Some of the dogs carry, attached to their collars, a flask of spirits or other restorative. Their wonderfully acute sense of smell enables them to detect the bodies of persons buried deeply beneath the surface of the snow, and thus direct the searchers where to dig for them. The animal's instinct seems to teach it, too, where hidden chasms or clefts, filled with loose snow, are; for it carefully avoids them, and thus is an all-important guide to the monks themselves.

We have stories without number as to what these dogs accomplish on their own account; how they dig out travellers, and bring them, sometimes unaided by man, to the hospice.



A few years ago one of these faithful animals might be seen wearing a medal, and regarded with much affection by all. This noble dog had well deserved the distinction; for one stormy day he had saved twenty-two individuals buried in their snowy envelope. Unfortunately, he met, at a subsequent period, the very fate from which he had rescued so many persons. At the worst season an Italian courier was crossing the pass, attended by two monks, each escorted by a dog (one being the wearer of the medal), when suddenly a vast avalanche shot down upon them with lightning speed, and they were all lost.

Another of these dogs, named "Barry," had served the St. Bernard Convent during twelve years, and had saved the lives of fifteen persons during that time. Whenever the pass was obscured by fogs and wintry snow-storms, he would go forth in search of lost travellers. It was his practice to run barking till he lost his breath, and he would venture into the most dangerous places. If, as sometimes happened, he did not succeed in drawing out from the snow some traveller stiffened with cold or overcome with exhaustion, he would run back to the convent and fetch some of the monks.

One day this brave dog found a little child in a half-frozen state. He began directly to lick him, and having succeeded first in restoring animation, and next in the complete resuscitation of the boy, he induced the child, by his caresses, to tie himself on his back. When this was effected, he transported the poor child, as if in triumph, to the hospice. When overtaken by old age, the glorious dog was pensioned off by way of reward, and after his death his body was stuffed and placed in the museum at Berne.

It is said that dogs of this variety inherit the faculty of tracking footsteps in snow. A gentleman once obtained a pup which had been produced in London by a female of the St. Bernard breed. The young animal was brought to Scotland, where it was never observed to give any particular tokens of a power of tracking footsteps until winter. Then, when the ground was covered with snow, it showed the utmost inclination to follow footsteps; and such was its power of doing so, that though its master might attempt to confuse it by walking in the most irregular fashion, and by inducing other persons to cross his path in all directions, yet it always followed his course with great precision.

Sir Thomas Dick Lander, who for many years resided at Grange House, Edinburgh, had a fine dog of the St. Bernard breed presented to him. Its bark was so loud that it could be distinguished at the distance of a mile. Its bark once led to its recovery, when stolen by some carters. "Bass," as the dog was named, had been missing for some time, when it was brought back to Grange House by a letter-carrier, who said that in going along a certain street, he heard a barking inside a yard, and at once recognized the voice of Bass. "He knocked at the gate," writes Sir Thomas, "and immediately said to the owner of the premises,—

"'You have got Sir Thomas Lander's big dog.'

"The man denied it.

"'But I know you have,' continued the letter-carrier. 'I am certain that I heard the bark of Sir Thomas's big dog; for there is no other dog in or about all Edinburgh that has such a bark.'

"The man then admitted that he had a large dog, which he had bought for a trifle from a couple of coal carters; and at last, with great reluctance, he gave up the dog to the letter-carrier, who brought him home here."

Sir Thomas, after describing many of Bass's characteristics, then proceeds:—

"He took a particular fancy for one of the postmen who delivers letters here, though he was not the man whom I have already had occasion to mention. It was the duty of this postman I now allude to, besides delivering letters, to carry a letter-bag from one receiving house to another, and this big bag he used to give Bass to carry. Bass always followed that man through all the villas in the neighborhood where he had deliveries to make, and he invariably parted with him opposite to the gate of the Convent of St. Margaret's, and returned home.

"When our gate was shut, to prevent his following the postman, the dog always leaped a high wall to get after him. One day, when the postman was ill, or detained by some accidental circumstance, he sent a man in his place. Bass went up to the man, curiously scanning his face, whilst the man retired from the dog, by no means liking his appearance, and very anxious to decline all acquaintance with him. But as the man left the place, Bass followed him, showing strong symptoms that he was determined to have the post-bag. The man did all he could to keep the possession of it. But at length Bass, seeing that he had no chance of getting possession of the bag by civil entreaty, raised himself on his hind legs, and putting a great fore paw on each of the man's shoulders, he laid him flat on his back in the road, and quietly picking up the bag, he proceeded peaceably on his wonted way. The man, much dismayed, arose and followed the dog, making, every now and then, an ineffectual attempt to coax him to give it up.

"At the first house he came to he told his fears and the dilemma he was in; but the people comforted him by telling him that the dog always carried the bag. Bass walked with the man to all the houses at which he delivered letters, and along the road till he came to the gate of St. Margaret's, where he dropped the bag; and making his bow to the man, he returned home."



THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS.

O wise little birds! how do you know The way to go Southward and northward, to and fro?

Far up in the ether piped they: "We but obey One who calleth us far away.

"He calleth and calleth year by year Now there, now here; Ever He maketh the way appear."

Dear little birds, He calleth me Who calleth ye: Would that I might as trusting be!



FOR THE CHILDREN.

Come stand by my knee, little children, Too weary for laughter or song; The sports of the daylight are over, And evening is creeping along; The snow-fields are white in the moonlight, The winds of the winter are chill, But under the sheltering roof-tree The fire shineth ruddy and still.

You sit by the fire, little children, Your cheeks are ruddy and warm; But out in the cold of the winter Is many a shivering form. There are mothers that wander for shelter, And babes that are pining for bread; Oh, thank the dear Lord, little children, From whose tender hand you are fed.

Come look in my eyes, little children, And tell me, through all the long day, Have you thought of the Father above us, Who guarded from evil our way? He heareth the cry of the sparrow, And careth for great and for small; In life and in death, little children, His love is the truest of all.

Now come to your rest, little children, And over your innocent sleep, Unseen by your vision, the angels Their watch through the darkness shall keep; Then pray that the Shepherd who guideth The lambs that He loveth so well May lead you, in life's rosy morning, Beside the still waters to dwell.



REASON AND INSTINCT.

Are dogs endowed with reason? As you grow up, you will spend many happy hours in the contemplation of this interesting question. It does sometimes seem as if there could be no possible doubt that dogs, as well as horses, elephants, and some other of the higher animals, are gifted with the dawn of reason, so extraordinary are some of their acts.

It is but a few days since a dog in Vermont saved a house from burning, and possibly the inmates. The dog discovered the fire in the kitchen, flew to his master's apartment, leaped upon his bed, and so aroused the people to a sense of their danger.

"As I was walking out one frosty morning with a large Newfoundland dog," says the Rev. J. C. Atkinson, "I observed the animal's repeated disappointment on putting his head down to drink at sundry ice-covered pools. After one of these disappointments, I broke the ice with my foot for my thirsty companion. The next time Tiger was thirsty, he did not wait for me to 'break the ice,' but with his foot, or, if too strong, by jumping upon it, he obtained water for himself."

Here seems to be the manifestation of a desire to learn from observation.

After the battle of Fredericksburg, it fell to my duty to search a given district for any dead or wounded soldiers there might be left, and to bring relief. Near an old brick dwelling I discovered a soldier in gray who seemed to be dead. Lying by his side was a noble dog, with his head flat upon his master's neck. As I approached, the dog raised his eyes to me good-naturedly, and began wagging his tail; but he did not change his position. The fact that the animal did not growl, that he did not move, but, more than all, the intelligent, joyful expression of his face, convinced me that the man was only wounded, which proved to be the case. A bullet had pierced his throat, and faint from the loss of blood, he had fallen down where he lay. His dog had actually stopped the bleeding from the wound by laying his head across it. Whether this was casual or not, I cannot say. But the shaggy coat of the faithful creature was completely matted with his master's blood.

Strange as these facts may appear, we should not confound INSTINCT with intelligence which comes from REASON. There is a wide difference between them. Before long I propose to discuss this matter to some extent, in an article which I have already begun.



TOUCH NOT.

Touch not the tempting cup, my boy, Though urged by friend or foe; Dare, when the tempter urges most, Dare nobly say, No—no! The joyous angel from on high Shall tell your soul the reason why.

Touch not the tempting cup, my boy; In righteousness be brave; Take not the first, a single step, Towards a drunkard's grave; The widow's groan, the orphan's sigh, Shall tell your soul the reason why.



CHILDREN.

What could we without them, Those flowers of life? How bear all the sorrows With which it is rife? As long as they blossom, Whilst brightly they bloom, Our own griefs are nothing, Forgotten our gloom.

We joy in the sunshine— It sheds on them light; We welcome the shower— It makes them more bright; On our pathway of thorns They are thrown from above, And they twine round about us, And bless us with love.

Bright, beautiful flowers, So fresh and so pure! How could we without them Life's troubles endure? So guileless and holy, Such soothers of strife, What could we without them, Sweet flowers of life?



THE WHITE BUTTERFLY.

A TALE FOR CHILDREN.

Very slowly and wearily over road and hedge flew a white butterfly one calm May evening; its wings had been torn and battered in its flight from eager pursuers, who little cared that their pleasure was another's pain. On, on, went the fugitive, until it came to a little garden so sweet and quiet that it rested from its flight and said, "Here, at least, I shall find peace; these gentle flowers will give me shelter." Then, with eager swiftness, it flew to a stately peony. "Oh, give me shelter, thou beautiful flower!" it murmured as it rested for a second upon its crimson head—a second only, for, with a jerk and an exclamation of disgust, the peony cast the butterfly to the ground. With a low sigh it turned to the pansy near. Well, the pansy wished to be kind, but the butterfly was really very tattered and dirty; and then velvet soils so easily that she must beg to be excused. The wall-flower, naturally frank and good-natured, had been so tormented all day by those troublesome bees that she solemnly vowed she would do nothing more for anybody.

