"EVENING STAR" SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT ENTERTAINING READING.

No. 40.]

AUCKLAND, SATURDAY, AUGUST 5, 1876

[Price: ONE PENNY.

Poetry.

THE ERL-KING.

J yj^'g ridin' sac fast i' the gleaming licht ? 1 Whs's ridin' ase lato through the mirksome nicht ? I A falther, wlia clanps aye mair clo3O i' hia arm. I His »c bDnnie laddio, safe bielded frae harm, H 'My bairn, what gars ye aye cow'r doon your een ?' I 'Ofiither, haul fast ! it's tha iSrl-klng I've seen— I His Erl-king, wi, his croon \i' 1113 ' I Mf son,' it's a driftin' ciua thai, ye see.' EBL-KIKG . 1 'Ne'er hae I seen s*e far a faca ! § Ne'er hae I viewed sac sweifc a grace I 1 Ogln yell gang wi' ms, we'll play I Ongowden shares the lee-lang day. *■ 'My faither, my f uther. O dinn* ya hear I -What tho Srl-king whispers sac la^gh 'i my ear?' jNoo, waist ye, ray bairn —it's somj weary win* 1 hat has tint a way whili it eanna fin.'

EKL-KING. ■0 come wi' me to my far-aff hamo ! Ye sail tame your locks wl' a gowdenkarne. My dochter3 their wAtch by your side sail keep, An' rock ye, an' kis-3 ye, an' sing ye to sleip ; They'll rock ye, aa' kiss ye, an' siDg ya to slsip.' 'My faither. my farther, an' dinna ye see The Erl-king's fair dochters aye beckon to me?' 'My son, it's but yonder gray willows' saffc sheen Yetatfor the glint of their starry een.'

EAR-KIM G. 1 ' l'ts 0 bonnie bairn, but I like ye wee!; I Noo,, yield ye, I rede, or my power ye sail feel, : ' Faither, O faithar, hajid fast by me noo, [ For his grue3om han,' it lies cauld on my broo !' 1 The fsither shudder i—Ma heavi grewja stane, I Bat hs grippit hi 3 barn an' made ne'er a mane. He sped to his cistle v»i' meikledrede ; Vae'sme! In his arms-the bairn lay deid ! —[Chambers' Journal.

REMINISCENCES.

Four friends, one stormy Christmas Eve,

"When bitter howled the blast, Were seated 'round the fire to give

Their stories of +he past: And each agreed in turn to tell The direst thing that him bef el.

One told how Tie had fought and bled

On Eeuna Vista's plaia, While 'round him lay the mangled dead

And sharpnel fell like rain ; And how thb shrieks and dying cries Of fallen comrades pieiced the skies.

One told of fearful shipwrecks, where

Fierce Charybdis' whirlpool 1! roar, Ana Scylla's jaggod rocks aro bare,

On far Italia's shore, And hoiv his wife and only child Went down in tempests dark and wild,

Another slid that he had stood Where f&nirne sta'i^d abroad, And heard the starving o.? for food, And dying, cws-i their God ; And pestilence was in the nir. And dying groins were evreywhere.

The fourth with glassy eye looted round, As though he saw his grave, Andseemelto dra-icl the very sound His own hoarse whisper gave, •riltell.'he raid, with trembling awe, 'The story of lay mo'hsr-in-law.'

'Hold ! hold !' tho others quickly cry, ' Your fearful tile withhold; Tware better far to have yon die And turn to churchyard_ mould, Than 'waken echoes of a kind Which that da-ck subject calls to m!nd,'

Then each in turn took off his hat, E\ch gently stroke i his hoad, "Withmemories in fearful that Bech • wished that he were de»d.' They then in silence left the place With low-bowed head and measured pace,

SONENT.

