of December, and it is said that the Prince and, with the most extraordinary grace and sang Princess of Wales will also visit Compiègne; froid. We very often have a child-prodigy but this report has so frequently been spread, that I have not much faith in it. However, this is to be a very gay season it seems, in honour of the approaching marriage of the Empress's prime favourite the Princess Anna Murat, who is at last really engaged to the young Duke of Mouchy, Grandee of Spain, Prince of Poix, and heir of the Noailles family. He possesses five hundred thousand francs a-year (about £20,000), and the Emperor will give his beautiful young cousin £4,000 a-year, and the pretty hotel on the Champs Elysées, which the Empress built for her mother to reside in. This is rather a fall in the pretensions of a lady who, on dit, aspired to be Princess of Wales, and whom the papers gave to every young prince that has for the last four or five years visited Paris. The Princess Anna Murat is a daughter of Prince Lucien Murat, son of a sister of Napoleon I., and the soldier of fortune Murat, whom Napoleon made King of Naples. The Prince Lucien married a very beautiful American lady, and report says that the Princess Anna, her daughter, was brought up in the Protestant religion, but has, to please the Empress, embraced Romanism-I suppose after they found that the Prince of Wales was no go. Really, how disgusting it is to see Protestant princesses ever ready to be of any religion you like when a husband is in ques tion ! Our old "Procureur général" (Monsieur Dupin) is also gone to his final home since my last letter. It was he who thundered a few months ago so much against ladies' dress in the present day, and excited quite an émeute amongst the fair sex. Monsieur Dupin was President of the Assemblée Nationale after Louis Philippe was sent off. He was 82, and has ever, during his long career, through monarchies, republics, and empires, known which side his bread was buttered. He was a very clever lawyer, and the papers have, since his death, been full of his bon mots, though few persons seem to esteem the man. It was he who, when Napoleon III. seized the Orleans property, wittily said, that it was the "premier vol de l'aigle." To which the Emperor as wittily replied, "qu'il fallait bien voler pour acheter Dupin" (du pain). I do not think that the old gentleman's protestations against ladies' extravagance has as yet had much effect, at least if we judge from what we see at the theatres. At the Vaudeville, in the new comedy, that is now the great "hit," "The family Benoiton," by Sardon-one of the actresses' (Mdlle. Fargueil) exhibits a blue dress, the white lace on which alone costs 7,000 francs (nearly three hundred pounds); the two other actresses' dresses cost 80,000 francs (more than £3,000), without counting their jewellery. But apropos of this comedy, which all Paris is running to see, there is a little girl of six years of age, a perfect wonder. Nothing else is talked of, in the theatrical world, but the beauty and talent of this charming little thing: she has a long part to play, and goes through it on the stage, but the critics declare that none has ever equalled this. An actress-Mdlle. Jenny Vertprê (Madame Carmouche)—who also came out on the stage when a child, died the other day: she did turn out a talented actress, although our critics say that such a thing is rare, and they all advise the parents of the present little prodigy not to exploit the child's talent yet. Talking of actresses, I see that Mdlle. Sarah Felix sold by auction, the other day, three of her sister's (Rachel) letters. How thoroughly this lady proves her Jewish origin! I wonder she did not try to put her sister's bones up to auction: they might have, in future ages, been adored for those of a saint. That reminds me that the Pope is about sending a corps saint" (a holy body?) to Madame de Lamoricière, for which a chapel is to be built to perpetuate the general's memory. Pilgrims will go from far and near, barefooted, to worship at the shrine, and, who knows, perhaps one day there will be a Saint de Lamoricière for human wisdom to gloss on. Well, at any rate, the old soldier is as well worthy to be canonized as that saint who was admitted the other day into the Roman calendar, for having, amongst other things, lived on cabbage stalks! Mr. I told you that the Grand Theatre Parisian had given a new opera, "Jeanne d'Arc, by Duprez. It appears that although not a chefd'ouvre, it is very passable, and attracts great crowds. This is the first attempt at a cheap opera here, and it is likely to answer well. Duprez, who is director of the theatre, has chosen his subject well, and at a moment when the memory of the fair maid of Orleans is very popular, from the recent discovery at Rouen of the tower where she is supposed to have been confined before her horrible death. The tower belongs to the Ursuline nuns, and is within the high wall that surrounds their convent. The top alone could be seen by the inhabitants of Rouen, who are too busy in their affairs to indulge in thoughts of the past; besides the fate of Jeanne d'Arc is not particularly honourable to the memory of their forefathers more than it is to those of the English, and the good folks