And the women, too! they were not ashamed to be seen in calico dresses, and did not go about the country making orations and wearing dickeys. I had rather see an Indian, any time, than such a woman.

Sometimes the men were obliged to go away from home, and then they left a loaded gun where their wives could use it, in case the Indians came while they were absent. The Indians are very cunning. They used to watch their chance; and often, when a man came back to his home, he would find it a pile of smoking ruins, and his wife and children killed, or, what was worse, carried away captives.

You wouldn't have relished living in those days, would you? What do you think you would have done had the Indians come into your door?—scampered under the bed, or seized the gun and defended your mother? It is hard telling, isn't it? I'm very glad you are not obliged to live in such days. The poor Indians had also their story of wrong to tell. God will judge both rightly.

The sun shone brightly one autumn afternoon into a room where two little children were playing, in a pretty little village in the State of South Carolina. "Robert," said little Nina, to a dark-eyed boy of twelve years, "I'm tired of staying in this unfurnished room; it isn't pretty. Hasn't mother most done baking, Robert? Can't we go into the kitchen? I'm afraid of the Indians, too, without mamma."

Robert took his little sister in his arms, and stroked her little black head, and kissed her cheek, and then he drew himself proudly up, saying, "Nina? Do you see that gun? Well, it is loaded, and I know how to use it."

"Oh, Robert!" said Nina, "hush! Is not that mamma screaming? Oh, Robert, hide me—the Indians—the Indians!"

Robert had just time to seize his gun, when a tall Indian opened the door, and receiving the contents of it in his face, fell, quivering, to the floor.

Bald Eagle, the chief of the party, heard the report of Robert's gun, and rushed in with a dozen Indians. Robert, with his eye flashing, was standing over the dead Indian, with one arm round his little sister, who was clinging to his jacket.

Bald Eagle admired bravery; so, when the other Indians seized Robert by the hair to tomahawk him, for killing their comrade, he said, "No;—the pappoose is brave enough to make a chief. He shall go home with Bald Eagle and be his son."

The Indians frowned, for they thirsted for somebody's blood. They seized hold of Nina's long curls to kill her; but Robert clung to the old chief's knees, and, though he didn't think much of girls or women, Bald Eagle said, "She shall live—to please the boy."

The Indians lowered their tomahawks, for they didn't dare to disobey Bald Eagle, and led Nina and Robert out of the house, which had been set on fire and was beginning to burn.

As they passed the kitchen door, Nina gave a loud scream, for there lay her mother, across the threshold, quite dead. The old chief lifted his tomahawk, frowning at her fiercely from beneath his nodding plume, and Robert whispered, "Hush, Nina, or they will kill you, too;" and Nina stifled her sobs, and permitted the Indians to lead her away.

What a weary, weary march they had of it, through the forest; and how Nina shrunk when the Indians lifted her up to carry her in their arms; how she looked imploringly at Robert, and how he smiled and nodded, and tried to make her feel as if he would protect her always. How frightened she was when Bald Eagle tied a cord to Robert's hands every night, and fastened the end of it to his wrists before he went to sleep; and how she used to lie awake and look at those grim old Indians, sleeping there on their blankets, and think of her mother, till it seemed as though God must be dead, or such wicked men wouldn't be alive.

After many, many miles had been traveled over, they reached the Indian camp, where the squaws and pappooses and old men lived. The old squaws walked round Nina, and turned her about, and then they gave her some food which she couldn't eat, because she wanted to cry so much; and they gave her a blanket, to wrap round her, and taught her how to sew beads on bags and moccasins, and put a pair of pewter earrings in her ears, and combed her hair all back, and named her "The Little Fawn," and tried to make a little Indian of her.

Bald Eagle was very fond of Robert. He named him "The Young Eagle;" and gave him a bow and arrow, and a gun; and took him out hunting; and every time he shot a bird, or wounded a deer, he would pat him on the head and say: "Good,—by and by scalp the pale faces."

Robert never contradicted Bald Eagle, but appeared as if he were quite contented, and tried to shoot as well as he could, to please him; and so Bald Eagle gave him much more liberty to run about, and thought every thing he did was about right.

But Robert had a great many thoughts passing in that little head of his, that Bald Eagle knew very little about. He couldn't look at Nina's little pale, sorrowful face without resolving to get away as soon as he could. It made his heart ache to see her wrapped in that ugly blanket, sitting there sewing beads, instead of learning to read and spell and write; and whenever he got a chance he would whisper something in her ear that would make her smile, and nod her little head, and press his hand confidingly.

Bald Eagle had a brother-in-law named "Winged Arrow," because he could run so fast. He was a white man that had been taken captive by the Indians some years before, and had married Bald Eagle's sister. Robert liked him,—perhaps, because he was a pale face; perhaps, because he thought he might pity him and Nina enough to help them get away some time; so, he used to stay all he could with Winged Arrow, and bring him game that he shot; and Nina worked a pair of moccasins for his squaw; and Winged Arrow was a very good friend to them.

One day he and Robert were out hunting together, and Robert told him how much he wanted to get away with Nina; and then Winged Arrow told him that he was getting tired of Indian life, too; and that very soon there was to be a hunting party, when all the Indians would go away for two days, leaving Nina and Robert with the squaws and some old chiefs, and that he (Winged Arrow) was to go, too. But he said that he would pretend to hurt his foot just as they started, so as to be left behind; and then he would manage to get away with Nina and Robert.

Robert didn't jump up and down and clap his hands;—no; he had lived among the Indians too long for that; he just nodded, as gravely as if he were sitting with Bald Eagle over a council fire, and they separated and went into the wigwam.

Well, the hunting day name, and Winged Arrow managed to get left; and after the Indians had all gone, Nina, who sat making moccasins, asked the old squaw to let her play with Robert outside the wigwam. At first, she said no; but Winged Arrow said he would watch them; so she gave them leave.

They played about some time, running in and out of the wigwam, and then going off, gradually, farther and further. By and by Winged Arrow joined them, and getting out of sight, he caught Nina in his arms, and made good his name never stopping to breathe till they were miles and miles away from the encampment.

Toward nightfall of the second day, they halted for a few minutes, when a dog bounded past them, that belonged to the tribe. Winged Arrow knew that unless the dog was instantly killed, he would run back and betray them. He did not dare to shoot him with his rifle, on account of the noise; so he told Robert to fire an arrow at him; and then Winged Arrow knocked him in the head with his gun, and hid him under the bushes.

Then Winged Arrow put his ear to the ground and listened; then he caught up Nina and ran (telling Robert to follow) till they came to a stream in which they all waded for some distance, to throw their followers off the trail. Then Winged Arrow stepped out and put Nina up in a great tree, and Robert and he got up in another. Before long Bald Eagle and several other Indians came along, listening and peeping, and finally halted under the very trees where they were; and some of the Indians proposed building a council fire and staying there all night, but Bald Eagle objected; so they rested a while and then moved on.

You may be sure that the children were in a dreadful fright, and very glad, when they came down, to be on the Indians' trail, instead of having them on theirs.

Winged Arrow made up his mind to take the children to Charleston, where the American army was; so, they traveled cautiously on, not meeting any more Indians, till they reached the American camp in safety.

Robert and Nina were so glad to get among white people again, even though they were strangers. The General was very kind, and promised to protect them.

It was not long before Bald Eagle found them out. He really loved Robert, and was quite determined to have him back. When he saw him again, although he was an Indian, he almost cried for joy.

The General asked Robert if he wished to go back with Bald Eagle. Robert put his arms around Nina and said, "No!" Bald Eagle looked very sorrowful, but the General wouldn't let him have the children; so he had to go away home, to his old squaw, without 'em.

Winged Arrow found kind friends who gave him some work to do, and he and Robert and Nina lived together very happily. You never would have guessed, had you seen Nina in her little calico dress and white apron, with her curls hanging about her face, that she had ever made moccasins, or worn a blanket in an Indian wigwam.

As to Robert, if your father could have heard his speeches, he wouldn't have been sorry that "a chief" was spoiled, to make a lawyer.



A STREET SCENE.

I was taking a walk, some mouths since, when I saw a carriage driving at a furious rate over the pavements. Inside was a woman, with a handkerchief bound under her chin, spotted with blood, and in her lap a little girl with her arm in a sling, and drops of blood upon her collar and face.

The woman was pretty, spite of the blood-stained handkerchief about her face, and was caressing the frightened girl upon her lap in such a gentle, womanly way, that I concluded she must be her mother. On the box, with the coachman, was a police officer. What could it all mean?

I will tell you.

Some years ago, in one of the handsomest houses in New-York, lived a lady and her husband, and a little girl named Rosa. They had plenty of money, plenty of servants, and, of course, plenty of friends. They had a fine carriage and horses, and every day you might have seen Mrs. Simon, dressed like a queen, seated upon the velvet cushions, with black John, the coachman, upon the box, and black Peter, the footman, standing behind, while little Rosa, as gay as a little paroquet, peered out from her little plumed hat, laughing merrily at all the fine sights she saw.

The shop-keepers flew round as if they had St. Vitus' dance, when Mrs. Simon's carriage stopped at their door, with the glossy, sleek-coated horses and their silver-mounted harness, and the liveried servants. They bowed and smirked, and skipped round, and pulled little "Cash's" ears for not getting her "change" quicker, and offered to send home any, and all, and every bundle she chose to order, quicker than chain lightning, if it were only a paper of No. 6 needles.

When she got into her carriage again, and rode down Broadway, whiskered gentlemen on the pavement hoisted their beavers, and bent themselves as low as their corsets would possibly allow, and ladies nodded, and showed their pretty little teeth, and declared that Mrs. Simon was "a perfect little love."

From all this show and luxury, she came down to an empty purse, and a widow's weeds. Her husband lost all his property at once. Money was all the poor man had ever cared for. He had not the courage to live and look his misfortune boldly in the face, but took his own life, (like a coward,) and left his dainty wife and child to bear alone the cross that his manly shoulders couldn't carry.