D&y follows diy; years perish ; still mino eyes . Are opened on the self-same round of space; ¥on fadole33 forests in their Titan grace, And the large splendours of those opulent skies', 1 watch, anwearied. thi? miraculous dyes Of dawn or sunset; the soft boughs which lacs (Bound some coy dirsd in a lonely place, Tiilled with low whispering and strange pylvan sighs; Weuy? The poet's mind is fresh as dew, And oft refilled as fountains of the light. His clear child's-soul finds something sweet and new Even la a weed's heart, the carved leaves of corn, The spear-like grass, the silvery rim of morn, &. eland rose-edge, and fleeting star* at night! • • . — [Paul fl. Hayne,

DESERTED.

ipffcia her breathing ; she is sweetly aaleep, iThl'e the lonely young mother Bits byjber to weep. in anguish, sha kls3es tue fair waxen brow. .:■ Md where U thy father) oh ! where is he now ? Uas, cruel-hearted; he has left us to mourn, ihd 'twere batter, far better thou never wer't born : Uelicate flower, too fragile for earth, )hwhy has misfortune thus frowned on thy birth ? ilesp, innocent, slsep; too soen thou ahalt know! Chekeon breeze of sor/ow shall pasjo'er thy brow E&eagossamer mist, obscuring the moon; Phy life shall be veiled in mysterious gloom ; fet oft in my sadness I smile threu^h my tears; Uid rainbows of hope enlighten my fears; Phamoon and her shadows pass slowly away, tod I see them replaoad by the sun's brightsst ray ; the burden of sorrow is swept from my breast, &adin waves ebb away with a dasfey crest; Jid 1 gaze with awe on the wrathful deep, &c a mriou-j monarch awakened from sleep : ken the billows roll to som* distant bay, ■id monarch and prize are dashed away. lien I turn me away from a scene so wild, Jldthonart beside me, ray beautiful child ; hou art smiling baueath thy shadowless brow, with a beauty suipfs.iing the charms thou hast now Bow light is my heirt, for my sorrow is gone, Andwe on the coral'iU'J beach are alone — and arcmad us the calm breeze 3 play. Jas, It but mocks me ; 'tis pacing away ; toly a dream ! an, would it were real! ack,slowly but .surely, the dim shadows steal! Rain I arouse to my :igony wild, ending o'er the cot of my slumbering child; Hd the lurid rays of departing day eemto nod and wink as they pesi away, od night like a pall with its dusfcy gloom Welnpes in darkness my lonely room hen I th'nk of the past blight hallowed hours, 'hen I wore a wreath of the purest flowers, !re the winds had raffled life's swelling tide, Bil I wa3 a hopeful, happy bride. hen I kneel aud pray in the silniit shade or a blessing upon my helpless babes; gain, and again I carressher fair brow ! tyhueband, my husband, oh where art thou now? —[Snow Daop

i The general belief is that d s ?ase3 of the tomach are caused by a bad liver. A ' good jver' brings them about quite as often. [ A nigger'a instructions for putting on a coat rete:—'Fust do ri^ht arm, den de lef, and p gib one general conwulshun,'

The Watr-Nixie.

When Polly Aldervine was quite a little girl, her father betrothed her to Philip Maylie, who was only four years older than herself, and the son of his dearest friend. Such betrothals are of ton—in deed, nearly always—great blunders ; and as Mr. Alderyine and Mr. Maylie both realized this, in betrothing their children, they put in the saving clause, that only in case of a mutual attachment should the younsr couple be expected to marry. If they had followed up this wise precaution by keeping the whole matter to themselves there might have been a very fair chance of the children taking a fancy to each other; but Polly and Philip wore made aware of the betrothal, and desired to try very hard to like each other. This, of course, produced the natural conse quences. If you wanted to know just what a little spitfire Polly was, you had only to mention Philip Maylie, and if you wanted to see just how ugly Philip could be, notwithstanding his natural good looks, it was only necessary to inquire after the health of his little wife. For tunately the Atlantic Ocean soon separated ! them, for Philip lived in the lovely county of Kent, in England, while Polly's home was on her father's farm in New Jersey, United States of America. In this way a great deal of bickering was prevented ; and as the girl and boy grew up they strove as much as possible to forget each other's existence, and suc ceeded tolerably well. But the day of | awakening came, and when Polly returned | from boarding-school, a blushing, lovely j young girl of eighteen, quite accomplished i and charming, but more of a child than when she went away, her father declared, that judicious man sought to bestow on her the dignity befitting her years, by reminding her of her engagement, and further informing her that, from letters > lately received from England, he was told to expect Philip any day, for the vessel in which he had sailed was already due in New York. ( : ""