of Rouen, until quite lately, slept comfortably in their beds, without being troubled by visions of Jeanne d'Arc, although her last prison was private property, and unhonoured. One day, however, a short time ago a fire broke out in the convent, quickly the firemen arrived with their engines, but no profane foot is allowed to enter the dwelling of the Ursuline nuns without permission of the bishop. "It will only take a short hour to send and get the permission," said the nun tourière from her grated window. "But the fire is raging," vociferated the men below; "we shall open by force if you do not let us in." "Open by force?" sighed the lady, and long before permission came the firemen had knocked down an entrance; while the horrified and bewildered nuns escaped on all sides to hide themselves. Of course the public pro fited by the occasion and entered also. The flames showed the old tower to them, and the archæologists of the town could see, for the first time, its basis, which is still very solid, although the summit is in ruins, and they all declare that it is the prison of which history speaks; one old savant alone disagrees with them. In the meanwhile the pious ladies soon had their wall repaired, and the tower is again concealed from the public. The nuns, they say, are very much annoyed at the whole affair, which is likely to disturb them in their peaceful retreat, there being a party formed to excite the mayor and town-council to dispossess the convent of the tower for public utility, and to restore it to public homage. The journalists have espoused the cause, and Jeanne d'Arc is in great renown, for the moment, at Rouen, Orleans, and Paris, At Rouen, the director of one of the theatres, who scented a good hit," disinterred an old drama of little value, and put it on the stage-a thing perhaps unique in history. The Rouen public, nightly see the martyrdom of the French heroine on the very spot, where she really was sacrificed by ignorant hate and ferocity, as the theatre is built exactly on the place which history designates as that of her execution. 66 An old bookseller, well known in Paris, and whose friends familiarly called him "Le père Bossange," died last week within a few weeks of his hundredth year. The rich banker M. Emile Periere had promised him, on his hundredth birthday, that the Hotel du Louvre should be illuminated from top to bottom in his honour, that he should have a dinner of a hundred guests, he himself to choose his company, that there should be a concert during the banquet, that poets should compose verses in his honour, and that everything that friendship could do should be done to fete him worthily; M. Pereire paying all expenses. The old gentleman did nothing but talk about it, and had already invited his hundred guests; but, alas! he was taken off before the day, being born on the 1st of December. The thought of a banquet puts me in mind of the good wine they say that the vintage has given this year, and not only excellent in quality but in great quantity; so there will be some compensation for the heat we have gone through during the summer. Victor Hugo's new publication, "Chansons des rues et des bois," has already gone through several editions. These new children of our great poet's brain are, as usual, a combination of charming things with very odd ones. His enemies of course choose the odd ones to comment on, as specimens of the new work, and there is already a parody on them. However, the laugh is on Hugo's side, which the rapid sale of his work proves. His publisher pays him 40,000 francs a volume. There is an anecdote going the round of the papers, on our poet's way of doing business: When his drama "Lucrèce Borgia" was accepted in 1833 at the Porte-St.-Martin, he demanded of the director (M. Harel) that his author-rights should be counted the same as at the Théâtre Français, which M. Harel accepted. "I also desire that my drama should be considered as a piece in five acts, although there are only three?" M. Harel accepted again. "I desire to have the whole theatre at my disposal for the first three representations." Accepted again, although with difficulty. "I should also like you to warrant me fifty representations at a thousand crowns a night.” Impossible, my dear Monsieur Hugo," answered the witty director; "you asked me for my coat, I have given it to you; but now you ask me for my shirt, I cannot possibly give you that, the preset of the police would not allow me.' 66 The Museum of Natural History has just received an enormous hare, killed in Burgundy, having a horn in the middle of its forehead, measuring 30 centimetres. The Duke of Luynes intends restoring completely the old feudal castle belonging to the Duke of Chevreuse, of which there only exists an old ruin, perched on the top of a hill. It will be done after authentic plans, and will be an edifice of the middle ages. M. de Lamartine is now publishing, in the Constitutionnel, a life of Lord Byron; and M. Alexandre Dumas is gone to gather the applause and money of the Austrians at Vienna; while the project of Sir Henry Bulwer to establish himself at Constantinople gives the journalists here the nightmare. Adieu, with kind compliments, A. S. LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. some