Well, Mrs. Simon buried her husband, and then looked about her for her friends; but alas! they had all fled, like butterflies, with the sunshine. Her fine house, furniture and carriage and horses, were all taken from her, to pay her husband's debts; and she wandered forth, no one knew whither.

My dear children, it is a very sad thing to be proud and poor. Mrs. Simon was very proud. She could not make up her mind to work. She fancied, poor mistaken woman, that it would degrade her. She didn't see that all whose opinion is worth caring for, would respect her the more, for her striving to earn bread for herself and her child.

So she sat and cried, and worried herself almost sick, instead of looking at little Rosa, and then stepping out, with a brave heart, and saying: I have been rich; I am now poor:—I want some work to do. She couldn't bring her mind to that; so, as I told you, she disappeared, nobody knew whither, and the world went on just the same without her.

Other gay carriages rolled up and down Broadway, with the glittering harness, and sleek horses, and pampered servants; bearing ladies as gay and as pretty as Mrs. Simon. None of them asked what had become of their old friend; they were all too busy about their own affairs; frolicking and dancing away their lives, just as if they were to live that way forever.

Where was Mrs. Simon? If you had looked into a house where wicked people dwell, who live by breaking all God's commandments, there you would have found her and little Rosa.

Was she happy there? Can any body be happy who makes up his mind to do wrong? No; poor woman; she dreaded nothing so much as her own thoughts; and sometimes when Rosa bounded into the room, she would start us if a serpent had stung her. She didn't think when she went there, that sickness and death would come to her in that wretched place; but they did. And what was to become of little, innocent Rosa? Must she die and leave her there? The thought of it made great drops of agony start out on her pale face. She looked about her. There were none there who feared either God or man, and her moments were fast numbering. She called to her bedside one of the inmates who had been kind to her—a young girl, whose heart was not hard and stony. She said to her, with her hands clasped,

"Promise me, before I die, that you will get Rosa away from this wretched place—quick—promise!"

"I will, I will!" said the young girl, wiping the death-damp from her forehead.

The grave closed over poor Mrs. Simon and her errors; and poor little Rosa sobbed as if she had been the best mother in the world; and then the young girl, of whom I have spoken, whispered to Rosa that she would be kind to her,—and so she was; for Mrs. Simon's death had made her think of a great many good thoughts, and she wanted to get away, too, and live where God was feared.

Now you know who were in the carriage that was driving away with the police officer. It was that young girl and little Rosa. The man in whose house she lived, caught her going away with the child, and cut her with a knife that such people always carry. That's why the blood was on her cheek, and on Rosa's dress. And then, in the struggle to get Rosa away, he broke her little arm with his rough grasp; so she had it "in a sling." Perhaps they might not have got away at all, had not a police-man heard their screams and helped them off. The man in whose house they had been, was sent to "The Tombs" (a place in New York for such people,) and then he was sentenced to the Penitentiary; and Rosa was very glad to hear that, because she trembled all over for fear he would get her again.

Dear little Rosa! the fright, and her grief, and the broken arm together, threw her into a fever; and for a long while it was feared she would die; but you will be glad to know that she got well, and that I have seen her since, with her face as full of sunshine as if a cloud had never passed over it; and that I have heard her, with some other little children, in a school, saying: "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not;" and you can't tell how happy this made me, after hearing her sad story.

Are you not glad that there are good, true, kind hearts left in the world, who remember that Jesus said, "Feed my lambs"?



LETTER FROM TOM GRIMALKIN TO HIS MOTHER.

MY DEAR MAMMA GRIMALKIN: How could you let Miss Nipper take me away from you? I am so miserable, that I have not run around after my tail once since I came here. There's nothing here to amuse me, not even a fly in the room to catch, for Miss Nipper won't have one about. There she sits, knitting—knitting—knitting—in the chimney corner. If she'd only drop her ball now and then, it would be quite a pretty little excitement for me to chase it round, you know; but she never drops her ball, nor her handkerchief, nor even leaves an old shoe round for me to toss about—and as to playing with her apron strings, I should as soon think of jumping into the cradle of Queen Victoria's baby.

I should like to hop up in the chairs now and then, by way of variety, but I don't dare,—or up on the window seats, to see what's going on in the street; but she won't let me. Goodness knows she needn't be afraid my paws are dirty, for I haven't been over the threshold since I came here, for a breath of fresh air; beside, every morning she souses me head over heels in a tub of water, till I hear all sorts of sounds, and see all sorts of sights; and then roasts my brains out drying me between the andirons. Ah, it's very well for people to talk about "leading a dog's life of it." I say, let 'em try a cat's.

Now I am about old enough to begin to go into society a little, and there are a plenty of well-bred cats here in the neighborhood, with beautiful voices, who give free concerts every moonlight night, but Miss Nipper won't let me stir a paw. I don't think I shall stand it much longer; for the other day, when she went out of the room, I hopped up on the table, and noticed that my whiskers had begun to grow considerable large, and that set me to examining my claws. You understand!

How does Tabby do? Have you weaned her yet? Don't she ever feel sorry, now I am away, that she used to nurse so much more than her share? She needs to have you cuff her ears now and then, that Tabby. She never had any sisterly affection for me, although one of my eyes was a week longer getting open than hers. I shan't forget it in a hurry. I often think it over, as I lie here on the hearth-rug, listening to the everlasting click, click of Miss Nipper's knitting-needles. Oh, it's a very hard case, Mother Grimalkin, for a kitty with such a warm heart, and such a frisky disposition as I have, to do nothing but think such miserable thoughts, and lie here staring the ashes in the fire-place out of countenance.

Miss Nipper is so stingy of her milk, too, that my ribs are all pricking through my fur; besides, you will be concerned to learn that I'm growing up as ignorant as a young Hottentot: for how can I learn to catch mice, boxed up in a parlor without any closets? Answer me that, and please write soon to your afflicted son,

TOM GRIMALKIN.



WHAT CAME OF AN OMNIBUS RIDE,

AND

"ONE PULL TO THE RIGHT!"

Some time ago, (no matter when;—little folks shouldn't be curious!) I was riding in an omnibus with some half-dozen well-dressed ladies, and white kidded gentlemen.

At a signal from somebody on the sidewalk, the driver reined up his horses, and a very old man, with tremulous limbs and silvery locks, presented himself at the door for admission. The driver shouted through the sky-light, "Room for one more, there, inside;"—but the gentlemen looked at the old man and frowned, and the ladies spread out their ruffled skirts, for his hat was shabby, and his coat very threadbare. He saw how it was, and why there was "no room," and meekly turned about to go down the steps, when a fine-looking young man, who sat next to me, sprang to the door, and seizing him by the arm, said, "Take my place, sir; you are quite welcome to it. I am young and hearty; it won't weary me to walk"—and kindly leading the old man to the vacant seat, he leaped from the steps and walked briskly down the street, while I looked admiringly after him, saying to myself, "That young man has had a good mother."

We drove on, and the more I looked at the old man's silver hairs, and fine, honest face, the more indignant I felt, at the way he had been treated. Whether he read my thoughts in my countenance, or not, I can't say; but, after most of the passengers had got out, he moved up to me and said, "Good boy—good boy—wasn't he? My dear, (and here his voice sunk to a confidential whisper,) I have got money enough to buy out all the upstart people that filled this omnibus, twenty times over, but I like this old coat and hat. They are as good as a crucible. Help me to find out the true metal. Good morning, my dear. Thank you for your pity, just as much as if I needed it"—and the old man pulled the strap, got out of the omnibus, and hobbled off down street.

Some time after, I advertised for lodgings, and was answered by a widow lady. I liked the air of her house, it was so neat and quiet; and then, the flowering plants in the window were a letter of recommendation to me. Your cold-hearted, icicle people never care for flowers; (you may write that in the fly-leaf of your primer.) But what particularly pleased me, at Mrs. Harris', was the devotion of her son to his mother. I expected no less, because the minute he opened the door, I saw that he was the same young man who gave up his seat in the omnibus to the old gentleman.

John did all the marketing and providing as wisely and as well as if he were seventy, instead of seventeen. He wheeled his mother's arm-chair to the pleasantest corner; handed her her footstool, and newspaper, and spectacles; offered her his arm up stairs and down, and spent his evenings by her side, instead of joining other young men in racing over the city to find ways to kill time.

It was a beautiful sight, in these days, when beardless boys come stamping and whistling into their mother's presence, with their hats on, and call her "the old woman."

I spent a pleasant autumn under Mrs. Harris' quiet roof. And now, winter had set in, with its nice long evenings. John came in to tea, one night, with his bright face over-clouded. His mother was at his side in an instant. John's master had failed, and John was thrown out of employment!

Then I learned, that it was only by the strictest economy, and hoarding of every cent of John's small salary, that the house rent was paid and the table provided.

And now, so the widow said, the house must be given up, for John might be a long while getting another place; clerkships were so difficult to obtain; and they must not think of running in debt.

It was such a pity. We were all so comfortable and happy there, in that cozy little parlor, with its sunny bow window full of flowers, and its bright Lehigh fire, and softly cushioned chairs; that cozy parlor, where the little round table, with its snowy cloth, had been so often spread; and the fragrant coffee, and delicate tea-biscuit, and racy newspaper had been so often discussed; where John, in his slippers and dressing-gown, with his dark hair pushed off his broad forehead, read to us page after page of some favorite author, while the wind was welcome to whistle itself dumb outside the threshold, and old Winter to pile up the snow at the door till he got tired of it.

It was hard!

John walked up and down the floor, with his hands crossed behind, and Mrs. Harris went round the room, hunting after her spectacles, when they were comfortably reposing on the bridge of her fine Roman nose.

A knock at the door!

A note for John!

