"HAPPY AS A KING.”

VERY one knows, or ought to know, the picture by Collins of the boy swinging on a gate, "Happy as a King."

Tip-top! there he is, triumphant! with just enough uncertainty as to keeping his balance to give a piquancy to his enjoyment and make it perfect. He was hungry before he mounted; hungry he always is; he will be hungry when he gets down and back again into ordinary life; but is he hungry now? at least, does he remember that he is? Not he! his cares, his sorrows, his troubles, such as they are, are kicked off with his shoes. The breeze that flutters his rags exhila

rates him; the easy movement of the swinging gate is luxury untold. Happy for him that there are many gates and many summer days before him, where he may again and again revel in that luxury, as perfect as it is cheap.

But "the king of the company" is not the only one of the group (and a beautiful group it is) that claims our notice. it is) that claims our notice. Yes, it is a beautiful group: it makes one's heart go out to the children of the poor. Not in pity who would think of pitying any here but the unfortunate Tommy, who has measured his short length on the ground in following up the game, and proves how nearly grief and joy are allied in all human things? No, not in pity, but affection. Do you ask what is there to love? I will tell you.

There is generosity there, free and fresh as the pure breeze that you almost feel as you look at the picture. There is the generosity of admiration—a sister exulting in a brother's prowess. She will swing by his side; she will join in his joy, but not in his glory. Her little face is upturned to him, and shows that her cup of pleasure is full of his achievements. Yes, and there is the unselfish help of him who swings the gate,

content to be the instrument of delight to others, though it must in fairness be hinted that there has probably been a previous arrangement that he shall mount and be swung in his turn.

And there is the brimful placidity and dreamy bliss, which we liken to "peaceful rivers flowing mid flowery meads," up there by the hinges. He climb? Didn't he come down on his nose last time? Doesn't he prefer most things to a thump? And isn't he swinging as pleasantly there, twined in and out of the bars, without any risk? He prefers safety to glory. He is a discreet boy. He will never make one in a forlorn hope, never set the Thames on fire, never have books written about him. He will never be a Whittington nor a Stephenson, nor anybody at all, but will let himself be pushed on till he arrives at the work and wages of a day-labourer. With the wages he will make himself as comfortable as he can with the work he will spare himself as much as he can; and his pleasantest days will be his easiest, when he gets the most satisfaction with the least trouble. The dog, who is doubtless a foster-brother of the company, does not look at him: oh, no; his eyes are fixed in fierce delight on the captain. He is barking out his heart's admiration every : hair is alive with sympathy.

Perhaps you don't know that a gate like this is the vagabond child's inheritance, his ball-room, his pleasure-ground, and his hall of commerce too. Take away the gates, why, what would become of the Jacks and Jills who claim them as their own? Give the rich their assembly-rooms, and their archery-grounds, and their croquet-walks. Jack and Jill care nothing for these; but leave them their gates.

Serious boy-business is transacted at gates; that is, at by-road rustic gates. Does a traveller bump along in his chaise, wondering whether the springs will last till he gets on the turnpike-road, and come at last to such a gate as that in the picture? Well, on the instant, from three to six urchins will spring out of the hedge, or out of the ground, rather than not at all. Have they not scented the prey? and are they not there, ready for the halfpenny that doesn't always come? Of course they are; and when the liberal spirit of the traveller goes no further than a promise to "give something next time," which he has no intention shall ever come, they generously believe him, and look upon it as property in reversion, Happy ignorance! happy childhood! Yes, free, untrammelled childhood has seasons of happiness in which hunger, its greatest grief, is forgotten. What is happiness? We are not going to discuss that large question. Where is it? Well, that question is more easily raised than settled; but you may know where it is not. It is not where care corrodes care that