looked at him, thin at meself, thin at him agin, thin I walked over to him, thin back agin, pacing it off so, [ Walking four or five paces,] thin looking right at him, I sed; "Do ye moind, I'm not good at guessing, but after pacing it, I would say the difference between me and a pig is about six feet.” Well if ever a mon looked beat he did, and wid a good -[Slapping his sides and crowing.] I left him.

But my dear friends what hes all this to do wid me correspondence? Nothing seys you. Well thin, to go back to it. Tim wrote, seys he, "Pat your own living uncle is now dead and all he had is to be given to you and me, his only heirs saving fourteen others. Come thin, Pat, and git your share.” Well, I jist set down and wrote, “Tim yer a fool; don't bother yer head wid a few paltry pounds, but come at once to the best country in the wourld. Why, Tim, there is no hanging for stealing here, pertaties are only twenty-five cents a bushel, wid whiskey the same, and more than thet, Tim, ye git yer three dollars a day for doing nothing at all, for all ye have to do is to make a three-cornered box, fill it wid bricks, carry it up a three-story building, and you will find a mon there, wid a trowel, thet will do all the wourk."

FOR LOVE.

Curly-haired Carl! Were a blithsomer mate

For a ride o'er the snow to be wished for than he? Yet it were well not to linger too late;

The pines are in shadow, the flakes dance and flee. Crisp on the white sound the patter and clack

Of hoofs beating briskly; and sharp through the air
Rises ripple of laughter; the bridles hang slack,

And hand touches hand. She is frolic and fair,
Sunny-eyed Marguerite, brightest of girls,
With teeth gleaming whitely, and tumble of curls.

"You! Gallant Carl, so they call you! No doubt,
Bayard the brave were a whipster to you!"
Gretchen the winsome can wickedly flout:

Red, curling lips, and arch eyes flashing blue,
Wing home her taunts. So he flushes and sets
Teeth under lips that are wreathed in a smile:
"Now truce, mocking sprite, to your feigned regrets
At fair chivalry's flight. Give me glances the while,

And what man may dare to win loyalty's meea,
I, Carl, and no Bayard, will venture at need."
Quick rings her laughter: sledge-bells at full flight
Never sounded more silvery musical. "You?
Easy is talking, sir spur-lacking knight:

Were death at my lips, sirrah, what would you do?”
Curly-haired Carl bendeth suddenly. “Hawk

Should stoop straight to its quarry," laughs she, as her lips Deftly evade him. Sir Carl, you can talk,

But you do not strike home: feeble sword, sir, that slips.
What dare you-for love?" Smileth Carl, "It were best,
Oh, vow-flouting lady, to wait till the test!"

On through the snow; for the wood-shadows blacken,
The night-wind is waking, the pine-branches sigh.
They laugh as they fly; for their speed may not slacken.
"Now swift! Stride for stride, Carl!" Hist! What is that cry?
Faces, mirth-flushed and wind-bitten, grow white,

Deep bite the spur-points, and bridles shake free.
Didst e'er hear the yelling of wolves through the night?
H. sh, hoarse devils' music that murders all glee.
Now, Brocken, now Fleetfoot, give proof of your pace;
For hundred-mouthed death is behind in full chase!

One breathless mile is ticked off from the three

By heart-beats that throb to the pulses of fear.
Swift! Flash along! Flying skirts, tresses free;
For death on the track yelleth near and more near.
Courage!" cries Carl," we've the pace of them yet."
White is her face, and her breath shudders short;
Watchful his eyes, and his teeth tightly set.

"Bravo, brave Brocken! Well leapt!" Never port

More eagerly looked for by storm-driven bark

Than the red village lights as they flash through the dark.

Two breathless miles! But the swift-sweeping pack

Of mad, yelling demons, have gained in their flight.

O God! half a mile; and her gallop is slack!

Those hell-litten eyes, how they gleam through the night! But one minute more! "Gracious heaven above,

Too late? Now the test!" Then his voice ringeth loud: "Ride on, and farewell! But remember-for love!" Then right in the path of the hideous crowd

Brave Carl hath drawn bridle, and leapt to the ground; And a hundred hot hell-hounds have hemmed him around

Yon little brown woman, belle Marguerite? Nay,
Brave Carl as you know, is beau-garcon no more.
Those devil-hounds marked him. We fellows made play
Not a second too soon. Ah! the hideous roar

Of rage and base fear from that hot-throated pack

As we plunged, heaven-sent, through the pines in their rear: Two dozen lank demons stretched dead in a crack!