The tulips were asleep; and the other flowers, trying to emulate fair Lady Rose, held their heads so very high that they, of course, did not hear the low, soft cry, "Oh, will no one give me shelter?" At last there came an answer, "I will, gladly," in a shy and trembling tone, as though fearing to be presumptuous, from a thick thorny bush which helped to protect the more dainty beauties from the rough blasts of a sometimes too boisterous wind; in consideration of which service the flowers considered the briar as a good, useful sort of thing, respectable enough in its common way, but not as an equal or associate, you understand. With gratitude the forlorn butterfly rested all night in the bosom of one of its simple white blossoms.

When night had gone and the bright sun came gliding up from the east, calling on Nature to awake, the flowers raised their heads in all the pride of renewed beauty and saluted one another. Where was the forlorn butterfly? Ah! where? They saw it no more; but over the white blossom where it had rested there hovered a tiny fairy in shining, changing sheen, her wand sparkling with dewdrops. She looked down on the flowers with gentle, reproachful eye, while they bent low in wonder and admiration.

"Who is it?" they asked. "How beautiful! how lovely!"

The fairy heard them with a smile, and said, "Fair flowers, I was a shabby butterfly; what I am, you see. I came to you poor and weary; and because I was poor and weary you shut me out from your hearts."

The pansy and the wall-flower bent their heads in sorrow, and Lady Rose blushed with shame.

"If I had only known!" muttered the peony; "but who would have thought it?"

"Who indeed?" laughed the fairy; "but learn, proud peony, that he who thinks always of self loses much of life's sweetness—far more than he ever suspects; for goodness is as the dew of the heart, and yieldeth refreshment and happiness, even if it win no other recompense. But it is meet that it should be rewarded. Behold, all of you!" and the fairy touched with her wand the white blossom on which she had rested, saying, "For thy sweetness be thou loved for ever!" At these words a thrill of happiness stirred the sap of the rough, neglected briar, and a soft, lovely blush suffused the petals of its flowers, and from its green leaves came forth an exquisite odor, perfuming the whole garden and eclipsing the other flowers in their pride.

Then the fairy rose in the air, and hovering over her resting-place for a moment ere she vanished said, "Such is the reward of goodness. Fare thee well, sweet briar!"



WORKING IS BETTER THAN WISHING.

"Now then, Tom, lad, what's up? in trouble again?" asked a good-natured sailor of his messmate, one snowy day on the wide Atlantic.

The boy was leaning moodily against the bulwarks of the vessel—a pleasant, ruddy young fellow of fourteen, but with a cloud on his face which looked very like discontent.

Snow was falling heavily, but he did not heed it; he looked up, however, at the approach of his friend, and answered,—

"I'm all right, Pearson; it isn't that. I was only wishing and wondering why I can't get what I want; it seems a shame, it does!" and Tom paused abruptly, half choked by a sob.

"What is it, Tom?" asked Pearson; "have the other lads been plaguing? Such a big, hearty fellow as you ought not to fret for that."

"I don't," said Tom, sharply; "it's not that; but they've found out that my little brother is in the workhouse at home, and they throw it at me. I'd do anything to get him out, too, for he oughtn't to be there: we come of a better sort, Pearson," he said, proudly; "but father and mother dying of that fever put us all wrong. Uncle got me to sea, and then, I suppose, he thought he'd done enough; so there was only the workhouse left for Willy. He's the jolliest little chap, Pearson, you ever saw, and I'd work day and night to get him out, if I could; but where's the use? A poor boy like me can do nothing; so I just get in a rage, or don't care about anything, and fight the other lads; or I'm had up for neglect of duty, or something."

"And so you lose all chance of getting on, and being able in time to help your little brother," said Pearson, as if musing; "but what's that you have in your hand, Tom—a picture?"

"It's Willy," said the boy; "yes, you may look, Pearson. Mother had it taken just before she fell ill; he's only four, but he's the prettiest little chap, with yellow hair all in curls. I dare say they've cut them off, though," he added, bitterly. "There's a bit of a sickly child on board, belonging to the tall lady in black, that reminds me a little of him, only he isn't near as pretty as Willy."

"Yes, he is a pretty little lad," said Pearson, returning the photograph; "and now, Tom, mind my word: I am an old fellow compared to you, and I'll give you a bit of advice. The little lad is safe, at any rate, in the workhouse; he's got food and clothes, and you couldn't give him that; so be content, and try to do your own duty. If you get a good character, instead of being always had up for sulking or fighting, that's the best chance for you, and, after you, for Willy. As for the lads' teasing, why, be a bit hard of hearing, and before many years, I warrant, you'll be having Willy aboard ship as boy, when you're an able-bodied seaman."

Tom laughed. "Thank you, Pearson. Well, I'll try; but I do get wishing and bothering of nights."

"Ah, that wishing's a poor trick," said Pearson; "give it up, Tom, and work instead."

People don't often take advice, but this time it was followed. A great deal of rough weather came on; every one had as much as he could do, and Tom worked with the best of them, and to his great joy was noticed by the ship's officers as a willing lad.

One bright morning brought all the passengers on deck,—the ship was bound for Rio,—and among them came the tall lady in black, with her little boy in her arms. Tom's duties took him near her, and he could not but steal a glance at the little face like Willy's; but, O, so pale and pinched now! The child had suffered dreadfully in the rough weather; it was doubtful whether he would see land again, he was so weakened. Tom felt sorry for the little fellow, but his work engrossed him, and he had nearly forgotten the white-faced child, when, to his great surprise, the captain called him. The lady in black was a relative of the captain, and it seemed that while Tom had been glancing at the sick child, the child had been watching him, and had taken a fancy to his clear round face, and active movements.

"Let me see what sort of a head-nurse you can make," said the captain to Tom; "this little fellow will have you carry him, he says, and teach him to climb the rigging."

Tom smiled, but instantly checked himself, as hardly respectful to the captain.

They dressed Carlo up in a suit of sailor clothes. To be sure they were rather large for him, but then it was such fun to be a real little sailor. Under Tom's care his face soon grew round and fat, and his merry laugh rang out on the air. And now he would live to see his father and his birthplace again, for he was born in South America, and had only left his Portuguese father for a few months, to accompany his English mother on a visit to her relatives.

The day before they sighted land, Tom was sent for into the captain's cabin, and there a wonderful proposal was made to him—that he should give up sea life, and go to Bella Sierra as little Carlo's attendant. Carlo's parents were rich people; little Carlo had taken a great fancy to him, and he would have good wages.



It sounded very pleasant; but little Willy! he should never see him—it would not do. Tom hesitatingly explained this to Carlo's mother, drawing the little photograph out of his pocket the while.

Then came the last and best proposition,—that Willy should come out on the Flying Star's next voyage, and live, too, at Bella Sierra. Mrs. Costello—the lady in black—promised to pay all expenses, and put him in charge of the stewardess. Carlo, her only child, had grown so fond of Tom, that she would do anything to keep him.

"Such an active, willing boy," she explained to the captain. "I have often watched him at work, and admired the way in which he did it."

"Well, lad," said Pearson, when Tom came to tell him the news, "wasn't I right when I told you that the best way you could work for Willy was by doing your own duty? If you had gone on in that half-and-half, discontented way, no rich lady would have cared to have you about her house—would she?"

Tom looked thoughtful. "Yes, you were right, Pearson; you've done it all; and now I want you to do one thing more. Please look after Willy a bit when he comes out; he's such a daring little chap, he'll always be running away from the stewardess."

"Ah, you want me to be nurse now—do you?" said Pearson; "all right, lad, and as the song says, 'Don't forget me in the land you're going to.' And you can still stick to my old motto, that 'Working is better than Wishing.'"



KIND TO EVERYTHING.

Softly, softly, little sister, Touch those gayly-painted wings; Butterflies and moths, remember, Are such very tender things.

Softly, softly, little sister, Twirl your limber hazel twig; Little hands may harm a nestling Thoughtlessly, as well as big.

Gently stroke the purring pussy, Kindly pat the friendly dog; Let your unmolesting mercy Even spare the toad or frog.

Wide is God's great world around you: Let the harmless creatures live; Do not mar their brief enjoyment, Take not what you cannot give.

Let your heart be warm and tender— For the mute and helpless plead; Pitying leads to prompt relieving, Kindly thought to kindly deed.



THAT CALF!

To the yard, by the barn, came the farmer one morn, And, calling the cattle, he said, While they trembled with fright, "Now, which of you, last night, Shut the barn door, while I was abed?" Each one of them all shook his head.

Now the little calf Spot, she was down in the lot; And the way the rest talked was a shame; For no one, night before, saw her shut up the door; But they said that she did,—all the same,— For they always made her take the blame.

Said the horse (dapple gray), "I was not up that way Last night, as I now recollect;" And the bull, passing by, tossed his horns very high, And said, "Let who may here object, I say 'tis that calf I suspect!"

Then out spoke the cow, "It is terrible, now, To accuse honest folks of such tricks." Said the cock in the tree, "I'm sure 'twasn't me;" And the sheep all cried, "Bah!" (There were six.) "Now that calf's got herself in a fix!"