Polly had often before felfc rebellious, but now she concluded the time had come to speak, and she expressed her mind freely. She had never approved of this match, she told her father ; it was not her idea of marrying at all, and she" ""did'nt" want to marry, anyway ; and even if she ever did, which was doubtful, she wished to be permitted to choose for herself. Much more to the same effect, at the end of which tirade, she caught up her sun hat and the book she had been reading, and ran down to the meadow, leaving Mr. Aldervine in that state of mind which is best expressed by a very prolonged •Whew! 1

Polly etopped when she came to a rippling stream that flowed through the meadow, and flinging herself down under the shade of a fine old tree, felt herself to be an extremely ill-treated young lady. She felt ashamed, too, when she remem bered the look of concern and amazement with which her father received her late outburst.

Then Polly sought consolation in her book. It was a charming volume of fairy tales from the German—so you see Mr. Aldervine was justified in considering her very childish —and the particular story which then engaged her attention was all about water-sprites. ' How nice !' murmured Polly, as she finished it. 'I just wish I was a water nixie myself—they don't have to marry nasty men that come from Europe. If any one tries to compel them, why, they just melt away into a shower of water. I've a mind to try that way too ; suppose I were to dissolve into tears every time papa speaks of it ? I'm sure he could'nt stand having that kind of water-nixie for a daughter. Here goes, then ; but I'll try the pleasant part first.' Close by the margin of a stream, a plen tiful supply of lilies and blue flags were growing, and Polly soon gathered her apron full, and having removed her hat, decked herself as a water-spirite, with lilies wreathing her hair, drooping around her neck, and shrulders, clustering in knots on the bosom of her dress, and looping up her long skirt there was a great abundance of flowers, and Polly did'nt stint herself in the use of them. She was a picture for any artist's eye when she finished adorning herself; and having a fair appreciation of the fact, she leaned over the stream, and like Narcissus, was just on the point of falling a victim to her own charms, when d friendly hand prevent ed her from tumbling into the stream. 'Thank you,' said Polly, laughing and blushing; 'In another moment I would have been a watery maiden indeed, while I was only playing at being a water nixie.' ■ 1 You play the part very well, said the gallant stranger. • Yes, I suppose so. If I were only a young lady, you would not take the liberty of paying me a compliment on such short acquaintance.' 4 Don't be angry —' I'm not. You see, we fairy people are not obliged to stand on ceremony like you

poor hum-drum creatures of the everyday world. Till I thrW off my character of1 water-nixie you are not obliged to return to the formalities of society.'

' This is a charming little creature,' thought the stranger. ' Ah, if I were only expected to fall in love with her instead of—' ' What a handsomo fellow !' thought, Polly, Then she said, aloud, 'I've told you who I am—nosy you must be equally frank, and favour me with a short but comprehensive history of yourself. Where do you come from ?' 'From boyond the sea, but lately pa'rived, and in search of such fortune as the gods may provide rue.' ' Under those . circ'iimstances you. ,are bound to accepfcjt, whatever it may be.1 'Oh yes, I suppose/so. .But my mind is made up to that, so long'as my,,father is pleased.' • . •

Polly had an inspiration ;. it was very sudden and confusing; Probably that is why she tore the water flowers so wildly from her, and discarded her character of water-nixie. ' Groodnoss gracious !' she exclaimed. ' You are Phillip MayJie.' ' 'And you are Poll* Aldervine/ said Phillip delighted. 1 How one can be mistaken ! said' Polly, looking mischievous. 'I ran .away from home to escape you, became.' I thought you must be horrid. And jmr i\ot so bad at all— really, I think you (Mue nice.' 'And I have seen many l,ess charming creatures than you, but never one more so.'

