lenge the thanks of her guest. The color came into her smooth cheek, and she began to arrange the folds of her dress with both hands, exhibiting a degree of awkwardness quite unusual to her. When she lifted her eyes again, they fell upon a young man coming down the cross road on foot, with an eager and buoyant step.

"There he comes; I thought he would not be long on the way," she cried, while a flash of gladness radiated her face. "It's my nephew; you see him there, Mrs. Warren-no the maple branch is in the way! Here he is again-now look! a noble fellow, isn't he?"

Mrs. Warren looked, and was indeed struck by the free air and superior appearance of the youth. He had evidently walked some distance, for a light over-sacqe hung across his arm, and his face was flushed with exercise. Seeing his aunt, the boy waved his hand; his lips parted in a joyous smile, and he hastened his pace almost to a run.

Mrs. Gray's little brown eyes glistened;, she could not turn them from the youth even while addressing her guest.

"Isn't he handsome? and good-you have no idea, maʼam, how good he is! There, that is just like him, the wild creature!" she continued, as the youth laid one hand upon the door yard fence, and vaulted over, "right into my flower-beds, trampling over the grass there-did you ever?

"Couldn't help it, Aunt Sarah," shouted the youth, with a careless laugh, "I'm in a hurry to get home, and the gate is too far off. Three kisses for every flower I tramp down-will that do? Ha, what little lady is this?"

The last exclamation was drawn forth by Julia Warren, who had seated herself at the foot of the largest maple, and with her lap full of flowers, was arranging them into bouquets. On hearing Robert's voice she looked up with a glance of pleasant surprise, and a smile broke over her lips. There was something so rosy and joyous in his face, and in the tones of his voice, that it rippled through her heart as if a bird overhead had just broken into song. The youth looked upon her for a moment with his bright, gleeful eyes, then, throwing off his hat and sweeping back the damp chestnut curls from his forehead, he sat down by her side, and cast a glance of laughing defiance at his relative. "Come out here and get the kisses, Aunt Sarah, I have made up my mind to stay among the flowers!"

Mrs. Gray laughed at the young rogue's impudence, as she called it, and came out to meet him.

At that moment the Irish girl came through the front door with an expression of solemn import in her face. She whispered in a flustered manner to her mistress, and the words spoilt entirely" reached Robert's ear.

66

Away went the aunt, all in a state of excitement, to the kitchen. Whatever mischief had happened in the kitchen, the dinner turned out magnificently. The turkey came upon the table a perfect miracle of cookery. The pig absolutely looked more beautiful than life, crouching in his bed of parsely, with his head up, and holding a lemon daintily between his jaws. The chicken pie, pinched around the edge into a perfect embroidery by the two plump thumbs of Mrs. Gray, and then finished off by an elaborate border done in key work, would have charmed the most fastidious artist.

You have no idea, reader mine, how beautiful colors may be blended on a dinner table, unless you have seen just the kind of feast to which Mrs. Gray invited her guests. The rich brown of the meats; the snow-white bread; the fresh, golden butter; the cranberry sauce, with its bright, ruby tinge, were daintily mingled with plates of pies, arranged after a most tempting fashion. Golden custard; the deep red tart; the brown mince and tawny orange color of the pumpkin, were placed in alternate wedges and radiating from the centre of each plate like a star, stood at equal distances round the table. Water sparkling from the well; currant wine brilliantly red-contrasted with the sheeted snow of the table-cloth; and the gleam of crystal; then that old arm-chair at the head of the table, with its soft crimson cushions. I tell you again, reader, it was a Thanksgiving dinner worthy to be remembered. That poor family from the miserable basement in New York, did remember it for many a weary day after. Mrs. Gray remembered it, for she had given delicious pleasure to those old people. She had, for that one day at least, lifted them from their toil and depression.

THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS-RET. GEORGE Croly.

It was the wild midnight,—a storm was in the sky,
The lightning gave its light, and the thunder echoed by;
The torrent swept the glen, the ocean lashed the shore,
Then rose the Spartan men, to make their bed in gore!

Swift from the deluged ground, three hundred took the shield;
Then, silent, gather'd round the leader of the field.

He spoke no warrior-word, he bade no trumpet blow;

But the signal thunder roar'd, and they rusli'd upon the foe.

The fiery element, show'd, with one mighty gleam,
Rampart and flag, and tent, like the spectres of a dream.
All up the mountain side, all down the woody vale,
All by the rolling tide, waved the Persian banners pale.