"Why, of course, we all knew 'twas the wrong thing to do." Said the chickens. "Of course," said the cat; "I suppose," cried the mule, "some folks think me a fool; But I'm not quite so simple as that; The poor calf never knows what she's at!"

Just that moment, the calf, who was always the laugh And the jest of the yard, came in sight. "Did you shut my barn door?" asked the farmer once more. "I did, sir; I closed it last night," Said the calf; "and I thought that was right."

Then each one shook his head. "She will catch it," they said; "Serve her right for her meddlesome way!" Said the farmer, "Come here, little bossy, my dear! You have done what I cannot repay, And your fortune is made from to-day.

"For a wonder, last night, I forgot the door, quite; And if you had not shut it so neat, All my colts had slipped in, and gone right to the bin, And got what they ought not to eat— They'd have foundered themselves upon wheat."

Then each hoof of them all began loudly to bawl; The very mule smiled; the cock crew; "Little Spotty, my dear, you're a favorite here," They cried. "We all said it was you, We were so glad to give you your due." And the calf answered, knowingly, "Boo!"

PHOEBE CARY.

[Decoration]



LITTLE HELPERS.

Planting the corn and potatoes, Helping to scatter the seeds, Feeding the hens and the chickens, Freeing the garden from weeds, Driving the cows to the pasture, Feeding the horse in the stall,— We little children are busy; Sure, there is work for us all.

Spreading the hay in the sunshine, Raking it up when it's dry, Picking the apples and peaches Down in the orchard hard by, Picking the grapes in the vineyard, Gathering nuts in the fall,— We little children are busy; Yes, there is work for us all.

Sweeping, and washing the dishes, Bringing the wood from the shed, Ironing, sewing and knitting, Helping to make up the beds, Taking good care of the baby, Watching her lest she should fall,— We little children are busy; Oh, there is work for us all.

Work makes us cheerful and happy, Makes us both active and strong; Play we enjoy all the better When we have labored so long. Gladly we help our kind parents, Quickly we come to their call; Children should love to be busy; There is much work for us all.



THE ANIMAL IN ARMOR.

This picture of three curious little puppies looking at a tortoise reminds me of a story told of a countryman who saw some land-tortoises for the first time at a fair held in a market-place of his native village. Very much surprised at their queer look, he asked the man who was selling them how much they were.

"Eighteenpence a pair," was the answer.

"Eighteenpence!" said the man; "that is a great deal for a thing like a frog. What will you take for one without the box?"

Little folks would not make such a stupid mistake as this; they would know that this strange-looking animal between its two shells was a tortoise. There are different sorts—some that live on land, and some in water. Those that live in the sea are called turtles, and their shells are not so hard as that of the land-tortoise. It is easy to see why this is: a turtle would not be able to swim with so thick a shell; it would be much as if a man in armor were to try. Their shells are not all in one, but joined together by a sort of gristle, which enables them to move with greater ease and not so stiffly.

Directly any one hears the name of tortoise, he begins to think of tortoise-shell. This ought really to be called turtle-shell, as it is made from the shell of the hawk's-bill turtle. Tortoise-shell is made by soaking the plates of the shell in warm water until they are soft; then they are pressed into the shapes wanted in warm iron moulds, and taken out and polished.

Some of the sea-turtles are very fierce; and although they have no teeth, their jaws are so strong that they can bite a walking-stick in half. Land-tortoises are quite harmless; they only attack the insects they feed upon. They go to sleep, like the dormouse, in the winter, but they do not make a burrow; they cover themselves with earth by scraping it up and throwing it over their bodies. In doing this they would find their heads and tails very much in the way if it were not that they are able to draw them in between their shells. No one, of course, knows how they find their way out again in the spring; but it is supposed that they scratch the earth away and throw it underneath them, at the same time pushing their way up.

Tortoises live to a very great age. One was given to the Zoological Gardens in 1833 which had already lived seventy years in Port Louis, in the island of Mauritius. Its shell, from the head to the tail, measured four feet four inches and a half, and it weighed two hundred and eighty-five pounds.

[Decoration]



THE IRON RING.

Chang Wang was a Chinaman, and was reputed to be one of the shrewdest dealers in the Flowery Land. If making money fast be the test of cleverness, there was not a merchant in the province of Kwang Tung who had earned a better right to be called clever. Who owned so many fields of the tea-plant, who shipped so many bales of its leaves to the little island in the west, as did Chang Wang? It was whispered, indeed, that many of the bales contained green tea made by chopping up spoiled black tea leaves, and coloring them with copper—a process likely to turn them into a mild kind of poison; but if the unwholesome trash found purchasers, Chang Wang never troubled himself with the thought whether any one might suffer in health from drinking his tea. So long as the dealer made money, he was content; and plenty of money he made.

But knowing how to make money is quite a different thing from knowing how to enjoy it. With all his ill-gotten gains, Chang Wang was a miserable man; for he had no heart to spend his silver pieces, even on his own comfort. The rich dealer lived in a hut which one of his own laborers might have despised; he dressed as a poor Tartar shepherd might have dressed when driving his flock. Chang Wang grudged himself even a hat to keep off the rays of the sun. Men laughed, and said that he would have cut off his own pigtail of plaited hair, if he could have sold it for the price of a dinner!

Chang Wang was, in fact, a miser, and was rather proud than ashamed of the hateful vice of avarice.

Chang Wang had to make a journey to Macao, down the great River Yang-se-kiang, for purposes of trade. The question with the Chinaman now was, in what way he should travel.

"Shall I hire a palanquin?" thought Chang Wang, stroking his thin mustaches; "no, a palanquin would cost too much money. Shall I take my passage in a trading vessel?"

The rich trader shook his head, and the pigtail behind it—such a passage would have to be paid for.

"I know what I'll do," said the miser to himself; "I'll ask my uncle Fing Fang to take me in his fishing-boat down the great river. It is true that it will make my journey a long one; but then I shall make it for nothing. I'll go to the fisherman Fing Fang, and settle the matter at once."

The business was soon arranged, for Fing Fang would not refuse his rich nephew a seat in his boat. But he, like every one else, was disgusted at Chang Wang's meanness; and as soon as the dealer had left his hovel, thus spoke Fing Fang to his sons, Ko and Jung:—

"Here's a fellow who has scraped up money enough to build a second Porcelain Tower, and he comes here to beg a free passage in a fishing-boat from an uncle whom he has never so much as asked to share a dish of his birds'-nests soup!"

"Birds'-nests soup, indeed!" exclaimed Ko; "why, Chang Wang never indulges in luxuries such as that. If dogs' flesh were not so cheap, he'd grudge himself the paw of a roasted puppy!"

"And what will Chang Wang make of all his money at last?" said Fing Fang, more gravely; "he cannot carry it away with him when he dies."

"O, he's gathering it up for some one who will know how to spend it!" laughed Jung. "Chang Wang is merely fishing for others; what he gathers, they will enjoy."

It was a bright, pleasant day when Chang Wang stepped into the boat of his uncle, to drop slowly down the great Yang-se-kiang. Many a civil word he said to Fing Fang and his sons, for civil words cost nothing. Chang Wang sat in the boat, twisting the ends of his long mustaches, and thinking how much money each row of plants in his tea-fields might bring him. Presently, having finished his calculations, the miser turned to watch his relations, who were pursuing their fishing occupation in the way peculiar to China. Instead of rods, lines, or nets, the Fing Fang family was provided with trained cormorants, which are a kind of bird with a long neck, large appetite, and a particular fancy for fish.

It was curious to watch a bird diving down in the sunny water, and then suddenly come up again with a struggling fish in his bill. The fish was, however, always taken away from the cormorant, and thrown by one of the Fing Fangs into a well at the bottom of the boat.

"Cousin Ko," said the miser, leaning forward to speak, "how is it that your clever cormorants never devour the fish they catch?"

"Cousin Chang Wang," replied the young man, "dost thou not see that each bird has an iron ring round his neck, so that he cannot swallow? He only fishes for others."

"Methinks the cormorant has a hard life of it," observed the miser, smiling. "He must wish his iron ring at the bottom of the Yang-se-kiang."

Fing Fang, who had just let loose two young cormorants from the boat, turned round, and from his narrow slits of Chinese eyes looked keenly upon his nephew.

"Didst thou ever hear of a creature," said he, "that puts an iron ring around his own neck?"

"There is no such creature in all the land that the Great Wall borders," replied Chang Wang.

Fing Fang solemnly shook the pigtail which hung down his back. Like many of the Chinese, he had read a great deal, and was a kind of philosopher in his way.

"Nephew Chang Wang," he observed, "I know of a creature (and he is not far off at this moment) who is always fishing for gain—constantly catching, but never enjoying. Avarice—the love of hoarding—is the iron ring round his neck; and so long as it stays there, he is much like one of our trained cormorants—he may be clever, active, successful, but he is only fishing for others."

I leave my readers to guess whether the sharp dealer understood his uncle's meaning, or whether Chang Wang resolved in future not only to catch, but to enjoy. Fing Fang's moral might be good enough for a heathen, but it does not go nearly far enough for a Christian. If a miser is like a cormorant with an iron ring round his neck, the man or the child who lives for his own pleasure only, what is he but a greedy cormorant with the iron ring? Who would wish to resemble a cormorant at all? The bird knows the enjoyment of getting; let us prize the richer enjoyment of giving. Let me close with an English proverb, which I prefer to the Chinaman's parable—"Charity is the truest epicure, for she eats with many mouths."

A. L. O. E.



SUMMER.

I'm coming along with a bounding pace To finish the work that Spring begun; I've left them all with a brighter face, The flowers in the vales through which I've run.