great apple trees. But now the trees and flowers and grass were all gone, and where they had been, stood a block of high brick houses, with bulging fronts and balconies. So there was no way of getting to the cobbler's attic but through an archway, which was shut from the street by an iron gate; and a row of handsome houses, which turned their backs proudly upon the tenant-house (which had been an old dwelling long before they were built or thought of), in spite of themselves did it some good after all, for they kept out the dust and deadened the endless roar of the cabs and omnibuses, the wagons and drays, and carriages that continually whirled and rattled along the busy street. The cobbler's wife had lighted the lamp, but she had not put down the curtain, so the little girl who stood at a back window of one of the tall brick houses could look directly in. She had come up stairs to lay away her hat and fur cape by the light which streamed up from the hall below, and made a dim sort of twilight in the room; and stopping as she passed her window, she saw the cobbler's boy, with eyes the colour of sloes, and hair like thistledown. looking from his. There was not light enough for him to see her, although she could see everything in the attic-room plainly, standing "so near and yet so far." The floor was bare, but a little clock stood upon the mantel and some pictures in wooden frames hung about on the white walls, so the people could not be very poor. The cobbler worked at his bench in the corner; she could see him drawing out his arm, and she knew he was sewing shoes; and the cobbler's wife was getting supper. Only a corner of the table-cloth was in sight, but she could see the tea-pot on the stove, and the cobbler's wife, when she took the bread from the oven. Then the boy went away from the window and the cobbler from his corner, and she could only see on the wall the funny shadows they made in eating and drinking. Annie, where are you? Come, tea is ready," called her mother from below. "I have been watching the nicest people; the man makes shoes, and there is is a boy just as big as I am. Oh, mamma! may I take him in my boots to be mended to-morrow? they are ripped awfully!" she exclaimed, rushing into the diningroom as excited as though she had at least a new garibaldi for her doll. "What is it, dear? Don't talk so fast," replied her mother. Annie tried to explain, but her mouth by that time was full of toast, and she was harder to understand than before. "A man who mends shoes, mamma, and he lives in the wooden house down the archway, and can he mend my boot to-morrow? Do, please say 'I'll see ;' don't say 'no,' said she at last, more plainly. Her mother smiled, and said she would see, and Annie made up stories about the cobbler to her doll all the evening, and then went to bed aud dreamed about the people in the attic. In the morning she was awakened by the sound of hail rattling against the windows, and the wind howling and shrieking around the corner like a mad wolf. "Oh, dear me!" said she; "now I can't go and see the cobbler! I know my mother wont let me if I ask her, though it isn't but such a little bit of a way." So she contented herself with putting back the window-curtain and peeping across; but because there was no lamp in the attic-room she could not see much but the birdcage at the window, and the little boy who came once and looked out at the weather. Then she nodded a good morning to him, and ran away, and before night she had quite forgotten all about the cobbler's attic; and even when the storm, which only lasted a few hours, was over, did not remember to ask again about her shoes; for something very delightful was going to happen-going to happen, too, that very evening. Because, you must know this was the day before Christmas, and it is not likely Santa Claus would forget the stately brick mansion whatever he might do about the old tenant-house down the court. So there was to be a beautiful Christmas-tree in the parlour of the house where Annie lived, and all her cousins were coming to see it, and you can judge whether Annie had time to think of anything else. First, there was the cook to inspect as she iced raisins, peeled oranges, made cakes, macaroons, and jellies. Then there was her doll fo dress in holiday suit, and the mysterious packages coming in every now and then at the hall door to wonder over; then, best of all, was the tree itself, green and glossy, and fragrant with the smell of the woods where it had been all summer, with the birds, and squirrels, and brown rabbits. It was very charming to watch the man who brought the tree make it stand firmly in a tub of sand, which Annie's older sisters covered with moss: but it was more charming yet to watch the little wax tapers and the Christmas gifts being hung upon the branches until there was positively room for nothing more, and heaps and heaps of things were piled on the piano. At last it was evening, and Annie had her curls brushed, and her new crimson frock on, and went into the front parlour to wait for her cousins; and such a host of them as she had! The parlour was quite full with them all. "We have got the most splendid Christmastree you ever saw, and it is crowded and stuffed full of things. It is going to