a bad fever, and moat of the folks in John Brown alley called in to say that they would sit up nights and do anything they could. Topsy was out o* her head, talking strange things, and, after looking at the flushed face and listening to her muttering, Bob White called the boys together on the top of a coal-shed, and there was. a lump in his throat as he said : "Boys, Topsy'a a-goin' to die !" !The boys looked around over the sheds and made no reply, and by and by they slid down one by one, and went home. There was no more dog-fighting in the alley—no pounding of fire-alarms on the old steam boat boiler, and then rushing the ' masheen ' up to the corner. Columbia Jones brought his rooster down, and wanted to bet a kite that it could clean out any chicken in John Brown alley, but the boys had no enthusi asm. ,r|; , ... :'.«i : .Topsy-grew worse. The-^doctor balled twice a day, but his medicine did not touch the case, and he. told .Mother Hart, that Topsy; must die. The old woman felt a little Weak, and her eyes grew misty, i It "had been a score of years since she had wept her grief, and she could not remember when she; had thought of death. ... jj "Theinei^hbours came in, and they tip-toed acrosß the room, and they kept the babies; still, that the dying girl might hear no harsh •©und. Bob WHt» and hia ohums hun ?• 1 - ; ..•-;;' -''-■'■■...■' : '8

around the door awhile, and finally gathered cour.ge to pull off their hats and enter the house. Mother Hart motioned for them to take _eals on the bench at the foot of the bed, and she whispered in a weak voice; " Bob, I am afraid we're going to lose Topsy." " Bob wiped his eyes, and his chin quivered, and ecme of the boys broke clear down and wept. Topsy was unconscious. The boys won dered at the pallor of her face and the whitene.s of her hands, and they saw that her matted hair had been cut short. The women shed tears. Mother Hart kept wip ing her eyes on her apron, and the boys won dered if sitting there wasn't something like going to meeting. " She was a good girl, Topsy was," whis pered one of the women. "And so willing to help her mother," said another. "And shefstood np for John Brown alley," added Bob White, a sob in his throat. Darkness settled down, and they almost lost sight of the white face. No one moved. Seme of the babies fell asleep, and the mo thers trotted them softly, and the boys al most dozed as they sat crooked -upon the bench. The shadows of night grew deeper, and the rattle of the little truck going home ' sounded painfully loud and harsh. Mother Hart moved softly over and lighted the old lamp, and as she held it up the women said, . " Poor dear," and Bob White leaned over on 3 Chip Larkins' shoulder and sobbed aloud. Tepsy Tumble was dead ! The little soul, never washed by mother's tears—never made better by a word about heaven—never drinking in the knowledge 1 that only the body dies—had crossed the k dark valley alone, having only the tears and 1 heartaches of the dwellers in John Brown's 1 lley fto plead its cause with the angels.

TWO STORIES OF TWO BOYS.

The Burlington (Iowa) " Hawkeye " says :— There is a man living on Fifth-street who is a good man, endeavouring to train np his children in the way they should go, and his flock is numerous, and two of them are boys, he has anything but a sinecure in his training business. Only a day or two ago the elder of these male olive branches, who had lived about fourteen wicked years, en ticed his younger brother, who had only ten years experience in boyish trickery, to go out on the river in a boat, a species of pastime which their father had many a time forbidden. But the boys went this time, trusting to luck to conceal their depravity from the knowledge of their pa, and in due time they returned and walked round tbe house the two most innocent-looking boys in Burlington. They separated for a few moments, and at the expiration of that time the elder was suddenly confronted by the father, who requested a private interview in the usual place, and the pair adjourned to the woodshed, where, after a brief but highly spiritual performance, in which the boy appeared most successful as " heavy villian," and the father took his favorite role of "first old man," tbe boy, considerably mystified, sought his brother. "John," he said, " who, do you suppose told dad ? Have you been licked ?" John's face will not look more peaceful and resigntd when it is in the coffin than it did as he replied, "No, have you?" "Havel? Come down to the cow-shed and look at my back." John declined, but said, "W^ll, BUI, I'll tell you how father found us out. lam tired of acting in this way, and I ain't going to run away and come back home and lie about it any more. I'm going to do better after this, and so when I saw father I couldn't help it, and went right to him and confessed." Bill was touched at this manly action on the part of his younger brother. It found a tender place in the bad boy's heart, and he was visibly affected by it. But he asked, "How did it happen the old man didn't lick you?" "Well," said the penitent young re former, " you see I didn't confess on myself. I only.confessed on you. That was the way of it." A strange, cold light glittered in Bill's eyes. " Only confessed on me," he said. "Well, that's all right; but come down behind the cowshed and look at my back." And when they got there * * *