I have hung festoons from laburnum trees, And clothed the lilac, the birch and broom; I've wakened the sound of humming-bees, And decked all nature in brighter bloom.

I've roused the laugh of the playful child, And tired it out in the sunny noon; All nature at my approach hath smiled, And I've made fond lovers seek the moon.

For this is my life, my glorious reign, And I'll queen it well in my leafy bower; All shall be bright in my rich domain; I'm queen of the leaf, the bud and the flower.

And I'll reign in triumph till autumn-time Shall conquer my green and verdant pride; Then I'll hie me to another clime Till I'm called again as a sunny bride.



CHARLIE'S CHRISTMAS.

Oh how cold and miserable everything is! Hardly a thought to be uppermost on Christmas eve in the mind of a little school-boy; and yet it was that which filled the mind of Charlie Earle on the Christmas eve of which I am going to tell you. Only a few hours before, he had been as happy as any boy could be. Everybody was going home, and everybody was in the highest spirits and full of the most delightful hopes of what the holidays would bring them; and now everybody except Charlie has gone home, and he is left alone in the dreary school-room, knowing that at any rate Christmas day, and maybe many other days, are to be spent away from home, and from all the pleasant doings which he had pictured to himself and others only the very day before.

The coming of the post-bag had been scarcely noticed in the school-room that morning. So when old Bunce, the butler, looked in at the door and said, "Master Earle is wanted in the doctor's room," the boys all wondered, and Charlie's neighbor whispered to him, "Whatever can he want you for, Earle?" The doctor's tale was soon told, and it was one which sent Charlie back to the school-room with a very different face to the one with which he had left it. A letter had come to Doctor West from Charlie's father, and in it a note from his mother to Charlie himself, written the night before, and saying that a summons had come that very morning calling them to Charlie's grandmother, who was very ill, and that they were starting for Scotland that night and would be almost at their journey's end when Charlie got the news. The note said that Laura, Charlie's sister, would go with them, but that they could not wait for Charlie himself, so they had written to Mrs. Lamb, Charlie's old nurse, who lived about ten miles from Dr. West's, and had asked her to take charge of him for a day or two, till more was known of his grandmother's state and some better plan could be made for him. It was sad enough for Charlie to hear of the illness of his kind old grandmother—sad enough to see the merry start of the other boys, while he had to stay behind; but to have to think of Christmas day spent away from father and mother, away from Laura and home, was excuse enough for a few bitter tears. But unpleasant things come to an end as well as pleasant ones, and Charlie's lonely waiting in the school-room came to its end, and he found himself that afternoon snugly packed into the Blackridge coach, and forgetting his own troubles in listening to the cheery chatter of the other passengers, and in looking at what was to be seen as the coach rolled briskly along the snow-covered road. It was quite dark when they reached Blackridge, and Charlie looked out at the people gathered round the door of the "Packhorse Inn," and a sudden fear filled his mind lest there should be no one there to meet him; but he soon saw by the light at the inn door Nurse Lamb herself, with her kind face looking so beaming that it seemed a little bit like really going home.

"Here, father," said Nurse Lamb to her jolly-looking husband; "here's Master Charlie, safe and sound! You bring the luggage in the barrow while I take him home quick, for I am sure he must be cold."

And so nurse bustled Charlie off down a lane and across a meadow, till they came to a wicket-gate, beyond which stood the back of a low, deep-thatched cottage half buried in snow. On getting round to the front the door was opened by a little girl, and nurse called out, "Here, Molly, here we are;" adding, "Molly is my step-daughter, Master Charlie—the one I used to tell you about before I was married, when we were down at Hastings."



When they got into the house, there was the kitchen with its rows of bright pewter plates, its wide hearth and roaring fire, its hams hanging to the beams, all just as they had been described in the days when nurse's new home at Blackridge Farm was a subject of never-ending interest to the two children in Mrs. Earle's nursery.

After he had had a capital tea, Charlie was allowed to go round with the farmer to see that the horses were all right for the night, Charlie carrying the lantern and feeling himself quite a man as he followed the farmer into the stable. There was much coming and going at the farm that evening, for was it not Christmas eve? and nurse was busy sending off gifts to neighbors who were not so thriving as herself, and busy, too, in making preparations for the morrow. Charlie meanwhile sat in the settle and made friends with Molly, who was about his own age and knew much more, though she was only a girl, about dogs and rabbits and tadpoles than London-bred Charlie. By and by they helped to stir the great plum-pudding, and dressed the kitchen and parlor with evergreens, till nurse called them to come and hear the chimes.

And Charlie thought it very beautiful as he stood at the door and listened to the bells. And as they stood there the wind wafted to them also the voices of the choir as they went on their round through the village, singing their carols; and then Charlie went to bed with "Hark, the herald angels sing!" ringing in his ears.

Next morning Charlie, as he ran down stairs, could hardly believe this was really Christmas day, all was so unlike any Christmas he had known before; but in the kitchen he found one thing like the Christmas mornings at home, for he found quite a little pile of parcels beside his plate, containing the pretty gifts prepared by father and mother and Laura, and sent by them to nurse, so that at any rate the little lad should not be robbed of this part of his Christmas pleasures. There was a note, too, from mother, saying that she and father and Laura were safe in Edinburgh, and that grandmother was better, and that she hoped to tell him in her next letter when they and he should meet at home in London. Such a bright beginning was enough to make all the rest of the day bright; and bright it was. Charlie found plenty to do till church-time, as Molly showed him all the nooks and corners about the farm.

The old church, with its high pews and country congregation made Charlie feel that he must be dreaming. Surely it could not be Christmas, but must be the autumn? and he and Laura and everybody had come away from London for the holidays?

No; it was no dream. It was really Christmas; for there, round the pillars, were the holly-wreaths with their red berries, and there, behind the chancel-screen, were the same Christmas texts as in their church in London. When service was over, Charlie and Molly hurried home to help Martha, the farm-girl, to have all in readiness for the Christmas dinner. But after dinner there was not much sitting still—at any rate for Charlie; for who could think of sitting still indoors, when outside there were a pond covered with ice and a farmyard full of horses and dogs?

Nor was the evening after tea without its pleasure. When the snow began to fall, and the doors and windows were tightly closed, then a huge log was piled on the fire; and while Farmer and Mrs. Lamb sat and talked before it in the parlor, Charlie and Molly had a fine game of romps in the big kitchen with Martha; and when they were tired of that, they sat on the hearth and roasted chestnuts, while nurse read a Christmas tale to them.

And here I must leave Charlie finishing his Christmas day, hoping that any who read this story of it may agree with Charlie in thinking, when he laid his head on the pillow that night, that, though it had been spent far from home, it had not been an unhappy day, after all.



MARCELLIN.

Marcellin, a young shepherd boy, who tended his father's flock upon the mountains, having penetrated a deep gorge to search for one of his sheep which was missing, discovered in the thickest of the forest a man lying upon the ground overcome with fatigue, and faint from want of food.

"My poor lad," said the man, "I am dying from hunger and thirst. Two days ago I came upon this mountain to hunt. I lost my way, and I have passed two nights in the woods."

Marcellin drew some bread and cheese from his knapsack, and gave to the stranger.

"Eat," he said, "and then follow me. I will conduct you to an old oak tree, in the trunk of which we shall find some water."

The food satisfied his hunger; then he followed Marcellin, and drank of the water, which he found excellent. Afterwards the boy conducted him down the mountain, and pointed out the way to the city.

Then the hunter said to the shepherd boy, "My good lad, you have saved my life. If I had remained in the mountain another night, I should have died. I will show you my gratitude. Come with me to the city. I am rich; and I will treat you as if you were my own son."

"No, sir," said Marcellin; "I cannot go with you to the city. I have a father and a mother who are poor, but whom I love with all my heart. Were you a king, I would not leave my parents."

"But," said the hunter, "you live here in a miserable cabin with an ugly thatched roof; I live in a palace built of marble, and surrounded with statues. I will give you drink in glasses like crystal, and food upon plates of silver."

"Very likely," responded Marcellin; "but our house is not half as miserable as you suppose. If it is not surrounded with statues, it is among fruit trees and trellised vines. We drink water which we get from a neighboring fountain. It is very clear, though we do not drink from crystal cups. We gain by our labor a modest living, but good enough. And if we do not have silver ware in our house, we have plenty of flowers."

"Nonsense, my boy! Come with me," said the hunter; "we have trees and flowers in the city more beautiful than yours. I have magnificent grounds, with broad alleys, with a flower garden filled with the most precious plants. In the middle of it there is a beautiful fountain, the like of which you never saw. The water is thrown upward in small streams, and falls back sparkling into the great white marble basin. You would be quite happy to live there."

"But I am quite happy here," replied Marcellin. "The shade of our forests is at least as delicious as that of your superb alleys. Our fields are running over with flowers. You can hardly step without finding them under your feet. There are flowers around our cottage—roses, violets, lilies, pansies. Do you suppose that our fountains are less beautiful than your little jets of water? You should see the merry brooks bounding down over the rocks, and running away through the flowery meadow."

"You don't know what you refuse," rejoined the hunter. "If you go into the city, you will be put to school, where you can study all departments of art and science. There are theatres, where skilful musicians will enchant your ears by harmony. There are rich saloons, to which you will be admitted, to enjoy splendid fetes. And since you so much love the country, you shall pass your summer vacation with me in a superb chateau which I possess."

