"EVENING STAR" SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT OF ENTERTAINING READING.

AUCKLAND, SATURDAY, JUNE 17, 1876

[Price: ONE PENNY

32.]

Poetry

RHYMES FROM MY DIARY.

it? Yes light well that I do, 'eID i P.inntry! and my short stiy there too ? tOfnf the town. I went out for a spell tl'«a,° n ,V^app. just thU side of-ah ! well, irD1 ll °, Where; I must proceed with the tale «",' rnn BDrhaps fresh, to me is most stale. iot firstlasslfiavattkopkcn |TrJel whoM a most beautiful face. "I*? Tom • Kho was no moro like our' gals' "iil"« you Tom, tho' we are such pal?. 0 11 as I told you, and bnantiful, too, «X chocks of health's bright ruddy hue, fJI/modeHert ia every feature, le Mend Jinks say, ' a reßular pi ture, »'.''. yon say; 'out wait awhile till you know ' a next day. behvoon us and her bean, Kart fellow, standing full six one, n? I should juago as way man 'neath tbo Tin helped, so I at once fell in love, a ,7n nlalnly-but she swore it-- By Joy", .tin T tell him ; then, old boy, you look out, 'i,! comes around, try and not bo about.' t jiwav when the clear chap came around, Talas! with Us flats and-the ground. '.on see here, just under my eye, I«k in my HP hero, and yes by-tbe-byo, h in my nose I received th« same day, f-MV sore bruisea I don't like to say, ffirer of hers. I hastened t» town, Ihr for a month before I got round. 11 No no, Tom ; I've had quite enough Lttv lovers. They're entirely too rough ; U indeed, they can't see the fun King on with more lovors than ono^

BURNS AND BEECHER.

illownir poem w.is written Ivy Mrs J. Webb, U sixteen years ago. on tlio occasion of the & of Henry W*rd Beocher to lecture at the L of Burns 100 th anniversary, January,

Lam the task has fan to you lope the bardo' Ayr hts due; I Bat use him weel, |c kept sweet Charity in view, " E'en for the DVil. jmgfew sma'fau'is ye need na toll; folks say ye're no o'er quid yoursel; • But De'il may care ; Gin ye'M half ss quid as Eab ; T WUasknae mair. Ihen dinna seek to find a flaw. Bat o'er his fau'ts a mantle thraw, p And leave the rest foHim who msde and tried the heart, | He kens the best. i century hence, and -wha can tell Vhat may beta' your cannie sel ? I Some holy proachor (ay tak' the cudgels up for ano I Cad Harry Beecher. Ibi'e Bae doiibt ye'd like to ken HV 'tis that tak'B the anld quill pen ' To write this rhyme ; |ib knowledge would be little worth— I'm past my prime. Bat when a laasio, young and fair, his wandered aft by bonnie Ayr I ' AVi' heartsome ghe, are fates stern mandate sent me forth Far o'er these?. ftill, Scotia's hills and Scotia's plains, Her poets and her poets' strains, To me are dear — fi desert spring within my hout— They claim a tear.

PETITE.

i, you|are like the cloudy speck Ihat rises on the blue of May; Kiln, so fine, the little flock Is hardy worth a care, they say, My Sweet J¥et doudlefs hido the sun, Fe tite. ! Yon ate like the rose in Spring, That scarcaly shows the roses pink; fpale, so frail the tender thing Is hardly worth a thought, you think, My sweet ? if et rosebuds have their thorns, Petite ? :you are like the tempest's heart, llm swift and slender lightening gleam; flight, so slight, the tiny dart Islisrdh/ worth a fear, you deem, My sweet ? l|et little lightnings kill, Petite.