"Enclosed, find $500, to pay Mr. John Harris' house rent for the coming year.

A FRIEND."

John rubbed his eyes, and looked at his mother; his mother looked at me; and I looked at both of them; and then we laughed and cried, till we nearly had regular hysterics.

But who was the "Friend"? That was the question. We were all born Yankees, and did our best at "guessing;" but it didn't help us. Well, at any rate, it was very nice, all round. I hadn't to be routed. No, nor John, nor his dear old mother. And pussy purred round as if she had as much reason to be glad as any of us; and the canary trilled so sharp a strain that we were obliged to muffle his cage and his enthusiasm, with John's red silk pocket-handkerchief.

Mrs. Harris and I had not got our feminine tongues still, the next day, when John came back, in the middle of the forenoon, with another riddle, to drive our womanly curiosity still more distracted. He was requested to call immediately—so a note, he had just received, read—at Mr. —— & Co's, and "accept the head clerkship, at a salary of $1,400 a year; being highly recommended by a person whose name his new employers decline giving."

That was a greater puzzle still. John and his mother had rich relations, to be sure; but, though they had always been interfering in all their plans for making a living, they never had been known to give them anything except—advice, or to call on them by daylight; and it wasn't at all likely that the "leopard would change his spots," at that late day. No; it couldn't be John's rich relatives, who were always in such a panic lest upper-tendom should discover that their cousins, the Harrises, lived in an unfashionable part of the town, dined at one o'clock, and noticed trades-people and mechanics.

We were too sensible to believe in fairies, and who the mischief was emptying the "horn of plenty" in that way at our feet, was the question.

When we woke the next morning, we found in the back yard, a barrel of apples, a barrel of flour, a keg of butter, and a bag of buckwheat flour; labelled, "For Mr. John Harris, —— street."

John declared, (after pinching himself to see if he were really John,) that he fastened the gate inside the very last thing before he put on his night-cap. Mrs. Harris said somebody must have climbed over and unfastened it; and I jumped right up and down, for a bright thought had just struck me, and I was determined to hold on to it, for I didn't have a bright thought every day.

"What now?" said John, as I capered round the room.

"Oh! nothing," said I, "only it takes a woman, after all, to find out a secret—and to keep it, too," I added, snapping my fingers at him.

That day I thought it would do me good to ride about in an omnibus. I tried several. It didn't make much difference to me whether they went up street or down, or where they finally stopped. I was looking more at the passengers.

By and by I saw the person I wanted. Said I, in a whisper, sitting down beside him, "House rent—clerkship—flour—butter—crackers and buckwheat; all for giving you a seat in an omnibus!"

Didn't I know that "the fairy" was the nice old man with silver locks? Didn't he bribe me to hold my tongue, by telling me that he would come and drink tea with me, so that he might get a peep at John and his mother? Didn't he come? and didn't I look as much astonished when he called, as if it hadn't been all settled two days previous? But how was I to know that Mrs. Harris would turn out to be an old love of his? How was John to know, when he felt such an irresistible impulse to be kind to the old man, that his hair had grown white loving his mother? How was the old man to know why he loved John so well, and thought him one of the finest young men he had ever seen? How was I to know that I was to turn out to be what I always so mortally hated—a feminine match-maker?



LITTLE GERTRUDE'S PARTY.

Little Gertrude wanted to have a party. Sarah and Julia Smith had had one, and Eliza Doane, and the twin Smith girls, and their little cousin Mary Vose; (parties were very delightful things, why shouldn't she have one?) Gertrude's mother was a sensible woman; she did not approve of children's parties; but she had found out that it was sometimes the cheapest way to teach her little daughter by experience, that her mother always knew best; so Miss Gertrude had leave to "have a party!"

How her tongue did run! "She should not ask Louisa Loft because she did not invite her; she should not ask Louisa Thompson, because she borrowed her 'Arabian Nights' and tore out one of the pictures; she should not ask Janie Jones, because she heard her call her new bonnet 'a perfect fright;' she should not ask George Sales, because he was such a glutton he would eat up all the bon-bons."

As to "supper," she would like oysters, of course; "escalloped oysters," with wine in them, and two pyramids of ice cream, one vanilla and one lemon; and some Charlotte Russe, and some Jersey biscuit, and all sorts of cakes, and sugar drops with "cordial" inside, and "mottoes" for the little beaux to give the little belles, &c., &c., &c.

Then her dress—that required a great deal of thought; her pink dress was too shabby to be thought of a moment; her blue one had neither tucks, nor flounces; (and who ever heard of a party dress with a plain skirt?) her buff one was not gay enough; in short, she had been seen in all those dresses—she ought to have a bran new one—a cherry silk, for instance, with swan's down round the neck and shoulders; that would be charming. Mary Scott told her, that her Philadelphia cousin had a dress like that, and looked lovely in it.

As to the time for the party she thought a week from that day would suit all the dress-makers—next Thursday week; then there were the notes of invitation—should they be written on plain or embossed paper? gilt-edged or not gilt-edged? These important questions puzzled Gertrude hugely.

Thursday came—and so did "the cherry dress and the swan's down." The dress-maker pinched Gertrude into it, and Gertrude, catching her breath between the hooks and eyes, said "it fitted beautifully;" the little satin slippers were also laced and rosetted to her mind, and her kid gloves properly ruche-d and bow-d and her hair curled by Mons. Frizzle, till she looked like his wife's little poodle dog "Apollo."

The bell began to ring! Gertrude ran once more to the glass before the door should open; it was all right, all but one curl on the left temple that had veered round a little too much to the north-east, and which had to be re-arranged.

In they came.

The two Misses Tarleton first, dressed in a cerulean blue, to set off their "lint locks" and fair complexions, with their two hands encased in white kids, crossed over their two sashes, and an embroidered pocket-handkerchief, starched very stiffly, between their little fingers. Close upon their satin slippers came Miss Jenny Judkins, whose father was "rich." Miss Jenny wore a black velvet waist trimmed profusely with black bugles, that sparkled under the chandelier enough to put your eyes out. Her skirt was pink satin trimmed with black lace flowers, and her hair was drawn back tightly from the roots at her forehead, and confined by tri-colored bows with long streamers like the pennants of a ship. Gertrude felt very much afraid that Miss Jenny would be voted "the belle."

Time would "give out" should I undertake to do justice to all these young ladies, beside I must not omit the young gentlemen. I am not quite sure that I have done right to keep them so long in "the gentleman's dressing room."

In the first place, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Augustus Anthony, who has been in the hands of Mons. Peruke for the last hour, as you will perceive by his perfumed locks; the bows of his little silk necktie, you please notice, are of the proper fashionable size, and his jacket richly embroidered. His brother John, "just from college," fixed his watch chain; so there's no use in my criticising that. Then, there's Master George Harrison, Jr., with his patent pumps and silk stockings, and his sister Jane's diamond ring outside his buff glove on the third finger. He has frequent occasion to point about the room with that hand, you notice!

Next comes Master Simpkins, who is very bashful, and stood tweeddling his thumbs, all of a cold sweat, before he ventured in; he knew that his toes ought to turn out, instead of in, but that was a defect that couldn't be rectified in a minute, and so he made up his mind to shuffle in behind Peter, the black waiter, who just passed in to arrange the candelabras.

Well, they commenced dancing and all "went merry as a marriage bell" for an hour, when Miss Tarleton was discovered crying, because "Master Simpkins had trod on her blue dress and torn off one of the flounces"—and Miss Jane Judkins was very red in the face, because one of Mr. Augustus Anthony's jacket buttons had caught in a fine gold chain upon her neck, and a little gold cross had snapped off, nobody knew where, that belonged to her sister Julia, who made her promise "certain true not to lose it;" and Miss Smith had burst her kid glove right across the hand, and couldn't think of dancing after such a disaster.

Gertrude ran to her mother in great trouble, proposing that harmony should be restored by the supper table. It looked very gay—that supper table, with its lights, and bouquets, and fancy confectionary; it seemed almost a pity to put it in confusion; but Mr. George Sales did not incline to that opinion; so he very quietly seized a dish of oysters and commenced helping himself out of it, quite oblivious of "the presence of the ladies."

Master Anthony was more gallant—he, under the influence of Miss Jane Judkins' tri-colored bows and velvet spencer, valiantly attacked, knife in hand, a fortress of ice-cream, and having freighted a gilt-edged saucer with it, was in the act of presenting it to her, with a dancing-school bow, when he unfortunately lodged the contents of the saucer on her pink skirt and lace flounces. Gertrude retired to the dressing-room with the afflicted Miss Jane, offering her all the sympathy that such a melancholy occasion called for.

When Gertrude returned to the supper room she had the pleasure of hearing Miss Taft remark, that it was "the stupidest party she ever attended; and as to the supper, it was positively shabby—only two pyramids of ice-cream! but then she had heard her mamma say that Gertrude's mother had never been to parties much, so she supposed she really didn't know any better; she (Miss Taft) intended to have a party herself, when she was twelve years old, which event was to come off in a month or two, and then they'd see a party worth dressing for."

Poor Gertrude, after all the pains she had taken, her pretty supper table "shabby," her party "stupid," and her mamma—"didn't know any better!" She was perfectly miserable—her head ached violently, and had it not been for shame, she would have cried outright.

The "ladies and gentlemen" having surfeited themselves at the "shabby supper table," had one more dance, in which nobody was suited with their partners, and several declared, pouting, that they would not dance at all, "because the music was so miserable;" and then they cloaked and hood-ed themselves, and the "rich" Miss Judkins rolled off in her father's carriage, much to the dissatisfaction of some of the other young ladies, who walked home with their little pinafore admirers, cutting up Miss Gertrude's party in a manner that showed they had not listened in vain to the remarks of their mammas about the parties they had attended.

As to Gertrude herself, when the last little foot had pattered out of the entry, she threw herself, weeping, into her mamma's lap, quite worn out with excitement and mortification.