"Well, I am greatly obliged to you," replied the shepherd boy; "but I think I had better stop with father and mother. I can learn everything useful in our village school. I am taught to fear God, to honor my parents, and to imitate their virtues. I don't wish to learn anything beyond that. Then your musicians, which you tell about, do they sing any better than the nightingale or the golden robin? Then we have our concerts and our fetes. We are right down happy when we are all together on Sunday evening under the trees. My sister sings, while I accompany her upon my flute. Our chants can be heard a long way off, and echo repeats them. And in the evening, when we stay in the house, grandfather is with us. We love him so much because he is so good. No, I will not leave my parents. I will not renounce their home, if it is humble. I cannot go to the city with you."

The hunter saw that it was of no use to argue the point; so he said,—

"What shall I give you, then, to express my gratitude for your services? Take this purse, filled with gold."

"What need have I of it? We are poor, but we want nothing. Besides, if I accept your money, I should sell the little service I have been able to render. That would be wrong; my mother would blame me for such conduct. She tells me that we ought always to assist those who are in trouble and want without expecting pay for it."

"Generous boy! What shall I give you as a mark of my gratitude? You must accept something, or I shall be greatly disappointed."

"Is it so?" asked Marcellin, playfully. "Then give me the cup which is suspended at your side—that one on which is engraved a picture of some dogs pursuing a stag."

The hunter joyfully gave the cup to the happy shepherd boy, who, having once more indicated the way which would lead to the city, bade him good day, and went back to his flock.

And the rich man returned to his splendid dwelling, having learned that it is the proper use of the means we have, rather than wishing for greater, which brings happiness and contentment.



AN ADVENTURE IN THE LIFE OF SALVATOR ROSA.

There is in the museum at Florence a celebrated painting, which calls to mind a thrilling adventure of Salvator Rosa when quite young.

The scene represents a solitude, very rugged and sublime—mountains upon every side, with their tops covered with snow, while through the dark clouds in the sky a few straggling sunbeams find their way to the valley. Upon the border of an immense cliff stands a group of men whose costume denotes them to be brigands of the Apennines. Upon the very edge of the precipice, erect and calm, is a young man, surrounded by the brigands, who are preparing to throw him into the depths below. The chief is a short distance away, and seemingly about to give the fatal signal. A few paces in advance stands a female, of strange beauty, waving her hand menacingly towards the chief as if commanding that the young man's life be spared. Her manner, resolute and imperious, the countenance of the chief, the grateful calmness of the prisoner, all seem to indicate that the woman's order will be obeyed, and that the victim will be saved from the frightful death with which he has been menaced.

This picture, as will be readily guessed, is the work of SALVATOR ROSA. Born at Arenella, near Naples, in 1615, of poor parents, he was so admirably endowed by nature that, even in his boyhood, he became a spirited painter, a good musician, and an excellent poet. But his tastes led him to give his attention to painting.

Unfortunately, some severe satires which he published in Naples made him many enemies in that city, and he was obliged to fly to Rome, where he took a position at once as a painter. Leaving that city after a while, he went to Florence, and there found a generous encouragement and many friends, and there his talent was appreciated by the world of art.

The environs of Florence afforded him superior advantages in developing his genius. The Apennines, with their dark gorges, their picturesque landscapes, and their snow-clad peaks, pleased his wild imagination. In their vast recesses he found his best inspirations and his most original subjects. Often he wandered for days over the abrupt mountains, infested with bandits, to find work for his ambitious pencil.

One day he had advanced farther than usual into the profound and dangerous solitudes. He sat down near a torrent, and began to sketch a wild landscape before him. All of a sudden he saw, at the summit of a rock near at hand, a man leaning upon his carbine, and apparently watching him with great curiosity. A large hat, with stained and torn brim, covered his sun-burnt visage; a leather belt bound his dark sack to his body, and gave support to a pistol and hunting-knife, invariably carried by the brigands of the mountains. His black beard, thick and untidy, concealed a portion of his face; but there could be no doubt that his dark glance was fixed upon the stranger who came to invade his domain.

For almost any other but our hero, the sudden apparition of that wild and menacing figure would have been good cause of terror. But Salvator was a painter, and a painter in love with his art; and he had in that strange costume, that forbidding look, something so much in harmony with the aspect of nature about him, that he at once made the man a subject of study.

"I mustn't lose him," he said; "he's an inhabitant of the country. He comes just in the nick of time to complete my landscape; and his position is quite fine."

And, drawing tranquilly his pencil, he began to transfer the outlines of the brigand to his album, when the stranger, coming a few paces nearer to him, said, in a rough voice,—

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"Well, my good fellow, I come to take your portrait, if you'll hold still a bit," responded the painter.

"Ah, you jest with me! Have a care," said the other, coming still nearer.

"No," replied Salvator, seriously; "I am a painter; and I wander over these mountains with no other purpose but to admire these beautiful landscapes, and to sketch the most picturesque objects."

"To sketch!" cried the brigand, with evident anger, hardly knowing what the word meant. "Do you not know that these mountains belong to us? Why do you come here to spy us out?"

At these words he gave a shrill whistle, and three other men, clothed like himself, came towards the spot from different directions.

"Seize this man!" he said to his companions; "he comes to observe us."

All resistance was useless. And so, after having tried in vain to prove his innocence, the young man was surrounded and seized.

"March!" cried the man who had first met him. "You must talk with our chief."

The leader of these brigands was a man about forty years of age, named Pietratesta. His great physical strength, his courage, and, more than all the rest, his energy, had made him a favorite among his companions, and given him authority over them. Famous among the mountains for his audacious crimes, condemned many times to an outlaw's death, pursued in vain by the officers of the law, habituated for years to a life of adventure, pillage, and murder, he treated his prisoners without pity or mercy. All who were unable to purchase their liberty by paying whatever ransom he fixed, were put to death. He looked upon civilized people not as men, but as prizes.

As he saw the captive approach, he asked the usual question,—

"Who are you?"

"Salvator Rosa, a Neapolitan painter, now resident of Florence."

"O, a painter! A poor prize, generally. But you are famous, I hear; the prince is your friend. Your pictures sell for very large prices. You must pay us ten thousand ducats."



"Ten thousand ducats, indeed! Where do you suppose I can get so much?"

"Well, as for that, if you haven't got the money, your friends must get it for you."

"But my friends are not rich."

"Ah, excuse me!" said the chief, smiling. "When one has a prince for a protector, he is always rich."

"It is true that the prince is my patron; but he owes me nothing."

"No matter if he don't. He would not be deprived of such an artist as you for a paltry ten thousand ducats."

"He pays me for my pictures; but he will not pay my ransom."

"He must," said the robber, emphatically; "so no more words. Ask your friends, if you prefer, or whoever you will; but bring me ten thousand ducats, and that within a month; otherwise you must die."

As the chief uttered these words, he walked away, leaving Salvator in the middle of the ground which formed the camp.

During the short conversation two children came from one of the tents, being attracted by the noise. Their little blond heads, curiously turned towards the captive, their faces, tanned by the sun, but animated by the crimson of health and youth, and their picturesque costume had attracted the attention of the painter. When the chief had gone away, he approached them, and smiled. The children drew away abashed; then, reassured by the air of goodness which the young man wore, they came nearer, and permitted him to embrace them.

"Are you going to live with us?" said the eldest, who was about eight years of age.

"I don't know, my little friend."

"O, I wish you would! It is so nice to stop in these mountains. There are plenty of beautiful flowers, and birds' nests, too. I have three already; I will show them to you, and then we will go and find some more. But what is that you have got under your arm?"

"It is my sketch-book."

"A sketch-book? What is a sketch-book?"

"It is what I carry my pictures in."

"Pictures? O, do let me see them!"

"Yes, indeed; here they are."

"What pretty pictures! O, mother, come and see! Here are mountains, and men, and goats. Did you make them all?"

Attracted by the call of the child, a lady came out of the principal tent. She was yet young, tall, and covered with a medley of garments from various costumes. Her face sparkled with energy, and might have been called beautiful. She threw a sad glance at Salvator, and approached him haughtily, as if to give an order. But seeing the two children busily looking over the sketch-book, and observing the familiar way with which both treated their new acquaintance, she appeared to change her manner somewhat, and began to look at the pictures herself, and to admire them. At the end of half an hour the mother and the children seemed like old friends of Salvator Rosa.

The woman was the wife of the chief. A daughter of an honorable family, she married a young man at Pisa, her native city, who proved to be captain of this band of robbers. She could not well leave the company into which she had been betrayed; and so, with a noble self-denial, she became resigned to her hard lot. An unwilling witness of the many crimes of her husband and his companions, she suffered cruelly in her resignation. Yet her fidelity, her virtue,—things rarely known, but sometimes respected among these mountain brigands,—had given her a moral power over the men as well as over her husband. More than once she had used this means to temper their ferocity, and obtain pardon for their unfortunate prisoners.

Just then one of the brigands came and brought to the prisoner the order from the chief that he should write to his friends to obtain money for his ransom. The man was going, under a disguise, to the city of Florence; and he offered to deliver any letters intrusted to his care. He indicated the place where the ten thousand ducats must be left, so that Salvator might inform his correspondent.

Our hero had many devoted friends; but nearly all were artists like himself, and without fortune. Nevertheless, he decided to write to one of them. He gave orders that all the pictures in his studio should be sold. He hoped that the money which they would bring, together with what his friends could advance to him, would amount to the sum demanded by the chief.

This done, Salvator easily persuaded himself that he should soon be set at liberty, and the artist recovered his unconcern, and almost his usual good spirits. The country around him was full of romantic studies for his pencil. He had, besides, found in the society of the children of Pietratesta two charming companions. He instructed them in the elements of his art; and his pupils, to both of whom the study was quite new, seemed never to grow tired of their task.