' Oh take care ! I am no longer a water nixie. You musn't pay compliments.' ' But this can searcelyjbe called a first acquaintance. Polly, dearJE ' Lot us go home, Phillip'. Come, I long to ask paoa to forges me for being so naughty this morniug. |l shall promise never to talk so again.' *

Mr Gladstone On Advertising.

Speaking at annual meeting of the House of Charities for' Distressed Persons, in. London, Mr Gladstone, in referring to the difficulties which 'the- prdmaters of the society had in bringing the institution into public notice said.:— ~ ,jj It is an institution o^ifejiirfer mpdpsty,. and it is hardly pos'siblo^rocoma^4 iM&U public notice and support by any bFihe means that are most usual among us in tnesß days, and are becoming, from day to day, more and more notably importunt in order to bring about what is usually called prosperity. We perceive here that you are not deemed unworthy of the valuable, or I may say rather the invaluable assis tance of the press, but in the present time, whether it be owing to the absorption of human energy in other directions, which seem to have a greater spontaneous attraction, or to whatever due, it would seem that even the effective reporting of the proceedings of such an institution does not avail to give it proper place in the minds of the public, unless it takes advantage of the machinery of what is called advertising. Now, this advertising is undoubtedly a very effective instrument, but it is one very difficult to handle. It is scarcely possible to handle 'it without going to a very great expense ; and if it cannot bo handled without going to a very great expense, it at once appears that it cauuot be used effectively on bohalf of a small institution. The power of this mode of gaining publicity is enormous. It seems, if wo consult those who have been accustomed to work successfully this extraordinary instrument, that it depends wholly upon producing an impression on the public mind by iteration, by repetition of the same thing. To see the growth of this very singular vehicle, we must observe what has struck the eye of every one in these late years as an entire novelty, that now it is a common thing to repeat, not only at intervals, and from day to day, but to repeat absolutely many times over in succession, the very same thing in the same newspaper with the prominent word in large letters. This betokens a very singular state of tha public mind, It shows that there is relatively a certain amount of dulness with reference to these matters, and a great keenness af attention which no one expects to get, unless by, as it were, a good many strokes of the hammer which compels people to notice what is goingon. Tuia inaohiuo has been used lately with enormous effect in certain great religious movements, and there are even those not adversely disposed, who think of those remarkable operations of Mood}' and Sankey last year in London, that they could have had no considerable success, nor have obtained a place in the general view of the public, unless sustained with the same energy and pertinacity and wholesale advertising which, uutil quite recently, was better known to the inventors of certain descriptions of blacking and certain kinds of medicine.'

Fond maiPßaa about to get) into her carriage fe> small boy in the house door—"Now Freddie, are you not going to kiss me?" Freddie—" I haven't time to come down, mamma. (To footman) John, you kiss mamma for me."

Postponed for a Season.

A wretched horse, blind, spavined, and lame; an old covered vehicle, with every wheel ' dished ' and every joint creaking like chincso machinery; a family of five who looked as if they had been shaking with the ague and wrestling with a whirl "wind—that was the sight in the Third Street Grove yesterday. They had. turned off the street to cook dinner. They sat around a small fire waiting for the coffee to boil, and the old horse leaned against a tree, and looked longingly at tae thistlPS across the ditch.