But Carl, gallant Carl! Oh the sickening fear
That struck to my heart as I lifted his head,
His bonny boy-face all so furrowed and red!

But she?

He lived, scarred and seamed as you know him. I hold
No battle-marks borne with more honor.
Beauty seeks beauty. She shrank and grew cold,
Slowly, half-shamed, but-the thing had to be.
"Not heart enough for the trial?" Just so
Many a winsome one fails at the push.

Carl has the little brown woman. I know

She hasn't belle Marguerite's sparkle and flush; But she has the secret that sets her above

The shallow-bright sort. She would die, sir, " for love."

GONE BEFORE.-B. F. TAYLOR.

There's a beautiful face in the silent air,

Which follows me ever and near;

With smiling eyes and amber hair,

With voiceless lips, yet with breath of prayer,
That I feel but cannot hear.

The dimpled hand and ringlet of gold
Lie low in a marble sleep:

I stretch my hand for a clasp of old,
But the empty air is strangely cold,

And my vigil alone I keep.

There's a sinless brow with a radiant crown,

And a cross laid down in the dust;

There's a smile where never a shade comes now,
And tears no more from those dear eyes flow,
So sweet in their innocent trust.

Ah, well! and summer is come again,
Singing her same old song;

But, oh! it sounds like a sob of pain,

As it floats in the sunshine and the rain,
O'er the hearts of the world's great throng.

There's a beautiful region above the skies,
And I long to reach its shore,

For I know I shall find my treasure there,
The laughing eyes and amber hair,
Of the loved one gone before.

DEATH OF DORA.-CHARLES DICKENS.

It is evening; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed, with the same face turned towards me. We have been silent, and there is a smile upon her face. I have ceased to carry my light burden up and down stairs now. She lies here all the day.

66

'Doady!"

"My dear Dora!"

"You won't think what I am going to say, unreasonable, after what you told me, such a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield's not being well? I want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her."

"I will write to her, my dear." "Will you?"

"What a good, kind boy!

Doady, take me on your arm. Indeed, my dear, it's not a whim. It's not a foolish fancy. I want, very much, indeed, to see her!"

"I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure to come."

"You are very lonely when you go down stairs, now?" Dora whispers, with her arm about my neck.

'How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your empty chair?”

"My empty chair!" She clings to me for a little while, in silence. "And you really miss me, Doady?" looking up, and brightly smiling. "Even poor, giddy, stupid me?" "My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so

much?"

"Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry!" creeping closer to me, and folding me in both her arms. She laughs, and sobs, and then is quiet, and quite happy.

Quite!" she says. "Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that I want very, very much to see her; and I have nothing left to wish for."

66

'Except to get well again, Dora."

"Ah, Doady! Sometimes I think-you know I always was

a silly little thing!-that that will never be!"

"Don't say so, Dora! Dearest love, don't think so!"

"I won't, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; though my dear boy is so lonely by himself, before his childwife's empty chair!”

It is night; and I am with her still. Agnes has arrived; has been among us, for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt, and I, have sat with Dora since the morning, altogether. We have not talked much, but Dora has been perfectly contented and cheerful. We are now alone.

Do I know now that my child-wife will soon leave me? They have told me so; they have told me nothing new to my thoughts; but I am far from sure that I have taken that truth to heart. I cannot master it. I have withdrawn by myself, many times to-day, to weep. I have remem、 bered Who wept for a parting between the living and the dead. I have bethought me of all that gracious and compassionate history. I have tried to resign myself, and to console myself; and that, I hope, I may have done imperfectly; but what I cannot firmly settle in my mind is, that the end will absolutely come. I hold her hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine, I see her love for me, alive in all its strength. I cannot shut out a pale, lingering shadow of belief that she will be spared.

"I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say something I have often thought of saying, lately. You won't mind?" with a gentle look.

Mind, my darling?"

"Because I don't know what you will think, or what you may have thought sometimes. Perhaps you have often thought the same. Doady, dear, I am afraid I was too young."

I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into my eyes, and speaks very softly. Gradually, as she goes on, I feel, with a stricken heart, that she is speaking of herself as past.

"I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don't mean in years only, but in experience, and thoughts, and everything. I was uch a silly little creature! I am afraid it would have been better, if we had only loved each other as a boy and girl, and forgotten it. I have begun to think I was not fit to be a wife."