In a moment of good humor, he drew caricatures of each member of the band, which created a great deal of amusement. Then he drew, with great care, the portraits of the two children. This attention profoundly touched the heart of the mother, and her tender sympathy, almost wasting among these unfeeling men, found a secret pleasure in rendering the captivity of the young painter less unhappy and less hard. She conversed with him familiarly, and it gave her great pleasure to see the care which he took to instruct her children.

So Salvator Rosa, to whom the band gave quite a considerable degree of liberty, never dreamed of taking improper advantage of it. Thanks to his fancy and his recklessness as an artist, he almost forgot that he was the prisoner of a cruel master, and that his life was in peril.

But the ransom, which he had sent for, came not. Whether the letters he had written failed to reach their destination, or whether his friends were deaf to his request for assistance, he received no answer. He wrote repeatedly, but always with the same result.

And so the months slipped by, and the chief began to grow impatient at the long delay. His wife had more than once calmed his anger, and prevented any catastrophe. At length several weeks went by, in which the expeditions of the band were unfruitful. The provisions were running low, and Pietratesta saw in his captive one unprofitable mouth. Sivora, his wife, felt her influence to be growing weaker and weaker under the increasing destitution and continued delay.

One day Pietratesta encountered his prisoner, and, addressing him in an irritated voice,—

"Well?" he said, as if his question needed no other explanation.

"Nothing yet," responded Salvator Rosa, sadly.

"Ah, this is too much!" cried the brigand. "I begin to think you are playing with me. But do you know the price Pietratesta makes those pay who cross him?"

"Alas! I am far from trying to deceive you. You know that I have done all in my power to obtain my ransom. I have written to various persons; your own men have taken my letters. You see that it is not my fault."

"It is always the fault of prisoners when their ransom is not paid."

"Wait a little longer. I will write again to-day."

"Wait! wait! A whole year, month after month, has gone by, and you repeat the same old story. A year—an age for me—I have waited. Do you think I have been making unmeaning threats? Do you expect to abuse my patience with impunity? It has given out at last—the more so as," added he, now that he felt his anger increasing, "I ought to have settled this affair a long while ago. This is your last day, observe me."

At a sign from their chief, four bandits seized the young man, and bound him. As Salvator was led away, he cast one sad look at the dwelling where he had passed many happy hours, and from which he was going to his death. For a moment he stopped to say farewell to the children, who were standing at the door crying and stretching out their little naked brown arms towards him.

A few moments later, Sivora, who had been gathering flowers in the mountains, returned home. Observing that her husband, as well as Salvator, was absent, and her children in tears, she guessed the painful truth.

"Where is Salvator?" she asked of the eldest.

"They have bound him, and carried him away," responded the child, still crying.

"Which way?"

"Down yonder," was the reply of the child, pointing with its finger in the direction of a rocky cliff already too well known for its horrible scenes.

"Alas, wretched man!" exclaimed Sivora, almost frantically, as she comprehended the new crime her husband was about to commit. She sat down for a moment, covered her face with her hands—a prey to the most unspeakable anxiety. Then, rising suddenly, her eyes flashing with determination,—

"Come!" she said, resolutely; "come, my children. Perhaps we may yet be in time."

And, taking the hands of her little ones, who followed her with difficulty, but yet eagerly, she darted away at a rapid pace in the direction taken by the brigands.

While the men were hurrying Salvator along, the chief maintained a profound silence. His band followed him as dumb as slaves who go to execute the will of their master, which they know is law. They soon arrived at the summit of a cliff, which overhung a yawning abyss beneath. After having taken one look over the precipice, and examined the neighborhood rapidly, Pietratesta cried, "Halt!" and the whole body came to a rest.

"There is just a quarter of an hour for you to live," he said, turning to his prisoner. "You have time to die like a Christian. Make your prayer."

The young man hesitated for a moment, threw his agitated eyes around, then, kneeling on the rock, he prayed earnestly. The men stood unmoved, as if they had been statues cut from stone.

Salvator rose, with a calm demeanor, and said, addressing the chief in a firm tone,—

"My life is in your hands, I know. You are going to kill me without any cause. I have prayed," he added, with a voice full of authority, "for the salvation of my soul, and repentance for thine. God will judge us both. I am ready."

Immediately the brigands seized the young man, and hurried him towards the precipice. Already they waited but the signal of their chief, already Pietratesta had given the fatal command, when a cry was heard not many paces distant, which suspended the preparations.

"Stop!" exclaimed a harsh voice.

The bandits, astonished at the interruption, turned to see whence it came. A woman ran towards them, her hair in disorder, her countenance pale and agitated, her dark eyes flashing with determination. She held by their hands two children, who, with weeping eyes, were hastening, with all the speed their young limbs could carry them, towards the precipice.

It was Sivora.

As she came forward the chief uttered an exclamation of disappointment and anger.

"Why do you come here?" he asked, in an irritated voice.

"You know well enough," responded Sivora, without any sign of intimidation. "What are you about to do? What is the crime of this young man? What is the wrong he has committed? You know he is innocent, and that it is not his fault that the price of his ransom has not been paid. Why commit a useless crime? You have too many on your soul already," she added, in a low, sad voice. "Since it is not too late, let the young man go. His ransom is not absolutely necessary. If it was, would his death bring it to you? Remember with what care and solicitude he has treated your children! with what patience he has instructed them in his art! See, they weep, as if their hearts would break, at the wrong you would do their friend! It is they—it is I—who ask clemency. You will not kill Salvator; you will pardon him for the love you bear your children."

As she said these words she pushed the two little blond heads into the arms of their father.

The brigands, hesitating, touched, without knowing why, struck with an involuntary respect for the woman, remained immovable, with their eyes fixed upon their chief, as if waiting to ascertain his wishes. He stood, brooding, nervous, his eyes bent upon the ground, hardly daring to look upon Sivora, at once his suppliant and accuser, a prey to violent emotions. The authority of that respected voice, and the irritation at being deprived of his revenge,—the invincible love he had for the woman, and the shame of giving way before his men,—all these warring considerations, the effects of which were plainly to be seen on his swarthy face, spoke of the severe contest going on within.

At length his evil genius got the control.

"What do I care for his solicitude and his tenderness?" he said, in a coarse voice. "He would forget all as soon as he should get out of our hands; and he would, no doubt, send the police after us if we should let him go. I know what the promises of captives are worth. Besides, I command here, I alone, and I will be obeyed. Take away these children; and you, comrades, despatch your your prisoner."

"Ah! is it so?" exclaimed Sivora, in a piercing voice, throwing herself before the bandits, who were pushing their victim towards the chasm. "Then I will beg no more; I command now. Listen to me well, for these are my last words. You know with what devotion, with what resignation, I have supported this bitter life which you brought me to among these mountains. The isolation, the sorrow, the shame, I have endured for thee. I have never complained. I hoped, after such sacrifices, you would at length listen to my words, and renounce your bad life. But since you do not care for my devotion, since I am nothing to you, listen well to my words, Pietratesta. If you dare to commit this odious crime, look for a mother for your children, for, with your victim, you will slay your wife!"

So saying, she advanced close to the brink of the cliff, over which she could spring at the signal from her husband.

Salvator, motionless and rooted to the spot, in silence, full of anxiety, observed this strange scene. The robbers, hardened by crime, for the first time hesitated at the command of their chief, and fixed their eyes upon the beautiful woman to whom despair added a new charm. They quailed before her authority, and stood as motionless as statues.

Pietratesta, overwhelmed by the recollections which the woman's words awakened, alarmed at her threats and her resolution, hung his head, like a guilty wretch before a just judge, while Sivora, with wild countenance, piercing voice, and imperial manner, her long black hair loosely falling upon her shoulders, with her arms extended towards the abyss, almost resembled an ancient goddess, who suddenly appears at the moment of crime, arrests the homicidal arm, and subjects the criminal to punishment. There was in her figure an imposing grandeur, before which the rude men, for an instant recalled to themselves, felt humiliated and condemned.

Astounded by that firmness and devotion, ashamed of his violence towards the woman who was living a life of outrage, the chief, after some moments of moody silence, said, in an altered voice,—

"You wish it! He is free!"

Salvator threw himself upon his knees before his preserver, covered her hand with kisses and tears, and pressed, with transport, the two children in his arms. Completely wild with happiness and gratitude, he abandoned himself to the buoyancy of his generous nature, when Sivora said to him, in a whisper,—

"Go! go quickly! The tiger is only sleeping!"

They put a bandage over the eyes of the young man, so that he might not see the path by which he descended from the mountains, and two of the brigands then conducted him to the highway which led to the city.

Hardly had he entered Florence, yet sad from the recollection of the scene in which he came near being a victim, when the young painter hastily sketched the principal details; and, some time after, the picture of which we have spoken was composed, and hangs this day in the museum at Naples, admired and pointed out to all visitors.

L. D. L.



WE SHOULD HEAR THE ANGELS SINGING.

If we only sought to brighten Every pathway dark with care, If we only tried to lighten All the burdens others bear, We should hear the angels singing All around us, night and day; We should feel that they were winging At our side their upward way!

If we only strove to cherish Every pure and holy thought, Till within our hearts should perish All that is with evil fraught, We should hear the angels singing All around us, night and day; We should feel that they were winging At our side their upward way!

If it were our aim to ponder On the good that we might win, Soon our feet would cease to wander In forbidden paths of sin; We should hear the angels singing All around us, night and day; We should feel that they were winging At our side their upward way!

If we only did our duty, Thinking not what it might cost, Then the earth would wear new beauty Fair as that in Eden lost; We should hear the angels singing All around us, night and day; We should feel that they were winging At our side their upward way!