' Whar' we bound for ?' repeated the father, cnffing one of the children for poking into the coffee with a stick. 'We are on the jogsjlc, and if that 'ero hos' don't fail us wo'll laud in the Black Hills some, time next Fall.' 1 You seem to have had hard luck.' ' No scorn about it,' replied the wife in a shrill voice. 'We've had tho lankiest luck of any family over strung togclkor, and it's all that old fool's fault!'

She pointed at her husband, and there was no question but that she referred to him.

' She's a leetle riled, stranger,' explained the man, ' and puts it too strong. We've been living way off up I^orth, and times has been hard. I tried to make some thing caching wild cats last Winter but we got down corn and 'larses 'fore Spring spite of all I could do.'

'He's woman.

a brazin liar!' shouted tlie

' And niw,' continued the husband, 'we are joggling along for the Biack liijls, and it seems to me as if wo was on the road to wealth and happiness. Wo are \\\ gcttin' fat, feel good, and the only thing I want is a dog to ran under the wagon.' 'Dick Thurber, you are lying to the gentleman when you say I'm fat and happy ! shouted the wife

' Oh, well, you soon will be.'

' No I won't.'

1 Oh, yes you will.' 'I say you are a brazon liar!' she replied, heaving a firebrand at him.

The children all turned ?round at one motion, got under the wagon at another, as if trained to it, and the husband and ifajiiW smiled,^si^kl^tniie, s«id gfti&i»«! Strangor, sass is sass, no matter whether you find it in the pine woods or in the city. She's achis|j for a row, and I spect you'd better git over thar' by the wagon and kinder see that the hess doesn't run away and break things !'

' Stranger' sought to bridge the chasm, but it was no use. The wife took oft' her breast pin and dropped it into the hind end of the wagon, and the man placed his old plug hat on a knoll far from the fire.

' I hato to do it, Sary,' remarked the husband, but I can't stand sass when I'm doing my level best.'

' I knows what I'm about,' she calmly replied, propping up the coffeo pot.

A crowd of women and children came up at thai; moment, and after some hesitation the row was declared 'ofi' for tho time being.

'Two or three hours won't make no difference,' remarked the man as he sat down ' though when Vm sassed I want; to have the row over with as soon as possible.'

' All I ask is ono minute's warning,' she replied, putting on her breast-pin again, and the family sat down to a feast of dry bread and black coffee, finishing which the 'joggle' was resumed.—Detrot 'Free Press.'

Jones versus Brown.

Mns. Jones was standing in her backyard feeding the chickens, when Stonewall

Jackson came running in, crying as though his heart weuld break, and told her that Bill Brown had slapped him for nothing. Mrs. Jones never said a word, but she

grit her teeth hard, and went into the

house to cat cabbage, and chopped it so fine, thinking it was Bill Brown's head, that you might have sifted it through a cob-web. While Jones sat eating his dinner that evening, Mrs. Jones told him of the outrage that had been committed, and asked him what he was going to do about it. Jones pondered. Bill Brown was fully 21 years old, a shining light in the fire dedartraent, pitcher in a base-ball club, and had the general reputation

among experts of being a 'good man/

Alter considering these things carefully, Jones came to the conclusion that the best course to pursue was ; to treat Brown with silent contempt.' and so he told his wife, adding, by way of parenthesis, ! my dear, such cattle are beneath our notice.' 'All right, Mr. Jones,'says Mrs J. ' if you're not man enough to protect your family, I've got a brother,' and she swept out from the room with a look that Jones knew only too well. He had seen that same look on his wife's face before, when ] he brought a friend home to tea on wash- j ing-day, and he knew it meant war. ■ There was no help for it; it flashes upon Jones with the swiftness of lightening ; I there would be no peace in the Joces' family until the insult of the morning had been wiped out with blood.