Gertrude's mother considers the money laid out for that "party," and the "cherry silk dress," as one of the most profitable investments she ever made; for, although Miss Gertrude is now a wife and a mother, with a house of her own, she has never been known since that night, to "have a party," or to express the least desire to go to one. For, my dear children, "grown-up parties" are not a whit more profitable or satisfactory than the little miniature one that caused Gertrude so much trouble and unhappiness.



FERN MUSINGS.

Morning again! and New-York is beginning to stir. Lazy creatures! they should have been up hours ago. That old rooster over the way has crowed himself hoarse, trying to start them all out: and he is not as smart as he might be, for I saw the first streak of dawn myself, before he was off his perch.

Now the carts begin to rumble by, with "fresh sweet milk," labelled on the sides. Lucky they tell us of it, for we never should find it out ourselves by tasting. There go the dray-carts, with baggage from the just-arrived cars; then follows a carriage with the owners of the baggage. How hollow-eyed they look, traveling all night. They are evidently thinking of eggs and hot rolls. There go the boarding-house women, basket in hand, to secure their dinner: hope they won't spoil it with bad cooking-butter! There go the shop girls, shrouded in thick brown veils: poor things! they got up late and couldn't stop to comb their hair. There come the market carts from the country, laden with cabbages, and turnips, and beets, and parsnips, and apples, and nobody knows what else beside.

There comes a little boy, screeching "R-a-d-i-shes;" and a little girl just behind him, shouting "Bl-a-ck-ber-ries," and a man in the middle of the street, yelling "Tin-tin-tin—tin ware for sale." Oh dear! I shall have to stuff my ears with cotton wool. I'm as crazy as a Fourth-of-July orator who has forgotten his speech.

There come some business men, chewing the last mouthful of their breakfast as they button the first button of their overcoats and hurry down street. There go the laundresses with their baskets of clean clothes,—hope they haven't ironed off all the shirt-buttons. There's a man with a parcel of old umbrellas on his back: it would puzzle "a Philadelphia lawyer" to find out what he is shouting. Never mind, he makes a noise in the world; so I suppose he is satisfied. There go two or three women with slip-shod feet;—ugh! And there's a little girl fresh from the country, (you may know that) for her eyes are as bright as stars, and her cheeks look like June roses. She has a bunch of flowers in her hand, but they are no prettier than herself;—she is a perfect little rose-bud (if her shoes are clumsy and her bonnet old-fashioned.) If you'll excuse me I'll run down a minute and speak to her.

Well, I declare! she says her name is "Letty Hill," and she has come into town to see Aunt Hopkins; and her aunt, and she, and her little cousin Meg Hopkins, are all going to Barnum's Museum, (Uncle Hopkins isn't going with 'em, because he says Burnum's a humbug;) and she is going to wear a clean white apron, that is stowed away safe in her carpet bag, with blue ribbon strings on it. She don't know whether she shall stay over night, or not; her mother told her she might, if Aunt Hopkins asked her, and she hopes she will ask her, because she and Meg Hopkins want to tell ghost-stories, and play "tent" with the sheets after they get into bed. She has a whole ninepence in her pocket, which Jake (the man on the farm) gave her, and she intends to buy out some of the Broadway shop keepers with it before she sees Clover Farm again. She hopes Aunt Hopkins will have mince pie for dinner, and make it real sweet, too; and she hopes Cousin Tom Hopkins will be at home, because he always gives her sixpences. There she goes, tripping along. God bless her! She don't care whether there's a revolution in Europe or not.

Look over there at that street pump; isn't that a pretty sight now?—that little girl in the short frock, with bare legs, and feet as plump as little partridges. She has set down her basket, and stopped to get a drink of water. The pump handle goes very hard. She concludes to put it to a better use,—she will make a swing of it. So she lifts it way up, and then seizing hold with both hands, swings herself down upon the sidewalk. Ah! she has alighted in a puddle! She looks at her little fat feet, and makes up her mind she will take a bath; so she pumps out the water, and holds first one little plump foot under, then the other, till they are as white and polished as marble, and her little pink-tipped toes look all too dainty to touch the dirty sidewalk. Now, she sees me looking at her, and blushing scampers off.

"Sweep, ho—sweep, ho! want any chimneys swept, ma'am?"

"No, indeed! not if that poor child behind you has got to crawl up the chimney to do it. Why, he can't be more than five years old."

"He's used to it—it don't hurt his complexion."

Very like, poor little African; but it would hurt my feelings; besides I haven't got any chimney—no, nor a house;—don't own anything, I'm happy to say, but a bandbox and a tooth-brush; don't care a snap of my thumb for the "first of May" in New-York; it don't move me!

There's a little boy, under the window, holding up his hand for a penny. He's trying to cry; but it is very hard work. Never mind, Johnny, or Sammy, or whatever your name is, don't shed a tear for me, for mercy's sake; but there's a penny for making up such an awful face. I'll send you to puzzle the barber in the avenue, who advertises to "cut hair to suit the countenance!"



CRAZY TIM.

What in the world is that?—a poor old man, almost bent double, drawing a little wooden horse upon the pavement, and laughing and talking to it as if he were seven years old, instead of seventy! How white his hair is; and see—his hat is without a crown, and one of the flaps of his coat is torn off. Now one of the boys has pelted him with a stone, that has brought the blood from his wrinkled cheek; another asks him "how much he will take for his hat," while all the rest surround him, shouting, "Old crazy Uncle Tim—old crazy Uncle Tim!"

Come here, boys, won't you?—and let poor Uncle Tim go home, while I tell you his story.

Uncle Tim used to be the village shoemaker, hammering away at his lap-stone in that little shop with the red eaves, as contentedly as if he owned a kingdom. He always had a pleasant smile and a merry story for his customers, and it was worth twice the money one paid him, to see his sunshiny face and hear his hearty laugh.



But the light of Uncle Tim's eyes was his little daughter Kitty. Kitty was not a beauty. No—her little nose turned right up, like a little dogs; her hair was neither soft nor curly; and her little neck and arms were almost as brown as the leather in her father's shop,—still, everybody loved Kitty, because she had such a warm, good heart, and because she was so kind to her honest old father.

Uncle Tim had no wife. She had been dead many years. I shouldn't wonder if Uncle Tim didn't grieve any, for she was a very cross, quarrelsome, disagreeable person, and made him very unhappy.

Little Kitty was his housekeeper now, although she was only seven years old. She and her father lived in a room back of the shop, and Uncle Tim did the cooking, while Kitty washed the dishes, made the bed, and tidied up the small room with her own nimble little fingers. When she had quite done, she would run into the shop, steal behind her father, throw her chubby brown arms about his neck, and give him a kiss that would make him sing like a lark for many an hour after.

While his fingers were busy at his lap-stone he was thinking—not of the coarse boots and shoes he was making, but of little Kitty—how he meant to send her to school—how he meant she should learn to read and write, and know a great deal more than ever he did, when he was young—and how he meant to save up all his money in the old yarn stocking, till he got enough to put in the bank for Kitty,—so that when he died she needn't go drifting round the world, trying to earn her bread and butter among cold, stony-hearted strangers.

Uncle Tim found some time to play, too. When it came sundown, he and Kitty, and the old yellow dog Jowler, would start off on a stroll. It was very funny to see little Kitty fasten down the windows with an old nail, before she started, like some old housekeeper, and put the tea-kettle in the left-hand corner of the fire-place, and take such a careful look about to see if everything was right, before turning the key. When they got out into the fields they both enjoyed the fresh air as only industrious people can. Every breath they drew seemed a luxury; and as to Uncle Tim, I don't know which was the younger, he or Kitty. I am sure he went over fences and stone walls like a squirrel; and as to Kitty, her merry laugh would ring through the woods till the little birds would catch it up and echo it back again.

Then, when they reached home, they had such a good appetite for their brown bread and milk. Oh! I can tell you, Uncle Tim and Miss Kitty wouldn't have thanked Queen Victoria for the gift of her scepter, they were so happy.

One day Kitty asked Uncle Tim to let her go huckleberrying. She said she knew a field where they were "as thick as blades of grass." Uncle Tim couldn't go with her, because Sam Spike, the blacksmith, was in a hurry for a pair of boots to be married in, and of course Sam couldn't wait for all the huckleberries in creation; so Tim staid at home, humming and singing, and singing and humming, while Kitty tied on her calico sun-bonnet, slung her basket on her little brown arm, and trudged off with her dog Jowler.

Jowler was very good company. Kitty and he used to have long conversations about all sorts of things. Kitty always knew by the way he wagged his tail whether he agreed with her or not. When any other dog came up to speak to him, he'd look up into Kitty's little freckled face, to see if she considered the new dog a proper acquaintance, and if she shook her head, he'd give him a look out of his eyes, as much as to say, "It's no use," and trot demurely on after Kitty.

Well, Jowler and she picked a quart of huckleberries, and then Kitty started for home, Jowler carrying the basket in his mouth part of the way, when Kitty spied any flowers she wished to pick. When she had plucked all she wanted she concluded to take a shorter cut home across the fields, and down on the railroad track. So they trotted on, Kitty singing the while.

By and by they reached the track. Kitty looked,—there were no cars coming as far as she could see. To be sure there was a curve in the road just behind her, (round which the eye couldn't look,) but she wasn't afraid. Just then Jowler dropped the basket and spilt her huckleberries. Kitty was so sorry,—but she stooped down to gather them up, when a train of cars whisked like lightning round the curve on the road, and poor little Kitty was crushed to death in an instant!

Jowler wasn't killed—faithful Jowler,—he trotted home to Uncle Tim, who sat singing at his work, and leaped upon him, and whined, and tugged at his coat, till Uncle Tim threw down the blacksmith's boots and followed him, for he knew something must be the matter. Perhaps Kitty had fallen over a stone wall, and lamed her foot—who knew? So Jowler ran backwards and forwards, barking and whining, till he brought Uncle Tim to the railroad track.