THE ABUSE OF VINEGAR.

Taken in' moderation, there is no doubt that vinegar is beneficial, but in excess i* imparts the digestive organs. Experiments on artifical digestion, that if the quan tity of acid be diminished, digestion is re tarded'; if increased beyond a certain point, digestion is arrested. -There; is reason, therefore, in the vulgar notion—unhappily too often relied on—that vinegar helps to 'keep doyrn any alarming adiposity, and that J ladies'; who dread the disappearance of their J graceful outlines in curves of plumpness ex panding into " fat," may Surest so dreadf-i a result by liberal potations of Tinegari but they ban ; pjoly - arrest it at the far more; dreadful expense of health. Th© amount of I acid wliich will keep them thin will destroy ' j their digestive powers. Portal gives a case , 1 [which should be a warning: "A few years ago a young lady inn ©asy circumstances en- - j [joyed good 'health; ihe waa vary plump>

had & good appetite, and a >J blcoming with roses and lilies. • •to look upon her •pwmPnWß;;M||||BH^.-!, '--;4t!^:-M ' for her mother was very fat, aud she^ & afraid of becoming like her. A"coYdip^ 1 she consulted a weman, who advised Iwjg - I drink a glass of vinegar daily. Tl. y% \ W followed her. ad vice, and her piisß--_v. diminished. See was delighted Y,i%i«' j experiment, and continued it for lUo^;"'*||pjX Jj a rnontl:, She began to have a cough ; it *> dry at its commencement, andw)^iJsraß^«#' as a sh's-Vi; cold, which would gooff. Mjfc time from dry it became moi*..' a ')W' fever c„me on, t_d a difficulty of fcre-vibjr rare.§ her body became lean and" w^w^S*-'1 night sweats, swelling-of the feet.aw|||' A v"-._' 1 succeeded, and a'diarrfceea. tarodl^S-i-; life." Therefore, young ladies be boiai, rtjfe-\,_i_ w ij Neverplne for gracefulslimness and roiu^^f|||J§< - palor ; but if Nature means you to be ra^'j *;; | and rotound, accept it with a laughiig^tM^ which will captivate more hear te the ""'^^Rf j - paleness of a circulating library. <•' ' Hfel

STORY OF A CANAR.