That night the boys were all sitting in a neighboring beer saloon, and the propre tor was telling them what he would do if ho got the nomination for alderman. This gentleman, whom we will call Mike, because that was not his name, was an ex prize fighter, could barely write his name, and was in many other respects especially qualified for an alderman. He kept good beer and ordered it with that lavish liber ality and recklessness of expenditure for which-Vieksburg candidates are famous. •Jones came in, look his pro rata of beer, and sat himself, down to lneidtate upon the Brown affair. At last a, happy idea seemed to strike him; he called, for another 'shoo-fly,' and rubbed his hands and slapped his kneos in gleeful anticipa tion.

_ At last he said to Mike, with a careless .air 'Mike, is Bill Brown one of your supporters ?'

' You can jist bet your mucky muck on that,' says Mike, ' there's a boy X do stand solid with.'

' That's strange,' said Jones

'What's strange?' said Mike, with that uneasy, suspicious air so common among candidates.

' Oh, nothing,' said Jones, mysteri ously ; ' I do'nt think I ought to tell.' 'Jones,' said Mike solemnly, 'if you're a friend of mine, you'll tell.' ' We'll, i. will,' said Jones, must keep it coufidential'

'but you

'All right; go ahead' said Mike anxiously.

' Well,' said Jones, • I just came from the Centennial bar room, and heard Brown say that you didn't know your head from a shot-gun; that he caught you, one day, reading a newspaper upside down ; that ue'd sooner vo'o for the lowest down nigger in the ward than vote for you, and that if you were elected, city scrip would go down to five cents on the dollar, and taxes go up so high you couldn't reach them with a balloon.'

Mike put on his hat and coat and made a bee lino for the Centennial bar-room.

•Tones went home and sat down on the front gallery, smoking his cigar with that peace of mind which only one can know, whos<? bosom is distendod with the proud consciousness of. having.a good action. . ■ Atputhalf an hqpij afterward he said ta his wire, who was sitting inside : ' Mrs. J., I don't think Bill Brown will hit our boy any more.' • Why ?'

1 Come and see.'

Mrs. Jones stepped to the window and looked out. They were bringing Brown home on a shutter, with both of his eyes bunged up, and his nose dripping blood at every pore.

Mrs. Jones turned to her husband an d said :

1 Darling, can you forgive me ?' . Jones drew himself up haughtily and replied with withering sarcasm. ' Mrs. Jones, I don't think I'm. able to protect this family ; you had better send for your brother.'

Mrs. Jones, was crushed.—[Yicksburg Herald.

Rinkomaniacs.

The following cases of this very painful malady are reported from Brighton, Lon don, and elsewhere :—

The Persevering Curate.—Skates in blue spectacles and a suit of clerical black. Progresses slowly and meekly. Will carry in his right hand (if permitted so to do) a silk umbrella. Tendency to indulge in mild flirtations with 'not pretty but nice' girls of a certain or rather uncertain

age. The Defiant Mamma.—A matron of

sixty, who tries vainly to look forty. Progresses slowly, but with much show of stern determination. Tendency to embonpoint, and extreme caution.

The Would be Siren—A playful but

anxious coquette, painfully attempting to stand upoii||wheels. Unaccustomed as she is to public (or any) skating, she mores with great difficulty. She is very anxious to avail herself of male assistance. Arch, but nervous. Tendency to fall ungracefully. The Accomplished Cad.—Can manage the outside edge. Knows how to skate 'a la teapot.' Is accustomed to progress in# at the rate of sixteen miles an hour.

Thinks it ' fuu' to upset children and

defenceless females. Tendency to receive chastisement from fathers, brothers, and husbands without asking for redress.— The Daring Boarding-School Miss.—> Skates well, but bashfully. Thinks Kinking 'Oh so nice!' and seeks assistance i from her cousins and their friends. Tendency to get engaged * well—not wisely.' The Awkward Adonis.—Skates with ease, but without grace. Seems to have very prominent arms and legs. Tendency to conjure up visions of the comic singers at the music halls in their less successful 'creations.' Mr. Punch.—Wo, that at least is a calumny; for, spite of the fashion, this clever gentleman is not a Binkomanzac yet !—[From Punch.]