Was that crushed mass of flesh and bone little Kitty?—his Kitty?—all he had in the wide earth to love?

Uncle Tim looked once, and fell upon the earth as senseless as a stone. Ever since he has been quite crazy. All he cares to do is to draw up and down through the road that little wooden horse that Kitty used to play with, hoping to coax her back to him.

Poor old Tim! Would you throw another stone at him, boys? Would you hunt the weary old man through the streets like some wild beast? Would you taunt, and sneer, and shout in his ears, "Old crazy Tim"—"Old crazy Tim?" Oh, no—no! Pick a flower and give him, as Kitty used; take his hand—poor, harmless old man—and walk along with him; maybe he'll fancy that you are little Kitty, (who knows?) and smile once more before he dies. Poor Uncle Tim!



CICELY HUNT;

OR,

THE LAME GIRL.

What a holy and beautiful thing is a mother's love!

Every morning, about eight o'clock, I have noticed, limping past my window to school, a little lame girl. A woman goes with her; supporting her gently by the arm and carrying her satchel of books.

The girl is very poorly clad. Sometimes her dress will be patched with two or three different colors; but it is always very clean; and I have observed that her stockings, though coarse, are always whole, and that her shoes are neatly tied up. The woman who goes with her looks tidy, too; though she wears a rusty black bonnet, of an old-fashioned make, and a faded shawl.

Cicely's little school-mates bound past her; skipping, hopping, jumping and running, as if they could not exercise their legs enough. The lame girl looks at them, smiles a sad, quiet smile, and looks up tearfully in her mother's face. The mother answers back with a look so full of love, and lays her hand upon her child's arm, as much as to say, "I love you all the more, because you are a poor, little helpless cripple."

And so they travel over the icy pavements to school; (stepping very carefully, for it would be a sad thing if Cicely should slip and fall;) until, at last, they reach the school house.

What a blessing are free schools! What a difference it makes in the life of that poor girl, to be able to read! How many weary hours of pain will a nice book beguile! And, beside, if one has not a cent in the world, if one has a good education, it is worth as much as money in the bank,—and more, too, because banks often turn out great humbugs, and then people lose all the money they have placed in them.

Cicely was not always poor. She can remember (just as you can a dream, when you first rub open your eyes in the morning) a great big house with richly carpeted halls, and massive chandeliers, and rich sofas and curtains, and gilded mirrors, and silver vessels, and black servants.

She remembers that her father carried a gold-headed cane, that he used to let her play horse with; and that he used to sit a long while at the table with gentlemen, drinking wine and eating fruit after dinner; and that often, he would ring for the nurse to bring her in, to show her to the gentlemen when her curls had been nicely smoothed and her little embroidered frock put on; and that then he would stand her up on the table and make her sing a little song, and that the gentlemen would clap their hands and laugh, and grow very merry about it.

Then she remembers that one day there was a great running to and fro in the house; and she saw her father lifted from a carriage in the arms of two gentlemen, and that blood was flowing from his side; and then her nurse caught her up, and carried her into the nursery, and she didn't go down stairs or see her papa again for many days; and she remembers that one day, getting tired waiting for him to come up and see her, she crept down by herself to his room, and found him lying on the bed, with his hands crossed over his breast, and only a linen sheet thrown over him, though it was very cold weather; and she said, "Papa?"—but he didn't answer; and she got a chair and climbed up in it to put her hand on his face, to wake him, but he was as cold as the marble image in the hall; and then her nurse called, "Cicely!—Cicely!" and seemed frightened, when she found her there; but wouldn't tell her why her papa laid there so still, or why he wouldn't speak to his little girl.

And then she remembers going away from the big house, and bidding good-bye to her black nurse; and ever since that they had lived in poor places, and people spoke harshly to them; and though her mamma never answered them back, she sighed heavily, and sometimes leaned her head on her hand and wept.

And one night it snowed in on the bed, and Cicely caught cold and had a fever, which left her with the dreadful lameness that I told you about; and then Cicely's mother groaned because she had no money; for she thought some of the great doctors, if they were well paid for it, might think it worth their while to try and cure Cicely.

Cicely's limb was less painful now than it had been for two years, although it was quite useless; but her mother, as I told you, helped her to limp to school. Cicely kept hoping it would get quite well, and she wanted to learn as fast and as much as she could; because she thought if she got all the medals, the Committee might say, "Cicely, we must have you for a teacher here, some day."

Yes; why not? Stranger things than that have happened; and then, perhaps, she could earn enough to (and here Cicely had to stop to think, because there were so many things they wanted,)—earn enough to buy a pair of warm blankets for their bed; and enough to have a cup of tea Sunday nights; and enough to keep a fire and a light through the long winter evenings, and not have to go to bed because they were so cold, and because candles were so dear.

Yes; Cicely was looking forward to all that, when she limped along to school. She thought it would be so delightful to empty her purse in her kind mother's lap, and say: "Dear mother, you needn't work any more. I will support you, now."

Oh, what a nice thing hope is! Sometimes, to be sure, she leads us a long dance for nothing; but I am very certain that were it not for hope, we shouldn't be good for much. Many a poor groaner has she clapped on the back, and made him leap to his feet and set his teeth together, and spring over obstacles as if he had on "seven league boots." She is a little coquettish, but I like her. She has helped me out of many a hobble.

Well, as the great speakers say, this is a digression. Do you know what that is? It is leaving off what you are about, to dance off to something else—just as I did up there about hope. Now I'm going on!

One day the committee came to Cicely's school, to hear the scholars recite; and Cicely stood up in her patched gown as straight as she could, and recited her lessons.

One of the gentlemen who came in with the committee asked, "Who is that young girl who said her lessons so well?"

"Cicely Hunt?" he repeated, after the teacher,—"Cicely Hunt! She was not lame; and then—why—no—it can't be: the thing is quite impossible," and he leaned back in his chair, and looked at Cicely.

After school was over he said to her, "Do you sing, Cicely?"

"Not now," said Cicely, blushing. "I used to sing, a long while ago, when I was little."

"When, Cicely?"

"I sang to—to—my papa," said Cicely—tears springing to her eyes. "I used to sing, 'Blue eyed Mary,' for the gentlemen who dined with papa."

Then the gentleman (pretending to look out the window) wiped his eyes, and turning to the teacher, they whispered a long while together, now and then looking at Cicely.

That evening, when Cicely and her mother were warming their fingers over a fire of shavings, somebody knocked at the door.

Cicely blushed, when she saw the same gentleman she had seen at the school coming in, and looked anxiously about the room.

But Mr. Raymond was not looking at the room. I doubt if he saw anything, his eyes were so full of tears; but he held Cicely's mother by the hand several minutes, without speaking, and led her back to the chair with as much deference as if she had been a Duchess; and then Cicely found out, as they talked, that he was one of her father's old friends, and that, as sometimes happens, even between friends, they had a quarrel, and that then they were both mistaken enough to think that the most gentlemanly way to settle it, was to fight a duel; and that Mr. Raymond wounded her father, and had to go away as fast as possible, because there was so much noise about it, and that he had been very unhappy ever since, and would have given all he had to have brought him to life again, and that when he returned to his native city he had searched everywhere for Mrs. Hunt and Cicely, without finding them.

Well, now he wanted to support Cicely and her mother, but Mrs. Hunt did not like that. She forgave him the sorrow he had brought upon her because he had suffered so much; but she did not wish to be supported by him. However, she allowed him to find her a better place to live in, and get her some scholars to teach, who paid her high prices, and by and by Cicely helped her, and so they supported themselves; which is a far pleasanter way of living than to be dependent.

Cicely was never entirely cured of her lameness; but a physician made her much more comfortable; so she could walk by herself, with the help of a crutch; and Mrs. Hunt's last days, after all, were her best days; for, we should never know, my dear little pets, how brightly the sun shines, if it were never clouded.



THE LITTLE TAMBOURINE PLAYER.

I was sitting at my window one fine morning, at a farm house in the country, enjoying the sweet air, the soft blue clouds, and far-off hills, and watching the hay-makers in their large, straw hats, as they tossed the hay about, piled it upon the cart, or "raked after," or drove along home through the meadow, crushing the sweet breath from the clover blossoms that lay scattered in their path; and enjoying the song of the little robin in the linden tree opposite, who was thrilling my heart with his gushing notes.

* * *

A hand organ! What a nuisance! I fancied I had left them all behind me in the city, where one has such a surfeit of them. A hand organ in the country! where the little birds never make a discord, or charge us a fee, either! I'll get up and shut the window, or run off into the back woods, where such a thing as a hand organ was never heard of.

I got up to put my threat into execution, when my eye was attracted by the musicians. There was a coarse, stout, sun-burned Irish woman, with an immense straw hat flapping over her freckled face, tied with a gaudy ribbon under her three chins, singing, "I'd be a butterfly!" At her side, stood a little girl about six years old, holding an inverted tambourine, to catch windfalls in the shape of pennies.

The little creature was as delicate as a rose leaf; her eyes were large and of a soft hazel; her skin fair and white, and her hair waved over her graceful little head as sweetly as your own. Her hands were small and white, and her coarse shoes could not hide her pretty little feet. She was not that woman's child; I was sure of if; for her voice was as sweet as a wind harp.

"How far have you come, to-day?" asked I of the Irish "butterfly."

"From the city, sure," said she; "would your leddyship give me a saxpence?"

I'd have given her five times that amount, if she wouldn't have sung to me again. So I tossed her the "saxpence," and asked if the child had walked from the city (four miles) too?

"Sure," said the woman, looking a little confused. "Biddy would be afther going with her mother wheriver she went."

Her mother? I didn't believe it. That child had been delicately brought up, as sure as my name was Fanny. All my motherly feelings were roused in an instant.