THE DIVINE.-BRAMAH.

jtt too red slayer, thinks he slays, si Or if the slain thinks ho is slain, .jthnyknow not well the subtle ways !' Ike^p, and pass, and turn again. ■far or forgot to me is near, I Shadows and sunshine are the same, She vanished gods to me appear, I And one to mo are shame and fame. They reckon ill who leave me out, I When me they fly I am the wings : !} am the doubter and the doubt, !! lam the hymn the Brahmin sings. The strong gods pine fenny aDode, And pino in vain the sacred saven ; Bntthou meek lover of the god, Find me, and turn thy back on hoavca.

American Women's Extrava gance.

(ibrt time after tne marriage of the Hess of Edinburgh I was in Worth's &■ lady friend who was selecting some sbs. Mr. Worth, who rarely makes a Idress of any kind under 1000 franc 3, advising her to trim with imitation a dress for which she was to pay §250 Md- She said she could not think of Ing an imitation. ' Wait a moment,' 'Worth, and he came forward with jOf his women waiters showing an Usite morning dress' just completed |c Duchess. It was a pale shade of feios grain trimmed intricately with ation ol Valenciennes : the price was panes. The humble republican was loved byjthe esamplejof the ' Grande lessejMarie,' and would not tats a On in imperial economy.

pie, Pete,' said a merchant to a gentle ■s■ the colored persuasion, ' what'll you fiat load of wood in the cellar for ?' *In fs place, my name is Peter, sir ; second- ! e aprofes3ionalcarpet-cleaner and white er; fnrder-mo', 1 dosen't compete for ow> sah!'

We present oar readers this week with a portrait of the celebrated vocalist, M'dlle lima de Murska, whose musical career throughout the southern hemisphere has been one unbroken series of successes, and whose talents have been acknowledged by the Press as far surpassing those of any other artiste who has yet visited the Axistralasian Colonies. When we read of her years ago, as delighting all the principal European cities by the wondrous powers of her voice, we little thought that ere long those same notes would resound on these shores and charm to admiration so many thousand appreciative listeners in Now Zealand. The Patti's, and Neillson's, and Titiens', and De Murska's were well enough to read about, and talk of, but beyond this we thought no more knowing how highly such talent was prized at home, and what little chance there Was of any equivalent pecuniary return inducing a professional trip to the antipodes. The experiment, however, in Mdlle De Murska's case, appears to prove the fallacy of such a supposition, and judg ing from the high prices she has been able to charge, and the large sums she has commanded at every performance, we have every reason to believe that the venture has been productive of a very satisfactory result. It is now about twelve months since thegreatsinger landed in Sydney. | Her first appearance was at the Town Hall, Melbourne, where she at once gained the good opinions of a most critical audience and made most unmistakeably her colonial reputation._ After this she went to Adelaide, and was equally successful. Again she returned to Melbourne, playing there a second and

most lucrative season. Then she fulfilled short and most satisfactory engagements in Ballarat and Sandhurst, returning again to Melbourne for another season. Then she complied with a general wish that she should visit Sydney, which she did in a guarantee of two thousand pounds for nine concerts, playing afterwards a very successful season there onherovra account. Then followed a visit to Goulbourne and Bathurst with equally pleasing results. Her intention was then to leave

Sydney for New Zealand, whither bhehad entrusted her agent, Mr Medcalfe, to proceed, and report in advance, but, as is well known, the unlooked for illness of Mr Alfred Anderson, her pianist (to whom hhe was afterwards married) upset all her plans, and compels her to return again to Melbourne. Here she experienced the most marked and extraordinary success of her Australa sian career, crowding nightly to excess the Prince of Wales Theatre, to witness her wonderful performances in full opera. Then we read of the death of her husband, and the monetary loss she sustained, and following this come her depar ture for New Zealand, and her subsequent marriage to Mr John Hill. Nor did fortune desert her there, for at the outset, Duncdin almost went mad, and welcomed her with houses ranging from £200 to £300 a night; Christchurch followed suit and {*aye her more people nightly than could crowd the Oddfellows Hall, and now wo hoar of little Nelson insisting on an extra night, after having two concerts at the Provincial Hall. Such has been her career so far in these colonies, and it remains now with Auckland to endorse all that lias been said of this renouned lyric star. On Tuesday next she is announced to appear at the Choral Hall, and during ■the six concerts she will give there, her choisest morceaux will be submitted and her talents ex pafciated on. She will then appear before the most critical and ex acting audience in New Zealand, and we have little doubt she will more than. fulfil the great things expected of her.