KATE CAMERON.



MY LITTLE HERO.

"How we wish that we knew a hero!" Say the children, pressing round; "Will you tell us if such a wonder In London streets can be found?"

I point from my study-window At a lad who is passing by: "My darlings, there goes a hero; You will know his oft-heard cry."

"'Tis the chimney-sweep, dear father, In his jacket so worn and old; What can he do that is brave and true, Wandering out in the cold?"

Says Maudie, "I thought that a hero Was a man with a handsome face." "And I pictured him all in velvet dressed, With a sword," whispered little Grace.

"Mine is only a 'sweeper,' children, His deeds all unnoticed, unknown; Yet I think he is one of the heroes God sees and will mark for his own.

"Out there he looks eager and cheerful, No matter how poorly he fares; No sign that his young heart is heavy With the weight of unchildish cares.



"Home means to him but a dingy room, A father he shudders to see; Alas for the worse than neglected sons Who have such a father as he!

"And a mother who lies on a ragged bed, So sick and worn and sad; No friend has she but this one pale boy— This poor little sweeper-lad,

"So rough to others, and all unskilled, Yet to her most tender and true, Oft waking with patient cheerfulness To soothe her the whole night through.

"He wastes no time on his own scant meals, But goes forth with the morning sun; Never a moment is wasted Till his long day's work is done.

"Then home to the dreary attic Where his mother lies lonely all day, Unheeding the boys who would tempt him To linger with them and play.

"Because she is helpless and lonely, He is doing a hero's part; For loving and self-denying Are the tests of a noble heart."



ROBIN REDBREAST.

Robin, Robin Redbreast, O, Robin, dear! And what will this poor Robin do? For pinching days are near.

The fireside for the cricket, The wheat-stack for the mouse, When trembling night winds whistle, And moan all round the house. The frosty way like iron, The branches plumed with snow— Alas! in winter, dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O, Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer.



HOW SWEETIE'S "SHIP CAME IN."

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

It will be a real honest story—of how Christmas came to a poor cold home, and made it bright, and warm, and glad. A very poor home it was, up three flights of worm-eaten, dirt-stained stairs, in the old gray house that stood far up a narrow, crooked alley, where the sun never shone except just a while in the middle of the day. He tried hard to brighten up the place a little, but the tall houses all about prevented him. Still he slanted a few golden beams even into that wretched home away up under the eaves; for though the few small panes of glass in the narrow windows had been mostly broken out, and their places filled with boards nailed tight to keep out the wintry winds, and rain, and snow, still there were some left through which a feeble ray did sometimes creep and make glad the hearts of the children. Five fatherless children lived with their mother in that old garret. Night and day the mother sewed, taking scarcely any rest, and yet found it hard to keep all the little toes and knees covered, and could get only the poorest food for the five hungry mouths. The thought that, work never so hard, she could not earn enough to give them one hearty, satisfying meal, made her heart ache.

Three boys and two girls, in one old naked room, with only their mother to care for them, and she so poor, that for years she had not had a new gown, or a new bonnet! Yet she liked pretty new clothes, as well as any one ever did, I know.

Of these five little folks, the oldest was Harry, the newsboy; then came Katie, and Willie, and Fred, and, last of all, wee Jennie.

Though Harry was the oldest, yet he was not very old. Just twelve—a thin, white little fellow, with eyes that always looked as if they wanted more. More what? Well, more sunshine; more warm clothes, and bright, hot fires, and, O, very much more to eat! Sometimes he would make fifty cents in a day, selling newspapers, and then he would hurry joyfully home, thinking of the hungry little mouths it would help to fill. But some days he would hardly earn ten cents the whole long day. Then he would go slowly and sadly along, wishing all sorts of things—that he could take home as much meat as he could carry to the little ones who had not eaten meat for so long they had almost forgotten how it tasted; or that the gentlemen, who owned the clothing stores which he was passing, would say to him, "Come in, my little fellow, and help yourself to as many warm clothes as you want for yourself and your little brothers at home;" or that he could find a heap of money—and his mouth would water, thinking of the good things which he could buy and take home with some of it.

The other children always knew whether it had been a good or bad day with Harry, by the way he came up the stairs. If he came with a hop, skip, and a jump, they knew it meant a good day; and a good day for Harry was a good evening for them all.

Though Katie was really the name of the second child, she hardly ever was called so; for her mother, and the children, and all the neighbors, called her Sweetie, she was so good and so thoughtful for others, so sweet-tempered and kind. She did everything so gently that none of them could ever love her half as much as she deserved. Though only ten years old, and very small and pale, she did every bit of the housework, and kept the ugly old room and its faded furniture so neat, that it seemed almost home-like and pretty to them all. It was happiness enough for the little ones to get her first kiss when she came back from an errand, to sit by her at table, and, above all, to lie closest to her at night. Willie, and Fred, and Jennie, all slept with her on a straw bed in the corner; and they used to try to stretch her little arms over them all, so that even the one farthest off might feel the tips of her fingers, so dearly did they love her.

They had once owned more than one bedstead, and many other comfortable things besides; but when their father was killed at the great factory where he worked, their mother was obliged to sell almost everything to get enough money to pay for his funeral, and to help support her little family; so that now she had only a narrow wooden settee for her bed, while Harry stretched himself on a couple of chairs, and the rest slept all together in the bed on the floor. Poor as they were, they were not very unhappy. Almost every night, when their mother took the one dim candle all to herself, so that she could see to sew neatly, Sweetie would amuse the other children by telling them beautiful stories about the little flower people, and the good fairies, and about Kriss Kringle—though how she knew about him I can't tell, for he never came down their chimney at Christmas.

"And, when my ship comes in," Sweetie used to say, "I'll have the tallest and handsomest Christmas tree, filled to the top with candies and toys, and lighted all over with different-colored candles, and we'll sing and dance round it. Let's begin now, and get our voices in tune." Then they would all pipe up as loud as they could, and were as happy as if they half believed Sweetie's ship was ready to land.

But there came a hard year for poor needle-women: it was the year I am writing about, and Sweetie's mother found it almost impossible to get even the necessaries of life. Her children's lips were bluer, their faces more pinched, and thin, threadbare clothes more patched than ever. Sweetie used to take the two boys, and hunt in the streets for bits of coal and wood; but often, the very coldest days, they would have no fire. It was very hard to bear, and especially for the poor mother, who still had to toil on, though she was so chilled, and her hands so numbed, she could hardly draw her needle through her work; and for Harry, who trudged through the streets from daylight until the street lamps were lighted.

The day before Christmas came. People were so busy cooking Christmas dainties that they did not stop to sift their cinders very carefully, and Sweetie and the boys had picked up quite a large bag full of half-burnt coal in the alleys, and were carrying it home as carefully as if it were a great treasure—as, indeed, it was to them. Being very tired, they sat down to rest on the curbstone in front of an elegant mansion. One of the long windows was open.

"Let's get close up under the window," said Sweetie. "I guess it's too warm inside, and may be we shall get some of the heat. O! O! don't it smell good?" she cried, as the savory odors of the Christmas cooking stole out upon the air.

"What is it, Sweetie?" whispered Willie.

"Coffee," said Sweetie, "and turkeys, and jelly, perhaps."

"I wish I had some," sighed Freddy, "I'm so cold and hungry!"

"Poor little man! he must come and sit in Sweetie's lap; that will make him warmer," said his sister, wrapping her shawl around him.

"Yes; that's nice," said the little fellow, hugging her tight.

Mr. Rogers, the owner of this fine house, had lost his wife and two dear children within the year. He lived here alone, with his servants, and was very desolate. When the children stopped under his window, he was lying on a velvet sofa near it, and, lifting himself up, he peeped out from behind the curtains just as Fred crept into his sister's arms; and he heard all they said.

"When your ship comes in, Sweetie, will it have turkeys and jellies in it?" said Willie, leaning against her.

"Yes, indeed," said Sweetie. "There will be turkeys almost as big as Jennie, and a great deal fatter."

"But it's so long coming, Sweetie; you tell us every time it will come, and it never comes at all."

"O, no, Freddy. I don't ever say it will come, but it's nice to think what we would do if it should come—isn't it?"

"We'd buy a great white house, like this—wouldn't we, Sweetie?"

"No, Willie. I'd rather buy that nice little store over by the church, that's been shut up so long, and has FOR SALE on the door. I'd furnish it all nice, and fill the shelves with beautiful goods, and trimmings for ladies' dresses, and lovely toys. It shows so far that everybody would be sure to buy their Christmas things there. It's just the dearest little place, with two cosy rooms back of the shop, and three overhead; and I'd put flour and sugar, and tea and coffee, and all sorts of goodies, in the kitchen cupboard, and new clothes for all of us in the closets up stairs. Then I'd kindle a fire, and light the lamps, and lock the door, and go back to the dreary old garret once more—poor mother would be sitting there, sad and sober, as she always is now, and I would say to her, 'Come, mother, before you light the candle, Jennie and I want you to go with us, and look at the lovely Christmas gifts in the shop windows.' Then she'd say, sorrowfully, 'I don't want to see them, dear; I can't buy any of them for you, and I don't want to look at them.' But I'd tease her till I made her go; and I'd leave Harry, who would know all about it beforehand, to lock up the dismal old room, and bring all the rest of you over to the new house. You'd get there long before we did, and the light would be streaming out from the little shop windows—O, so bright! 'Mother,' I'd say, 'let's go in here, and buy the cotton you wanted;' and when I got her in, I'd shut the door quick, and dance up and down, and say, 'Dear mother. Sweetie's ship's come in, and brought you this new home, and everything comfortable; and Sweetie will tend the shop, and you needn't sew any more day and night, for it's going to be—' 'A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year for us—every one!' Harry and all of you would shout, and our dear mother would cry for joy."