"If that is the case," said I, carelessly, "I suppose she is hungry, and her mother, too; if you will let her go down in the orchard with me, I will bring you back some nice ripe apples."

The little girl looked timidly at the woman, who took a good look at me out of her bold, saucy, black eyes, and asked, "Is it far you'll be going?"

"Just to yonder tree," said I, pointing down the meadow; "but if you think it will weary her to go, I will bring them to her myself."

"You can go with the lady," said the woman, giving her a look that the child seemed to understand, "and I will just sit on the fence and look afther ye."

"Is that your mother?" said I, stooping to pluck a daisy at the little one's feet.

"Y-e-s," she said slowly, but without looking me in the face.

"No she is not," said I. "Don't be afraid of me; if you want to get away from her I can help you. Didn't she steal you away?"

The child nodded her head, without speaking, and looked timidly over her shoulder, to see if any one was near to hear me.

"Is your own mother alive?" I asked.

She nodded her head again, and her sweet little lip quivered.

"Hush!" said I, "don't cry. I'll get you away from her. Keep quiet. Don't talk any more now. Just pick up the pears in your apron, that I knock off this tree."

I climbed the pear tree and peeping over the fence, saw good honest "Jim," the "man of all work" at the farm, sitting down in the shade to rest, with old Bruno curled up at his feet.

I tossed a pear at his red head. Jim looked up. I put my finger on my lip, saying, "Creep round by the fence, Jim, and get up to the house; go in at the back door and wait till I come up. Don't say a word to anybody. I'll tell you why when I get back."

Jim gave me a sagacious nod, and commenced going on all fours behind the fence.

Little "Biddy," as her pretended mother called her, filled her apron with the pears and we started across the field to where Bridget still sat, perched upon the garden fence, with her hand organ unstrapped at her feet.

I emptied the pears in her lap, and she thanked me in her uncouth way, between the big mouthsful, and sat down on the grass with Biddy.

Presently I asked her if she would like some ginger beer; of course she said yes, and of course I had to go into the kitchen to get it, and of course I found Jim there, and telling him my story in a dozen words, he brought his hand down with a thump on his waistband, exclaiming,

"Je-ru-sa-lem!"

When Jim said that you might know he was going to do something terrible!

Well, I went back with the beer, and just as Bridget was tipping the glass up to her thick lips, Jim bounded behind her like a panther, and held her arms tight while I took little Biddy and scampered into the house.

Having locked little Biddy safe in my chamber, I returned and picked up off the grass, two silver spoons of Jim's mother's, that Bridget had taken from the parlor closet while we were getting the pears.

That gave us a right to shut her up in jail—to say nothing of her carrying off poor little Biddy—and you may be sure that Jim was not long in sending her there, spite of her vociferations that, "If there was law in the counthry she'd have the right of him yet, for meddling with an honest woman like Bridget Fliligan."

"Thank you for telling us your name," said Jim, coolly; "it is just what we wanted to know."

But it is time I let out my little prisoner, poor little Edith, (that was her real name.)

"Is she gone a great way off? Can't she get me ever?" said the frightened child, peeping round the room as if she expected to see her jump out of the closet, or spring from under the bed. "Will you keep hold of my hand all the time when it comes night? Can't they get me then?"

"No, no, my darling—never, never. Come here and sit on my knee. Now, tell me, how came you to live with Bridget?"

"I was going to school," said Edith, "and I stopped to look at some pretty pictures in a shop window, when this Bridget came up to me and said, 'Which of them do you like best, dear?'—and I said, 'The little boy asleep on the dog's neck;' and she said, 'If you will come round the corner with me, I will give you one just like it;' and I said, 'No; I shall be late at school, and my mamma wouldn't like it;' and then she said it wouldn't take but a minute, and she led me into an alley, and when she got there she threw her shawl over my head, and ran with me; and when she took the shawl off, I was in a house with some Irish people, and Bridget said, 'I've got her!—she will do nicely, sure, to play the tambourine. Won't the pretty face of her bring the shillings?'

"And then I cried, and begged them to take me back to mamma; and Bridget held up a great stick, and said, 'Do you see that?' and then she took off the clothes I had on, and put on these, and brought the tambourine, and told me how to play it; and when my fingers trembled so that I couldn't, she shook me, and pulled my hair, and said I should have nothing to eat till I learned to do it; and I begged and begged her to take me home. I told her mamma would cry all night, and papa, too, and little Henry,—but she hurt me with the stick so (pulling up her sleeve, and showing me the blue spots on her arms); and then I was afraid she would kill me, and so I tried to learn, because I thought if I minded her, perhaps she would let me see mamma;—but she never did; and I slept in the cellar with her nights, and in the day time, before light, she takes me out into the country to play. See, my feet are very sore"—(and she pulled off the heavy, coarse shoes and showed me the blisters on them.)

"Won't you take me to see my mamma, quick?" said Edith, putting her little arms round my neck, as if she were afraid I would feel hurt because she wanted to leave me so soon.

"Just as fast as old Dobbin can carry you, my darling," said I, "if you will only tell me where to find her."

Little Edith began to cry.

"Perhaps she is dead," said she, sobbing.

"Oh, I hope not," said I, (the thought of restoring the little one had been so delightful to me); "cheer up, my darling,—now tell me where to find your father. What does he do for a living, Edith?"

"He has a shop," said Edith, "and knives, and forks, and scissors, and iron things in it."

"Oh, I know; he is what we call a hardware merchant."

"Yes," said Edith, "that's it."

"Well, where's the shop?"

"In the city," said Edith, "in —— street. My papa's name is —— Grosvenor, Esquire."

"Well, we'll find him, Jim and I. Here's the horse and wagon, my little musician, so jump in."

Jim whipped up, and away we jolted into town, little Edith clinging tightly to my arm, for fear of Bridget.

Two hours and we were in —— street. I went into a confectioner's with little Edith, while Jim drove to her father's store.

Edith grew very impatient—a bright red spot came upon her cheek—and she walked often to the window and looked out.

In about half an hour I saw Jim coming back up the street, and at his side a fine looking, tall man, of thirty.

"There's Jim," said I to Edith—

"And papa! and papa!—oh, it is papa—my own papa"—and she rushed to the door with the speed of an antelope.

How can I describe to you that meeting, when I couldn't see it for my tears? but I heard kisses and sobs, thick and fast, and the words, "Dear papa," and "My blessed, lost Edith."

Well, nothing would do, but Jim and I must go home and see mamma, too, who had never been outside of the door since her poor little girl was taken away.

We drove to the house—Edith, and I and Jim, staying below stairs, while Mr. G—— went to prepare his wife for the joyful news.

Presently we heard a heavy fall upon the floor. The joy was too intense. Edith's mother had fainted! She opened her eyes—it was not a dream! There was her little lost darling before her! She held her at arm's length—she clasped her to her breast—she kissed my hands—then she ran weeping to her husband—then back to Edith, till the pantomime became too painful.

"Je-ru-sa-lem!" said Jim.



THE BROKER'S WINDOW BY GASLIGHT.

Last evening I was walking in Broadway. The shop windows were brilliant with gas, and bright silks, and satins, and jewels were all spread out in the windows in the most tempting manner; all was gayety, bustle, hurry, drive, and confusion; omnibuses, carts, carriages, drays, military, music; people flocking to concerts, shows, and theatres; people flocking in town, and people flocking out; fashions in one window—coffins in the next; beggars and millionaires, ministers and play-actors, chimney-sweeps and ex-presidents, all in a heap.

I sauntered along dreamily, looking at them all, and wondering where all those myriads of people ate, and drank, and slept; how they had all laughed and wept; how soon they would all die off, one by one, without being missed, while strangers, just as busy, would fill their places, and die in turn, to give place to others.

Over my head the stars shone on, just as brightly as they did ages ago, when Bethlehem's babe was born—just as they will ages hence, when nobody will know that you or I ever thrilled with joy, or sighed with sorrow, beneath them.

But I am not going to preach to you;—the panorama made me think; that's all. Well, I sauntered along, and presently came in sight of a broker's window, (ask your papa what a broker is,) in a basement, quite down upon the pavement. The window seat was covered with black velvet, and on it lay little glittering heaps of money, in gold and silver;—some quarters—some half-dollars—some dollars—some five dollar and some ten dollar pieces.

I shouldn't have looked twice after them, but, crouched down upon the sidewalk, so close to the broker's window that his face almost touched it, was a little boy about ten years old. His ragged little cap was pushed carelessly back; his long, dark hair fell round his face, and his eyes were fixed upon that money with an intensity of gaze, that seemed to render him perfectly unconscious of the presence of any one about him.

I touched my companion's arm, and we stopped and looked at the boy some moments, and then passed on. But I couldn't go away, I wanted so much to know what that little boy was thinking about. So we went back again, and watched him a few minutes longer. He had not moved from his position. There he sat, with his little chin in his hand, building air castles.

"What are you thinking about, dear?" said I, touching him gently on the shoulder.

He started, and the bright color flushed to his very temples. I fancied that I had frightened him, or wounded his feelings. Perhaps he imagined that I thought he was trying to steal that money. So I said quickly, "Don't be afraid of me; I only felt curious to know what your thoughts were. I love little children. Now tell me—you were wishing all that bright money was yours, were you not?"

"Yes," said he, veiling his great dark eyes with their long lashes.

"I thought so," said I; "and now, supposing you had it, what would you do with it, my darling?"

Now, very likely you think he told me of the kites, and tops, and balls, and horses, and marbles that he would buy with it.

No—he looked up earnestly in my face for a minute, as if he would read my thoughts, and then he said, with his great eyes swimming in tears, "I would give it all to my mother."

I didn't care whose boy he was—he was mine then. So I just kissed him, and tried to keep from crying myself, while I asked him where he lived.

He told me in —— Court; and then we took hold of his hands and went home with him.