A Ghost Story.

I took a large room, far up Broadway, in a huge old building whoso upper stories had been wholly unoccupied for years, until 1 came. The place had long been given up to dust and cobwebs, to solitude and silence. I seemed groping among the tombs and invading the privacy of the dead, that first night I climbed up to my quarters. For the first time in my life a superstitious dread came over me : and as I turned a dark angle of the stairway, and an invisible cobweb swung its slazy woof iv my face, and clung there, I shud dered as one who encountered a phantom.

I was glad enough when I reached my room, and locked out the mould and the darkness. A cheery fire was burning in the grate, and I sat down before it with a comforting sense of relief. For two hours I sat there, thinking of bygone times; recalling old scenes, and summoning half forgotten faces out of the mists of the past, listening, in fancy, to voices that long ago grew silent for all time, and to once familiar songs that nobody sings now. And as my reverie softened down to a sadder and sadder pathos, the shrieking of the wind, outside softened to a wail, the angry beating of the rain against the panes diminished to a tranqil patter, and one by one the noises in the street sub sided, until the hurrying footsteps of the last belated straggler died away in the distance, and left no sound behind. The fire had burned low. A sense of loneliness crept over me. I arose and undressed, moving on tip-toe about the room, doing stealthily what I had to do, as if I were environed with sleeping enemies, whose slumbers it would be fatal to break. 1 covered up in bed, and lay listening to the rain and wind and the faint creaking of distant shutters till they lulled me to sleep, I slept profoundly, but how long I do not know. All at once I found myself awake, and filled with a shuddering ex pectancy. All was still. All but my own heart—l could hear it beat. Pre sently the bed clothes began to slip away slowly toward the foot of the bed, as if some one were pulling them ! I could not stir ; I could not speak. Still the blankets slipped deliberately away,' till my breast was uncovered. Then with a great; effort I seized them and drew them over my head. I waited, listened, waited. Once more that steady pull began, and once mo'e I lay torpid for a century of dragging seconds, till my breast was naked again. At last I roused my ener gies and snatched the covers back to their place, and held them with a strong grip. I waited. By-and-by I felt a faint tug, and took a fresh grip. The tug strength ened to a steady strain—it grew stronger and stronger. My hold parted, and lor the third time the blankets slid away. I groaned. An answering groan came from the foot of the bed ! Beaded drops of sweat stood upon my forehead. 1 was more dead, than alive, Presently I heard a heavy footstep, in my room—the step of

an elephant, it seemed to me —it was not like anything human. But it was moving from me—there was relief in that. I heard it approach the door —pass out without moving bolt or lock — and wander away among the dismal corridors, straining the floors and joints till they creaked again as it passed—and then silence reigned onco more.