And king Leonidas, among the slumbering band,

Sprang foremost from the pass, like the lightning's living brand;
Then double darkness fell, and the forest ceased to moan,
But there came a clash of steel, and a distant dying groan.

Anon, a trumpet blew, and a fiery sheet burst high,
That o'er the midnight threw, a blood-red canopy.

A host glared on the hill: a host glared by the bay;

But the Greeks rush'd onward still, like leopards in their play.

The air was all a yell, and the earth was all a flame,
Where the Spartan's bloody steel on the silken turbans came;
And still the Greek rushed on, beneath the fiery fold,
Till, like a rising sun, shone Xerxes' tent of gold.

They found a royal feast, his midnight banquet, there!
And the treasures of the East lay beneath the Doric spear.
Then sat to the repast, the bravest of the brave!
That feast must be their last, that spot must be their grave.

They pledged old Sparta's name in cups of Syrian wine,
And the warrior's deathless fame, was sung in strains divine.
They took the rose-wreath'd lyres from ev'ry cringing slave,
And taught the languid wires the sounds that freedom gave.

But now the morning star crown'd Eta's twilight brow,
And the Persian horn of war from the hill began to blow;
Up rose the glorious rank, to Greece one cup pour'd high,
Then, hand in hand, they drank—" To Immortality !"

Fear on King Xerxes fell, when, like spirits from the tomb,
With shout and trumpet knell, he saw the warriors come;
But down swept all his power, with chariot and with charge;
Down pour'd the arrowy shower, till sank the Dorian's targe.

They march'd within the tent, with all their strength unstrung: To Greece one look they sent, then on high their torches flung; To heaven the blaze uproll'd, like a mighty altar-fire;

And the Persians' gems and gold were the Grecians' funeral pyre.

Their king sat on the throne, his captains by his side,
While the flame rush'd roaring on, and their pæan loud replied!
Thus fought the Greek of old! Thus will he fight again!
Shall not the self-same mould bring forth the self-same men?

THE PILGRIM'S VISION.-Oliver Wendell HOLMES

I saw in the naked forest

Our scattered remnant cast-
A screen of shivering branches
Between them and the blast;
The snow was falling round them,
The dying fell as fast:

I looked to see them perish,
When lo! the vision passed.

Again mine eyes were opened—

The feeble had waxed strong;
The babes had grown to sturdy men,
The remnant was a throng.

By shadowed lake and winding stream,
Aud all the shores along,

The howling demons quaked to hear
The Christian's godly song.

They slept the village fathers

By river, lake, and shore,

When far adown the steep of Time

The vision rose once more:

I saw along the winter snow
A spectral column pour;

And high above their broken ranks
A tattered flag they bore.

Their Leader rode before them,
Of bearing calm and high,
The light of Heaven's own kindling
Throned in his awful eye:
These were a Nation's champions
Her dread appeal to try;
"God for the right!" I faltered,
And lo! the train passed by.

Once more; the strife was ended,
The solemn issue tried;
The Lord of Hosts, his mighty arm
Had helped our Israel's side:
Gray stone and grassy hillock,
Told where her martyrs died;
And peace was in the borders
Of victory's chosen bride.

A crash..as when some swollen cloud
Cracks o'er the tangled trees!
With side to side, and spar to spar,
Whose smoking decks are these?

I know Saint George's blood-red cross,
Thou Mistress of the Seas;

But what is she, whose streaming bars
Roll out before the breeze?

Ah! well her iron ribs are knit,
Whose thunders strive to quell
The bellowing throats, the blazing lips
That pealed the Armada's knell!
The mist was cleared, a wreath of stars
Rose o'er the crimsoned swell,
And wavering from its haughty peak,
The cross of England fell!

O, trembling Faith! though dark the morn,
A heavenly torch is thine;
While feebler races melt away,

And paler orbs decline,

Still shall the fiery pillar's ray

Along thy pathway shine,

To light the chosen tribe that sought
This Western Palestine!

I see the living tide roll on,

It crowns with flaming towers
The icy capes of Labrador,

The Spaniard's "land of flowers;"
It streams beyond the splintered ridge
That parts the Northern showers-
From eastern rock to sunset wave
The Continent is ours!

The weary pilgrim slumbers,

His resting-place unknown;

His hands were crossed, his lids were closed, The dust was o'er him strown:

The drifting soil, the mouldering leaf,

Along the sod were blown;

His mound has melted into earth-
His memory lives alone.