be lighted up as soon as everybody comes, and then we can see it and have our presents," said Annie. "Is 'at 'e Ch'istmas tree?" asked baby Minnie, pointing with her fat finger at Annie's doll, which sat up in state in her bamboo chair. Then how the children laughed and said"How funny!" and "What a little darling!" "Minnie never saw a Christmas-tree; she only knows it is something very nice," explained her sister Agatha, in a motherly way. "Oh, dear me! how I wish they would open the door! I can't wait," said cousin Sophy. "Christmas-trees are nothing; I have seen them a hundred thousand times or more, and I don't care at all about seeing it," replied cousin Gertrude, who was not always a very pleasant little girl. "Oh, Gertrude, what a story! Then why did you come?" exclaimed Agatha. But nobody heard Gertrude's reason, for just then the folding-doors rolled back, and the hildren shouted and jumped with delight at house! She has got a party, and only see how light it is! Mother! mother! come and look! What is that all on fire, with so many things hanging on it?" The mother put down her balls of worstedshe knit all manner of bright scarfs and hoods, caps and shawls, for sale-and came to the sight of the tree, bright with blazing tapers, and There were quantities for everybody. Each little girl had more than she could hold, and the boys had every pocket and both hands full. Balls and books, bright coloured-tops and gay baskets and little Red-riding-hoods, puzzles and pictures, wire bows and arrows, china dolls, India-rubber dolls, paper dolls, large and small with dresses enough to set up the Empress Eugenie, and enough baby-house furniture to furnish all the baby-houses in a town like this. These things were not a tithe of the whole. And yet Gertrude pouted and threw up her shoulders, saying-" Pooh! this is nothing. I wouldn't have come if I had known everything would be so common. It is the homeliest tree I ever saw. My grandpapa in the country has a million prettier ones in his woods." While she was talking, Uncle Walter took from the tree a scarlet covered book with gilt edges, filled with beautifully tinted pictures, and opening it read-" Gertrude S. Halling." The little girl condescended to go and get it, but she came back to her place with a very ugly frown on her face. "They are having a Christmas party at the big house, and that is surely a Christmas-tree to hang the children's presents on." "Oh, mother, why can't we have a Christmastree? I've got lots of things to hang on it—my new shoes, you know, and the bright penny the gentleman gave me that came to get his boots tapped. Then there's the tin cup I had when I was a baby, and my primer, you know, mother," said the boy, eagerly. "Well, Sammy dear, I'll see what I can do about it to-morrow night-that will be Christmas evening instead of Christmas eve. The ladies at the Hall always had a Christmas-tree for the children of the parish, when I was at home in Kent, and I'd like to see something like it once more for the sake of old times." The cobbler's wife sighed as she spoke, not because she was homesick, for she and her family were much more comfortable than before they left the country, and she did not wish to return, but the thought of it brought a yearning remembrance to her mind for a moment of the old home and the old friends. She soon, however, forgot it, and went back to winding her yarn as contented as ever, and Sammy, well satisfied with her half-promise, shook the thistledown from his eyes, and turned again to the window with fresh delight. I hate books more than I hate anything. Horrid old thing, I won't touch or look at it." Just then Gertrude parted the curtains a "That is too bad; I am real sorry, Gerty.little, and seated herself in the deep windowWould you rather have my dissected picture? Santa Claus won't care if we exchange," said Annie goodnaturedly. But Gertrude would not be coaxed out of her ill-humour. "No, I don't wish to exchange; I hate dissected pictures worse than I do books; they are only meant for babies, and I'm not a baby," said she crosser than ever. While Gertrude was thus making everybody uncomfortable who came near her, just as a rosethorn in your finger makes a pain whenever it is touched, baby Minnie's golden head was darting about like a flash of sunlight. Nobody but Gertrude, who was in no mood to be pleased with anything, could help enjoying the little creature's delight, and laughing with her over every new treasure that came into her chubby dimpled hand. And now it was the turn of the cobbler's boy to peep at his neighbour. The back parlour was under Annie's room, so he could look down very well through the lace curtains of the long low windows, and see indistinctly the moving figures of the children, the gleam of the gilded mirrors and picture-frames, and even the brilliant Christmas-tree itself. "Oh, mother! just look over at the little girl's seat to eat a saucer of blanc-mange. Then Sammy could see very plainly the tree which had nothing left on it, only the lighted tapers, the oranges and coloured egg-shells. But that was more splendid than anything the cobbler's boy had ever seen, and he thought it quite delightful. Little Gertrude, too, sitting between the white curtains, where she and her