When my excitenenfc had calmed, said to myself, ' This is a dream, a hideou s dream.' And so I lay thinking it ove r until I convinced myself that it WAS a dream, and then a comforting laugh relaxed my lips, and I was happy again. I got up and struck a light; and when I found that the locks and bolts were just as I had left them, another soothing laugh welled in my heart and rippled from my lips. I took my pipe and lit it, and was just sitting down before the fire, when — down went the pipe out of my nerveless fingers, the blood forsook my cheeks, and my placid breathing was cut short with a gasp !In the ashes on the hearth, side by side with my own bare footprint, was another, so vast that in comparison) mine was but an infant's ! Then I had a visitor, and the elephant tread was explained. I put out the light and returned to bed, palsied with fear. I lay a long time peer ing into the darkness. Then I heard a grating noise overhead, like the dragging of a heavy body across the floor : then the throwing down of the body, and the shaking of my windows in responce to the concussion. In distant parts of the building, I heard the muffled slamming of doors. I heard at intenvals, stealthy foot steps creeping in and out amoung the corridors, and up and down the stairs. Sometimes these noises approached my door, hesitated and then went away again. I beared the clanking of chains faintly, in remote passages, and listened while the clanking grew nearer —while it wearily climed the stairways, marking each move by the loose surplus of chain that fell with a rattle upon cach < succeeding step, as the goblin that bore it advanced. I heared muttered sentences ; half utter ed screams that seemed smothered, violent ly smothered; and the swish of invisible garment, the rush of invisible wings. Then I became conscious that my chamber was invaded—that I was not alone. I heared sighs and breathiDgs about my bed, and mysterious whispering, lhreo little spheres of soft phosphorescent light ap peared on the ceiling directly over my head, clung and glowed there a moment, and then dropped—two of them upon^ my face, and one upon my pillow. They spattered liquidly, and felt warm. Intui tion told me they had turned to gouts of as they fell—l needed no light to satisfy myself of that. Then I saw pallid faces, dimly luminous, and white uplifted hands floating bodiless in the air,—floating a moment and then disappearing. The whispering ceased, and the voices and sounds, and a solemn silence followed. I waited, and listened, I felt that I must have light, or die. I was weak with fear. I slowly raised myself towards a sitting

posture, and my face came in contact with a clammy hand ! All strength went from me, apparently, and I fell back like a stricken invalid. Then I heard the rustle of a garment—it seemed to pass to the door and go out. When everything was still once more, I crept out of bed, sick and feeble, and lit the gas with a hand that trembled as if it_ aged with a hundred years. Tb.3 light brought some little cheer to my spirits. I sat down and fell into dreamy contempla tion of the great footprint in the ashes. By-and-bye its outlines began io waver and grow" dim. I glanced up and the broad gas flame was slowly wilting away. In the samo moment I heard that elephantine tread again. I noted its approach, nearer and nearer, along the musty halls, and dimmer and dimmer the light waned. The tread reached my very door and paused—the light had dwindled to a sickle blue, and all things about me lay in a spectral twilight. The door did not open, and yet I felt a faint guest of air fan my cheek, and presently was conscious of a huge, cloudy presence before me. I watched it with fascinated eyes. A pale glow stole over the Thing— gradually its cloudy folds took shape—an arm appeared, then lees, then a body, and last a great sad face looked out of the vapour. Stripped of its filmy housings, naked, muscular and comely, the majestic Cardiff Giant loomed above me !

All my misery vanished —for a child might know that no harm could come from that benignant countenance. My cheerful spirits returned at once, and in sympanhy with them the gas flamed up brightly again, Never a lonely outcast was so glad to welcome company as I was to greet the friendly giant. 1 said, — 'Why, is it nobody but you ? Do you know, I have been scared to death for the last two or three hours ? I am honestly glad to see you. I wish I had a chair ———. Here, here, don't try to sit down in that thing !' But it was too late.- He wa sin it before I could stop him, and down he went—l never saw a chair shivered so in my life. ' fetop, stop, you'll ruin cv ' Too late again. There was another crash, and another chair was resolved into its original elements.

' Confound it, haven't you got any judg ment at all? Do you want to rum all the furniture on the place? Here, here, you petrified fool '

' Now what sort of a way is that to do ? First you come lumbering about the place bringing a legion of vagabond goblins along with you to worry me to death, and then when I overlook an indelicacy of costume which would not be tolerated anywhere by cultivated Deople, except in a respectable .theatre, and not even there if the nudity were of your sex, you repay me by wreck ing all the furniture you can find to sit down on. And why will you ? You damage yourself as much as you do me. You have broken off the end of your spinal column and littered up the floor with chips off your hams till tho place looks, like a

marble-yard. You ought to be ashamed of yourself—you are big enough to know better.'