Such a home!

A little low room, with one small window, and no furniture in it, except an old rickety bedstead, upon which lay a woman about thirty years old, wasting away in a consumption.

Her large eyes glittered like stars, and on each cheek burned a bright red fever-spot. An old shawl was thrown on the bed for a counterpane. She had neither sheets nor blankets, and the chill night air blew through the broken window-panes, making her cough so fearfully that I thought she must die then.

Little Angelo crept to my side, and pointing to the bed, said, "That's why I wanted the money."

Well, this was her story, which (in broken English) she told us (between her coughing spells): About a year before, she came over to this country from Italy with her husband. He was a very bad man, and as soon as he landed from the ship he ran off with all their money, and left his wife to take care of herself and little Angelo.

They wandered all about, and came near getting into some very bad places, (which was what her naughty husband wished her to do, I suppose.) Sometimes they slept in old sheds, and behind barrels, or anywhere where they could find a shelter for the night out of harm's way. Poor Mrs. Cicchi was delicate, and could not bear such cruel exposure. She took a violent cold, and that brought on a quick consumption; and now there she lay, in that miserable room, in a strange country, dying!

Poor little Angelo! well might he look wistfully at the money in the broker's window.

Mrs. Cicchi told us that Angelo was a good boy, and would much rather work than beg, if he could get anything to do. She said his father made images in Italy, and that Angelo was always trying to do it too, whenever he got a bit of clay; and sometimes she thought he could get a living in that way when she was dead, if he had any friends; but, "poor boy!" she said, and turned her face to the pillow. "Poor boy! oh, how can his father forget him?"

We comforted her, and told her that Angelo should be taken care of, and then she wiped away her tears, and said she "could die happy"—and she did die a few days after; for cold, and hunger, and trouble had done more mischief, than the doctor who was sent to her could undo, with all his skill.

How poor Angelo clung to her dead body! How he kissed her hands and face, and sobbed, "My poor, poor mother!" He grieved so much that we almost feared he would die too.

By and by he listened to me. I told him that his mother was always near him, though he could not see her; and that every time he thought a good thought, or put away an evil one, she sang a sweeter song. Angelo liked that! His great dark eyes glittered through his tears; he smiled and kissed my hand;—often he sits still and listens, as if he heard his mother's song.

Angelo is a good boy. When he is out of school he works with an image maker. It is all play to him, he likes it so much. The old man stares to see him go on, but don't say anything. I know very well what he is thinking: he thinks that one of these days Congress will send Angelo an order for a statue for the Capitol!

I think so myself.

Dear little Angelo! his father will be very glad to own him by and by. Oh, I can tell you, good luck is an excellent "town crier," to find people with bad memories!



BLACK CHLOE.

I wonder how you treat the servants in your mother's house? Do you order them round, as if they were so many dray-horses?—or do you speak pleasantly to them when you desire they should wait on you? I know there are a great many bad servants, but there are a great many good ones, too.

I am going to tell you about one.

Her name was Chloe Steele. She lived with a lady by the name of Mrs. Kumin. Fannie Kumin was fifteen years old when Chloe came to live with her mother. Chloe loved to do little services for Fannie, because she was so smiling and good natured. She never rang the bell, just to warn Chloe that she was her mistress; and when she called her for anything, always tried to remember everything she wanted, at once, that she need not make her take any extra steps, up and down stairs.

Chloe noticed this, and felt grateful for it, and was always very careful to regard all her little wishes. She tidied up her little bed-room very carefully, and always ran out in the garden and cut a little bouquet to place in the vase upon her toilette table, to make her room sweet and pleasant for her.

Fannie didn't require much waiting upon; she preferred being her own waiter, (like a sensible little girl.) It was very well she did so, because in a couple of years after Chloe went there to live, she was left an orphan, and when the estate was settled up, it was found that little Fannie had no money to live upon.

Chloe said, "don't be troubled, Miss Fannie; I am used to work. I'll find you a boarding place, and then I'll go out to service, and pay your bills. I can get high wages for a housekeeper's place, and you will live like a lady. It would break my heart to see Master's daughter work for her living."

Fannie said, "You are a dear, good Chloe, but I could not be happy to live that way;—no—I must go to work, and that will keep me from thinking of my troubles. I should become very miserable if I sat still, with my hands folded, and thought only of so many sorrowful things. No, no, dear Chloe—I shall teach in Mrs. ——'s school; and you will see, the education that my dear mother has given me will be just as good as so much money."

So Chloe said no more about supporting her, because she saw that she really would be happier to support herself; but she insisted upon washing and ironing her clothes for her, and the day that she carried them home, all nicely folded in a basket, was the happiest day in the week to poor Chloe.

Chloe had taken a little room to herself, and cooked her own food. All blacks are born cooks, I believe, and many a tempting little dainty she stowed away of a Saturday night, to take up to school to Fannie. Sometimes it would be a loaf of cake; sometimes a pie or two; sometimes a few oysters, nicely cooked; for she said "it was poor fare enough teachers had in boarding schools, and who knew but Miss Fannie might get quite run down, on that and the hard work together."

Then she would go round her room, picking up the stockings and mending them, and brushing her little gaiter boots; and then she would take the comb out of her long hair and part it nicely, and brush it and dress it all over as well as Madame Marmotte, the French hair dresser, could do.

If Fannie took cold, she'd come and make her some hot tea, and soak her feet in mustard water, and leave her some nice hot lemonade to drink when she went away; and if she had a letter to put in the post-office, or was expecting one, then Chloe was on hand to do the errand, just as promptly as an express man.

Now she did all this out of sheer love for Fannie, and because she had been kind to her in her mother's house, and never put on airs and ordered her about, as some children do.

By and by, Miss Fannie took it into her head to get engaged to be married.

Chloe didn't half like it;—she was jealous. She was "afraid Massa Hale wouldn't make a good husband enough. Miss Fannie ought to have a very nice one, because she was such a fine young lady;" and Chloe shook her woolly head, till her gold hoop ear-rings rung again, and advised Miss Fannie to "wait a leetle longer." "Time enough yet, when she was only eighteen, plenty more gemmen; no hurry yet for Miss Fannie."

But Fannie had her own way that time, too, and married "Massa Hale;" and when Chloe found there was no help for it, she said she would go and be her cook, "just to look after the dear child a bit, and see that she had everything she wanted," and that nothing was wasted.

You ought to have seen her in "Miss Fannie's" kitchen, (for she still kept on calling her Miss Fannie;) with her gay bandanna handkerchief twisted round her wool, and her neat check apron tied round her waist, moving round among the shining pots, and pans, and kettles, as important as if she were the great Mogul; turning out pies and hoe cakes, and flap-jacks, (and every other Jack, too, for Chloe had no beaux dangling after her, I promise you.)

If "Miss Fannie" put her head into the kitchen, she'd tell her it was no place for her,—to go right up stairs, and sit in the parlor like a lady, and not be worrying her little head about the cooking and such matters; that she'd send up a dinner pretty soon that would make Massa Hale open his eyes; and she didn't care if he brought the President home with him to dine!

Chloe was scrupulously honest;—she took care of everything just as carefully as "Miss Fannie"—never wasting, never giving slily away tea or sugar, or bread, or meat, or coal, to her acquaintances, as I'm sorry to say many unprincipled servants do.

So "Massa Hale" began to like her, as well as "Miss Fannie," and many a nice calico dress, or handkerchief turban, found its way mysteriously into Chloe's trunk.

After a while, Chloe had another Miss Fannie to look after. Was there ever a baby like that? Certainly not—except the original Miss Fannie. Chloe forgot her pots, and pans, and pickles, and preserves, and hoe-cakes; and said that "somebody else must do the cooking, or else that baby never would thrive; for what did Miss Fannie know about babies, she would like to know?"

So Chloe washed her hands, and walked up into the nursery, and when she said that little Fan must have some peppermint, she had it; and when she objected to its wearing caps, they were taken off; and when she said it was time for her to go to sleep, she went to sleep, as a matter of course.

Chloe sent its mother out to take the air, and told her it was no use for her to trouble her head about the baby, because it was a thing she knew nothing about;—in fact "Miss Fannie" never was allowed to peep into its cradle without Chloe's express permission.

But the time was coming when Sorrow's dark shadow should cross the happy threshold. Death laid his icy finger on the little baby's lip, (with scarce a moment's warning,) just as it had twined itself round all their hearts with its winning little ways.

Who comforted poor Fannie then? Who arrayed the baby's dainty little limbs for burial? Who placed the tiny flowers between its waxen little fingers? Who folded away from the weeping mother's sight the useless caps and robes? Who spoke words of cheer, while her own heart was breaking?—who, but Chloe?

Ah, dear children, never say that servants are without feeling; never say it spoils them to treat them like human beings. They all have their trials—humble though they be—and (often, God knows,) few joys enough.



A PEEP FROM MY WINDOW.

"Oh, stop! stop! Pray don't beat that child so," said I to a strapping great woman in front of my window. "What has she done? What is the matter? Don't strike her."

"Well, then tell her not to meddle with me again," said the virago, shaking a stick at the child. "I got to that barrel of cinders on the sidewalk, first, and had put my stick in it, to see if I could get anything out worth saving; of course, if I came first, I had the first right to what I could find; and then she came up and put her stick in it, without saying 'by your leave.' I'll teach her better manners"—and the stick descended again on the child's shoulders.

"Run in here, run in here," said I. "I'll take care of you;" and I opened the door for her. Poor little thing—all tears, and rags, and dirt; her little bare feet cut and bruised with the stones, and her hair streaming all over her face. You would have pitied her, too. She gazed about the room, looked at the fire, then wistfully at the breakfast table, from which I had just risen.

"You shall have some," said I, giving her a cup of hot coffee and some egg and roll; "eat away, as much as ever you can."