,_. A New Yobk taxidermist tells li i me, to-a reporter of the Sun-.— ~* -£•-■ •&& | one case which I recollect outvof a (.bpfog ivp.C. or more that was peculiarly --fet fijOrj ■X Fourteenth street man, wbosc) sfjfit >' I Lad ■1--gotten, was colonel of a rpgiafflK . 4 that fought |n tll_ battle of Bull Btftl He was struck down by. a _i.as._-fc !n* and taken back to New York to di. . -_¥ bo lay sick at his home his wife to plea^, ; him took into bis bed-room a canary Jtl'jfe ■. ] was his especial pet- before he wcii€|tC.m^' ' the war. But the colonel, feeling nervm^ and pettish that day, conceived a BUs3«k strong dislike for the bird,. and asked Jfcflf*"" wife to'throw';it'out'.bf.the^Windo««:|^^' window was opened, but the pet &foj|__§g_g around the room, and hovering aboii^tMP window, seemed unwilling to go out. w showed ■ unmistakable evidence tha.-"^ recognized its master and ovine &9Jßjjwf- "';,-' unaccountable attachment, for hin^i^- 1-.*? bird was at last cast out. It perched t<J* ? an instant on an ai.anthus tree^in tl_^ yard, then flew quickly back'.'*i|l|-t*^-•' room, and lit on the forehead of .the -irks m*. man. Tho family were so mucKffiifli». by the incident that no further att-in]^ was made to remove the CTnar-*"^^|HR after that" time its perching l«|H^' Il day and night was at the pillow of it* master. The colonel died, and.his bcdy« was taken ip - a distant place of \ bui^^^|^j| the Hudson. -The family were abst_fftsr^ ; five days, and duringthat time-tlie.^^MK was forgotten. When they at l^|_i£'';|JMfc" collected it, and hurried backhomef!^W--^|r led for,its safety, they found, tbe^^littrapi^f|S dead in the hollow of the pillow whew|i|*;s ma-ter's head had lain. Its D°dyj|_***K brought to me for preservation, an&fro|fjfc beautiful little creature still perches i& #*,§ residence of the colonel's fatnily in

FIRE DOCTORING.

; A writer: on; Moorish. lifesays.t^H9 M Fezare fire-doctors, who sit in the 'fe-rall which joius..'the.';'old.;--rpwn--.i;o:''ffie.^!!^wS' Town. Before them they have.an iron pot, with a grajtej : on which a fire is buiT_«| ing* A little basket with charcoal i^JJM one sideband a : goatskin bellows. A^ patient appears ;he has perhaps slept gH _£ I of doors in the rain, ia ill inv.conJßeq-^MWKf and supposes that he has been bewitched* ££_ He presents himself before the fatnotfjt'ij fire-doctor Si-Edris, a man all the more *5 famous because he is a Thaleb —that is»_ijl_< ■ he can read—as a pToof of which a thick -k folio lies beside him. The doctor doe_jsp|. hot read very well, no better in fact, thans^ a cbild of six, although he is sixty ; but/^t on the other hand, it is not a book that is|s| very difficult to read, for from beginuinfraly to end it is only one. sentence over andilf over again, 'There is no god but God, and I Mohammed is His messenger.' - In the.|l* meantime he has worked the fire with hiß||| bellows to a glow, and made white-hq|«ij several ironrods about two-feet long. •_$&«? with wonderous knobs and hooks at the M ©nd. The sick.H_an lies down on his face sind; draws up his clothe- from his cfc»JfHV the passers-by collect into. a. crowd; the ;S> doctor draws a red-hot iron from the fire, if) and saying,■-' In the name of God/ pa_9es )> it with .greatdeliberation here and there jM, over the back and loins, so that it makes -A a hissing noise, and a smell of burnt flesh & ascends into the air. The patient does ..11 not utter a cry; her:g_>inds his teeth .'flf|j together, and ouly the drops of sweat upon his forehead betray the pain he under- 'Wm goes. The operation being over, he lies ]. for some time upon .the ground. a§ if in. a jfe fainting istate; the-spectators pass their 3 head- through their^fingers and praise; God. --^Hpl and Mohammed; Presently the man turns '»] his headland says, ■'Si-Edris, Si-Edris 1' \M ■ Wbat do you want ? ' Another fire.' m ' Then give me my due,* replies the doctor, Mi The patient produces a mosona .(aboutthe | fourthpartof a groshen) from a fold of _«s 1 clothes, and the operation is ; renewed. Si- | Edris as always paid in advance, and will ~ never .permit any. disputing as to- his due. *

FAILURE OF A DENTAL TEST.

How a Well __»town Dknttst' Apppxibd .' 1 Kiteous-Oxidb Gas to a Patifkt. , < || 1 A young man living in Gu__ber_aud |; i.cJrt tjLie oenust. ■•'>..uT^iij{\ ; jor-tu -;ti would apply a well-known dental test to '' 'f* * - ' ~ - ■' ft * i r.

SUPPLEMENT TO THE AUCKfcAM) EVENING S__A_ft