' Well, I will not break any more furni ture. But -what am Itodo P I have not had a chance to sit down for a century. 1 md the tears came into his eyes. ' Poor wretch,' I said, ' I should not have been so harsh with you. And you are an orphan, too, no doubt. But sit down on the floor here—nothing else can stand your weight—and besides, wo cannot be sociable with you away up there above me ! I want you down where I can perch, on this high counting-house stool and gossip with you face to face.'

_ So he sat down on the floor, and lit a pipe which I gave him, threw one of my red blankets over his shoulders, inverted my sitz-bath on his head, helmet fashon, and made himself picturesque and com fortable. Then ho crossed his ancles, while I renewed the fire, and'exposed the flat honey-combed bottoms of his prodi gious feet to the grateful warmth. ' What is the- matter with the bottom of your feet and the back of your legs, that they are aouged up so?1 ' Infernal chiblains—l caught them clear up to the back of my head, roosting out there under Nowell's farm. But I love the place ; I love it as one loves his old home. There is no peace for me like the oeace I feel when I am there.'

We talked along for half an hour,, and then I noticed that he looked tired, and spoke of it.

'Tired?' he said. 'Well, I should think so. And now 1 will tell you about it, since you have treated mo so well. I am the sprit of the Petrified Man that lies across the street there in the Museum. lam the ghost of the Cardiff' Giant. I can have no rest, no peace, till they have given that poor body burial again. Now what was the most natural thing for me to do, to make men satisfy this wish ? Terrify them into it!—haunt the place where the body lay i So I haunted the museum nigh after night. I even got other spirits to help me. But it did no good, for nobody ever came to the museum at midnight. Then it occurred to me to come over the way aud haunt this place a little. I felt that if I ever got a hearing I must succeed, for I had the most efficient company that perdition could furnish. Night after night we have shivered around through these mildewed halls, dragging chains, groaning, whisper ing, tramping up and down stairs, till to tell you the truth I am almost worn out.

But when I saw a light in your room to night I roused my energies again and went at it with a deal of the old fresh ness. But I am tired out—entirely fagged out. Give me, I beseech you, give me some hope !'

I lit off my my perch in a burse of excite ment, and exclaimed, —

'Thistranscends everything! everything that ever did occur! Why, you poor blundering old fossil, you have had all your trouble far nothing—you have been haunting a plaster cast of yourself—the real Cardiff Giant is in Albany ! Confound it, don't you know your own remains?'*

I never saw such an eloquent look of shame, of pitiable humiliation, overspread a countenance before.

Tho Petrified Man rose slowly to his feet, and said, — 'Honestly, is that true ?' ' As true as I am sitting hero.' He took his pipe from his mouth and laid it on the mantel, then stood irresolute a moment, (unconsciously, from old habit, thrusting Ids hands where his pantaloons pockets should have been, and meditative, ly dropping his chin on his breast,) and finally said, —

' Well—l never felt so absurd before. Tho Petrified Man Las sold everybody else, and now the mean fraud has ended by selling it's own ghost! My son, if there is any charity left in your heart for a poor friendles Panthom like me, don't let this get out. Think how you would fell if you had made such an ass of yourself.' 1 heard his stately tramp die away, step down the stairs and out into the deserted street, and felt sorry tbat he was gone, poor fellow—and sorrier still that he had carried off my red blanket and my bath tub.— MAEK TWAIN

Ready for the Worst.

A Deteoit widow owns and occupies a cottage under tho shadow of a church steeple which is supposed to be in danger of falling when a high wind blows. At midnight, a few nights ago, when tiie wind blew fieredyY she got up and dressed, called the children up and dressed them, and then folded her arms with the remark \ ' Now, then, if that steeple falls and kills' us people will know that we were a respectable family anyhow. George, you brush tip your hair a little more, and Sarah, you take your feet off the stove hearth and pin your collar more to the left."

Sunday-school teacher—' Aime, what mutt one do tj be forgiveu?' Anaia—«He niuac am.'