She didn't need a second invitation, but swallowed the food as if she were famished. She put on the shoes and stockings I gave her, and then she told me that her father was killed on the railroad; that her mother had four little children beside herself; that they lived in a cellar in —— street, where the water often came in and covered the floor; that her mother had a dreadful bad cough; that her baby brother was very sick, and that they had nothing to eat except what they got begging.

"Why did you hunt in that old barrel?" said I.

"To find bits of coal, to burn. Sometimes the servants in the big houses don't sift it, and then we find a great many pieces to carry home and burn. Oh dear! that was such a nice barrel, that the women beat me for coming to!"

"Never mind the barrel," said I; "do you want this? and this? and this? and this?"—giving her some old dresses, "and this loaf of bread, and this bit of money for your mother?"

"Oh yes—yes. She will be so glad!" And off she skipped, down street, drawing her ragged shawl over her head.

Directly after, thinking of an errand I wished to do, I put on my bonnet and walked out.

I had passed several blocks, when I came to an alley where I heard voices. The speakers had their backs turned to me, but I could see them. It was the child who had just left me, and the woman who had beat her for meddling with the barrel of cinders.

"You did it well," said the woman. "I couldn't have made believe cry better myself. I knew she'd call you in. Did she give you all these? and these? and these?" (holding up the dresses.) "That's good. I can sell them to the second-hand clothes shop there, for money;—you may have that bit of money she gave you, to buy yourself a string of beads, because you cried so well. Which story did you tell her, hey?"

"The one you told me this morning"—said the child; "all about the cellar, and the water in it, and how father was killed on the railroad track. Didn't she give me a good breakfast, though?" And the child stretched up her arms and yawned.

* * *

Well, I was not sorry that I gave her that breakfast, or those clothes, or that money; I was sorry to see a little child so deceitful; but, do you know it is better sometimes to be mistaken than never to trust?—better sometimes even to lose a little, than with icy words to crush from out a despairing heart, the last hope of a tempted, starving, fellow creature!

That's the way I comforted myself, dear children, as I walked along home.



THE BOY PEDLAR.

Rain, rain, rain! How the drops come down! I wonder if anybody beside myself will get out doors to-day?

Ah, yes! There's a little boy, not much bigger than Tom Thumb. He's a little merchant, as true as the world, and has a box strapped on his back. Now he wants to sell me something.

"Corset lacings?" Never use such things, my dear.

"Paste blacking?" Wear patent leather.

"Ear-rings?" I leave those to the Indians.

"Combs? hooks and eyes? pins? needles? tape? scissors? spools?"

Oh, you little rogue—come in here; where did you come from, hey?

"I am an Englishman."

No, you are not.

"Well, my father was. I was born in Hamburgh."

That's it; now, how came you to be selling these things?

"I'm doing it to try to pay my own board. I pay ten shillings a week. My brother has gone to California. By and by, perhaps, he will come home, and send me to school. Buy anything, to-day, ma'am?"

Of course I shall. I haven't seen such an enterprising young man since I left off pinafores. I'll buy all the pins you have; for since I came here to New-York, I see so many things to make me sigh, that my hooks and eyes keep flying off like Peggotty's buttons. There—run along, now, and don't you come this way again, with that little glib tongue, and those bright eyes, or you'll empty my purse entirely!

* * *

Oh dear! oh dear, he is knocked down crossing the street; he's killed!

No he is not!—

Yes he is!—

No—he's up—safe and sound. Now he rubs the mud out of his eyes, and says, just as coolly as if he had not barely escaped with his skin.

"Where's my box?"

"Never mind the box," say the crowd, "as long as you are not hurt."

"But I do," said the little Dutchman, "for that's the way I get my living, selling these things. Oh dear—the box is broke, and everything is spoiled."

"Make up a purse for him," says a gentleman, passing round his hat.

Coppers, and shillings, and quarters, and half dollars flow into the hat, and finally a dollar bill.

"There," said the gentleman, smiling, "now take that home to your mother, my boy."

"My mother is dead," sobbed the child.

"Pass round the hat again," said the gentleman—a tear in his eye.

The crowd responded with another handful of coppers and shillings and quarters.

Ah, little Hans, who is it who saith, "Leave thy fatherless children with me; I will preserve them alive?"



THE NEW COOK.

"What a funny new cook Mamma has!"

"Yes, and how she starts every time the bell rings, as if somebody were coming to catch her, and what a wild look she has in her eyes. She makes good cake, though, don't she, Louise? a great deal better than black Sally's;—and then Sally had such a temper! Do you remember how she sent the gridiron across the kitchen, after the chamber-maid, because she had mislaid the dish-cloth?—how I did laugh!"

"I remember it. But what do you suppose makes this new cook act so oddly when the bell rings? I heard Mamma say she was 'one of the nervous sort.' It would be good fun to play a trick on her and frighten her; wouldn't it? You know the dark entry by the parlor door, Louise?"

"Yes."

"Well, you know there are plenty of old clothes, and things, hanging up there, and she has to pass by them, when she goes up and down stairs."

"Yes."

"Well, suppose we hide behind those coats, and just as she comes along, both of us make a spring at her?—won't that be fun?"

"Capital!" said Louise, "but won't Mamma punish us?"

"Of course, if she finds us out; but we mustn't get found out. What is the use of having feet, if you can't scamper with them? Betsey of course will be too frightened to see who did it, and before anybody else comes, we shall get out of the way."

The new cook, "Betsey," whom these two little sisters were talking about, was a widow. Her husband was an industrious, temperate man, a carpenter by trade. He loved Betsey very much, and they lived in a snug, comfortable little house, which they hoped to be able to buy some day, when Tom had earned money enough at his trade.

Betsey made Tom a good wife. If he worked hard in the shop, she worked hard in the house. Everything was just as neat as a new pin. You might have eaten off her floors, they were scrubbed so white and clean. There were no finger marks on her doors or windows, no broken panes of glass, with paper or rags stuffed in, to keep out the air, and her closets and cupboards would bear looking at, in the brightest sunlight that ever found its way into a kitchen. Her dishes and tumblers never stuck to your fingers; her table never had on soiled table-cloths; her walls were never festooned with cobwebs; her hearth never was littered with ashes. Well might Tom work cheerfully for such a wife; for he knew that every penny he saved, and gave her, was put to the best possible use. It didn't go for tawdry finery, I can tell you; and she knew how to turn a coat for Tom, or re-line the sleeves, or seat a pair of pants, as nicely as a tailor.

Tom was a good looking fellow. He had a fine broad chest, and a straight, well formed figure; a large, clear, black eye, and a fine Roman nose, besides a set of teeth that would have made a dentist sigh. The truth was Tom was one of Nature's gentlemen; he always did and said just the right thing, and made everybody about him feel perfectly satisfied with the world in general, and himself in particular.

Well, they lived together as contented as two oysters. Tom didn't grit his teeth when a carriage rolled by with a rich man in it, or when another man passed him in a finer suit of broadcloth than his own. Not he. He stepped off to his shop, on the strength of Betsey's nice coffee and biscuit, as grand as the President. Why not? He owed nobody a cent, and that's more than many a man can say, who would knock you down as quick as a flash, if you should intimate he wasn't a gentleman.

One fine day, Tom proposed to Betsey to go a fishing, he said she needed something of that sort, by way of change, for she was quite worn out. Betsey said, "No, Tom, I am well enough; besides, the water will make me sick; but I want you to go; you and Phil Dolan; you need it more than I, a great deal."

Tom didn't like to go without Betsey; he didn't believe in husband's frolicking about, and leaving their poor tired wives to mend their old duds, at home. No; he knew that there is no woman, be she ever so kind and good, who does not sometimes want to see something beside a mop, a gridiron, and a darning needle; so Tom said, "No, I'll think of some pleasure you can share with me."

But Betsey persuaded him to go without her. She fancied, (good kind soul,) that Tom was looking less well than usual, and the thought of his getting sick, made her quite miserable; so Tom said he'd go. Then Betsey got Tom his fishing tackle, and put him up some biscuit, for he and Phil intended to get out on a little island to make some chowder; and then Tom——kissed her; (as true as you are alive, though she was his wife!) and then he went for Phil, and they got into a little boat, and floated off down the river.

Betsey worked away, thinking all the time how much good the fresh air on the water was doing Tom. She got along very well through the forenoon; cleaning up the house, and putting things in place, till dinner-time; then how lonesome it was not to have Tom's handsome face opposite her! and nobody to say, "Betsey, dear, here's your favorite bit;" or, "Betsey, dear, where's your appetite to-day?" It made her so dull, that she couldn't eat her dinner.

I am sorry to say that Betsey had no darling little girl or boy, to climb up in her lap, and talk to her about papa. Betsey was sorry too, and so was Tom.

Well, the afternoon wore away. It was five o'clock;—time Betsey had begun to get tea, for Tom would soon be home. Let's see!—she would make some flap-jacks. Tom was fond of flap-jacks. She'd make him a real strong cup of coffee: he liked that better than tea. She would cook him a bit of beef steak too, for she knew that fishing always gave people a good appetite. So she stepped around briskly, and spread her snow-white table-cloth, and put on her cups and saucers, and plates, and the castor—(yes, the castor on the tea table! for they didn't care a pin for fashion); and when she had cooked her supper, she looked at the clock. Yes, it was quite time he was there; and then she looked out the front door, just as if she could look him home.

An hour went by—an hour after the time he said he'd come; and Tom always punctual to the minute, too. Betsey grew nervous. Somebody rang the bell. She flew to the door. (Tom never rang the bell.) It was only a boy inquiring for the next neighbor. Betsey pulled a little wrinkle out of the table-cloth, set Tom's chair up to the table, and peeped into the coffee-pot. It was all right. He would soon be there. But somehow she couldn't keep still a minute. She had a great mind (if she were not afraid of being laughed at) to run down to Phil Dolan's brother's, to see if Phil had got back.