handsomely embroidered blue dress showed so plainly before the brightness of the dazzling gaslight, looked very charming, for Sammy could not see the pout, which quite spoiled her pretty lip, nor hear her say peevishly-" I don't like blanc-mange at all. Sophy has a cluster of frosted raisins, and I don't see why my mamma won't give me some!" The children's party was over early, and in spite of all the gifts upon the Christmas-tree Santa Claus found something more for every little stocking that night. He even found his way with a ball aud a pair of mittens into the cobbler's attic. The next dav little Annie went to cousin Agatha's to Christmas dinner, where of course they had turkey and plum-pudding, and, what was very curious, the turkey had so many wishbones that every child got one upon her plate. Annie came home before evening, and going to her room just after the lamps were lighted, with her hat and cape, saw, as she did on the other night, through the window, into the attic window directly opposite. "Oh, my cobbler! I forgot all about him," said she, running to the window. The cobbler's wife had been very busy the previous day, but had found time just at dusk to go out with a package of finished scarfs and another of shoes, to take to the shops for which she worked. "And I think you may spare a few pennies to dress the boy's Christmas-tree," said the lame cobbler, as she tied on her bonnet. His wife nodded and Sammy fairly squealed with joy, making his nose perfectly flat against the window, as he looked out to catch the first glimpse of her in the court below on her return. On this evening she had just come in and had lighted the lamp as Annie looked from her window, and as soon as she had put away her bonnet and shawl, she screwed her yarnwinder on to the edge of the table, thus making a Christmas-tree. Sammy looked on open-mouthed and eager, and Annie, seeing something curious was about to happen, looked on also. gate into her own back yard, and so home again. But she should have seen the pleasure she left behind her in the attic. Sammy was fairly speechless at first, but he soon recovered his voice. "It was the little girl in the big house, mother, I have seen her playing with our cat in the back-yard, and with her doll, sometimes. | And just look at what she brought me! It is a nice present, isn't it, father? A book full of pictures, and some verses on every page. Oh, little Annie, not all the fruit of your Christmas-tree gave half the delight of this one offering from your generous heart! Little Red Riding-Hood went on to Sammy's Christmastree, crowning it with its scarlet splendour for a moment; but he could not spare it from his hands long; and besides, it might get burnt or greased from the bits of lighted candle; so he looked the pictures over and over again, and spelled out the story till bed-time was quite past, then putting it under his pillow, went to sleep, the very happiest boy in Christendom. First of all, the cobbler's wife took a tallow candle from a wrapping of brown paper, and THE cutting it into small pieces, with a little wick left at the end for lighting, she hung them by threads to the winder, then proceeded to farther. adorn this original tree with one red apple, a few oranges, a jumping-jack, a penny book, a slate and pencil, and a sprig of evergreen she had picked up in the street. At each addition Sammy jumped up and down clapping his hands and shouting till I don't know what the people in the tenement below could have thought was happening over their heads. Annie, however, understood it all, and she joined heartily in the pleasure she could see so plainly. "Oh, mamma, please come here. My cobbler's boy is dressing a Christmas-tree! Do just look over," cried she, as she heard her mother coming up the stairs. "That is his Christmas-tree and I saw everything hung on it my own self. Isn't it funny? And mayn't I take him over one of my presents, mother?—I had such a number, you know, and I am sure Nora will go with me." Her mother was very willing, so Annie ran directly to select one from ber store. "I think I will take my Red-Riding-Hood book; that is my prettiest present, and he ought to have something very nice, you know, if he has but one," said she. In a few minutes Annie stood with Nora at the door of the cobbler's attic. Nora knocked, and Sammy opened it. "Here is something Santa Claus sent you," said Annie" and I wish you a merry Christmas." Then she turned away quickly, and ran down the narrow stairs, which were full of crooks and turns, and broad landings, across the court, then into the archway and through the little SNOW BIRDS-A FABLE. BY MRS. H. M. L. Warner. Fell the fairy snow-flakes glittering Came the little snow-birds twittering While a little maiden, With a dinner-basket on her arm well laden, Of her mantle drawn about her tightly, Lay a little robin red-breast lowly Came his breath up feebly, slowly, Drooped his head, When a little chirping snow-bird said, "Stir about, friend Robin, stir about!" Then the little snow-bird chirped again, All about the whitened plain And, with shout, To the other snow-birds all about, That a little robin red-breast, lying Came a troop of snow-birds, swiftly flying Close where little robin red was lying In his pain; |