"Will it come to pass soon, Sweetie?" asked both the boys at once.

"Not very, I'm afraid," answered Sweetie, in a subdued tone; but, when she saw their look of disappointment, she brightened up in a moment, and added, "It'll be all the better, when it does come, for waiting so long—but look here! To-night is Christmas Eve, and we've got coal enough here to make a splendid fire. We won't light it till dark, and then it will last us all the evening. And I've got a great secret to tell you: Harry made a whole dollar yesterday, and mother is going to give us each three big slices of fried mush, and bread besides, for supper; and, after supper, I'll tell you the prettiest story you ever heard, and we'll sing every song we know, and I guess we'll have a merry Christmas if nobody else does."



"I wish it was Christmas all the time," said Freddy, faintly.

"Christ was born that day," said Sweetie, softly, "and that makes it best of all."

"Yes," said Willie; "the dear Lord who came from Heaven and, for our sakes, became poor, and had not where to lay his head, not even a garret as good as ours—"

"I know," said Freddy; "he was born in a manger, and a beautiful star shined right over it. I can sing a hymn about it."

Then they picked up their bag, and started for home, gay as larks over the prospect of the treat they were to have that night—fried mush and a fire! that was all, you know.

Mr. Rogers, concealed by the heavy silk curtains, had heard every word they said, and his eyes were full of tears. He rang for his servant.

"Harris," said he, when the man came in, "follow those children, find out where they live, and what their neighbors say of the family."

When he was left alone again, he began to think,—

"Rich as I am, I have never yet done any great good to anybody. Who knows but God may have sent those children under my window to teach me that, instead of my own lost darlings, he means me to care for these and other suffering little ones who live in the lanes and alleys of this great city!"

Harris soon came back, and told his master what he had learned about the circumstances of the family; and he added,—

"Everybody calls the oldest girl Sweetie, and they do say she's as good as gold."

Mr. Rogers went out, and, before night, had bought the little corner store, for which Sweetie had longed. Then, calling his servants together, he related what he had overheard the children say, and told them how anxious he was to grant Sweetie's wish, and let her take her mother to her new home on Christmas Day.

"But I cannot do it," said Mr. Rogers, "unless you are willing to help me work on Christmas Eve, for there is a great deal to be done."

No one could refuse to aid in so good a cause; and besides, Mr. Rogers was always so considerate of his servants that they were glad to oblige him. They all went to work with a will, and soon the little house and store were put in perfect order.

There were ribbons, laces, buttons, needles, pins, tapes, and, indeed, all sorts of useful things in the store. In the cellar were coal and wood, two whole hams, a pair of chickens, and a turkey. The kitchen pantry was stocked with sugar and flour. There was one barrel of potatoes, and another of the reddest apples. Up stairs the closets and bureaus were bursting with nice things to wear, not quite made into garments, but ready to be made, as soon as Sweetie and her mother got time.

So rapidly and so completely was everything arranged, that it seemed as if one of those good fairies, of whom Sweetie had so often told the children, had been at work.

"The money this has cost me," thought Mr. Rogers, "will make a family of six happy, and do them good all the rest of their lives. I am glad the thought has come to my heart to celebrate Christ's birthday in so pleasant a way."

Late in the afternoon he picked his way through the dull, dirty alley to the old gray house where Sweetie lived. As he went up the worn and dusty stairway, he heard the children singing their Christmas songs.

"Poor little things!" said he; and the tears stood in his eyes. "Happy even in this miserable place, while I know so many surfeited with luxuries, and yet pining and discontented!"

Harry jumped to open the door as he knocked; and Mr. Rogers, entering, apologized to the children's mother for his intrusion by saying he had come to ask a favor.

"It is but little we can do for any one, sir," replied Mrs. Lawson; "but anything in our power will be cheerfully done."

"Even if I propose to carry off this little girl of yours for a while?" he asked; but, seeing the troubled look in the other children's faces, he hastened to explain.

"The truth is," said he, "having no little folks of my own, I thought I'd try and make other people's happy to-day; so I set out to get up a Christmas tree; but I find I don't know how to go to work exactly, and I want Sweetie to help me."

He spoke so sadly when he said he had no children of his own, that Sweetie could not refuse to go.

"O, yes, sir," said she; "I'll go; that is, if I may come back this evening—for I couldn't disappoint Freddy and all of them, you know!"

"They shan't be disappointed, I promise you," said Mr. Rogers, as he took her down stairs.

"Why, I never was in a carriage in all my life," said Sweetie, as he lifted her into his beautiful clarence, and sat down beside her.

"I shouldn't wonder if you should ride in a carriage pretty often now," said Mr. Rogers, "for your ship's coming in."

Sweetie couldn't tell whether she was in a dream or not. Half crying, half laughing, her face flushed with surprise, she asked,—

"How did you know?"

"Know what?" said her friend, enjoying her bewilderment.

"Why," she answered, "about the way I keep up the children's spirits, and make them forget they are hungry and cold, while I tell them about my ship coming in?"

"A little bird told me," said he, and then was quiet.

Sweetie did not like to ask any more; so she sat quite still, leaning back in one corner of the carriage, among the soft, crimson cushions, and watched the people in the street, thinking how happy she was, and how strange it was that little Katie Lawson should be riding with a grand gentleman in a splendid carriage!

Suddenly, with a whirl and a turn, they stopped before a house. Mr. Rogers lifted her out, and led her up the broad steps; and she found he was taking her into the beautiful white house, under the windows of which she had sat with Willie and Fred the day before.

"Now," said Mr. Rogers, rolling a comfortable arm-chair for Sweetie in front of a glowing fire, "while you are getting warm, and eating your dinner, I am going to tell you about my Christmas tree, and how your ship came in."

A little table was brought in, and set between them, filled with so many delicacies, that Sweetie's head grew dizzy at the sight. She thought of her little hungry brothers and sister, and would rather not have eaten, but Mr. Rogers made her.

"My little girl," said he, finally, "never forget this: God always rewards a faithful heart. If he seems to be a long time without caring for his children, he never forgets or forsakes them."

Then he told her that he had overheard her conversation with her brothers under his window, and that God had suddenly put it into his heart to take care of some of the poor and fatherless in that great city. "And I am going to begin with Sweetie," said he, very tenderly; "and this is the way her ship shall come in. She shall have a new home to give to her mother for a Christmas present, and the boys shall sing their Christmas hymns to-night in the bright little parlor of the corner store, instead of the dingy old garret; and here are the deeds made out in Katie Lawson's own name, and nobody can take it away from her. But come, little woman," he added,—for Sweetie was sobbing for joy, and could not thank him,—"go and wash your face, for the horses are tired of standing in the cold, and we must go and fetch the boys, or I shall never get my Christmas tree set up."

An old lady, with a face beaming with kindness,—it was Mr. Rogers's housekeeper,—then took Sweetie, and not only washed her tear-stained cheeks, but curled her soft brown hair, and put on her the loveliest blue dress, with boots to match. All the time she was dressing her, Sweetie, who could not believe her senses, kept murmuring,—

"It's only a dream; it's too good to be true; the boys won't believe it, I know; it's just like a fairy story, and, of course, it's only pretending."

"No, indeed," said the old lady; "it's really true, my dear, and I hope you'll be so grateful and kind to Mr. Rogers that he won't be so lonely as he has been without his own dear little children."

Sweetie could hardly realize her own good fortune; and, when she went down into the parlor, she burst into tears again, saying,—

"O, sir, I can't believe it. I am so happy!"

"So am I, Sweetie," said Mr. Rogers; and really it was hard to tell which was the happier—it is always so much more blessed to give than to receive. Together they rode to the new home, and laughed and cried together as they went all over it. After they had been up stairs, and down stairs, and in my lady's chamber, as Mr. Rogers said, he put her into the carriage again.

"James," said he to the coachman, "you are under this young lady's orders to-night, and must drive carefully."

Then, kissing Sweetie, he put the key of her new home into her hand, and, telling her he should want her help to-morrow about his Christmas tree, he bade her good night.

James drove Sweetie home, for the last time, to the dilapidated old house. She ran up stairs, Freddy said afterwards, "just as Harry always did when he'd had a good day." "Mother and children," said she, "Mr. Rogers, the kind gentleman who was here, has sent me back in his carriage to take you all to see something beautiful he has been showing me. Harry, you be the gentleman of the house, and hand mother and Jennie to the carriage, and I'll come right along." She stopped long enough—this good child, who, even in her own good fortune, did not forget the misfortunes of others—to run into the next room, where an old woman lived, who was a cripple, and whose daughter supported her by sewing.

"Mrs. Jones," said she, hurriedly, "a kind gentleman has given us a new home, and we are going to it to-night, never to come back here to live any more. Our old room, with the rent paid for a year, and all there is in it, I want you to take as a Christmas present from Sweetie; and I wish you a Happy, happy New Year, and please give this to Milly;" and, slipping a five-dollar bill, which Mr. Rogers had given her, into the old woman's hand, she ran out, and jumped into the carriage. The street lamps blinked at them, like so many stars, as they rolled along, and the boys and Jennie screamed with delight; but Sweetie sat quite still.

James knew where to stop. Sweetie got out first, and ran and unlocked the door of the little corner store. When they were all inside, and before any one had time to ask a question, Sweetie threw her arms about her mother's neck.