What are the angels seeking for

Through the world in the darksome night?
A treasure that earth has stolen away,
And hidden 'midst flowers for many a day,

Hidden through sunshine, through storm, through blight,
Till it wasted and grew to a form so slight
And worn, that scarce in the features white
Could one trace likeness to gladsome Nell.
But the angels knew her, as there she lay,
All quietly sleeping, and bore her away,
Up to the city, jasper-walled-

Up to the city with golden street-
Up to the city, like crystal clear,

Where the pure and sinless meet;

And through costly pearl-gates that opened wide,
They bore the treasure earth tried to hide.
And weeping mortals listened with awe
To the silver echo that smote the skies,

As "Found!" rang forth from Paradise.

MARK TWAIN ON THE WEATHER.-S. L. CLEMENS.

At a New England dinner in New York, Mark Twain delivered the following speech, amidst frequent interruptions—of laughter and applause.

THE OLDEST INHABITANT THE WEATHER.

Who hath lost and doth forget it?
Who hath it still and doth regret it?
"Interpose betwixt us Twain."
---Merchant of Venice.

I reverently believe that the Maker who made us all makes everything in New England but the weather. I don't know who makes that, but I think it must be raw apprentices in the Weather Clerk's factory, who experiment and learn how in New England, for board and clothes, and then are promoted to make weather for countries that require a good article and will take their custom elsewhere if they don't get it.

There is a sumptuous variety about the New England weather that compels the stranger's admiration—and regret. The weather is always doing something there, always attending strictly to business, always getting up new designs and trying them on the people to see how they will go. But it

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gets through more business in the spring than in any other season. In the spring I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside of four and twenty hours. It was I that made the fame and fortune of that man that had that marvellous collection of weather on exhibition at the Centennial that so astounded the foreigners. He was going to travel all over the world and get specimens from all climes. I said, "Don't you do it; you come to New England on a favorable spring day." I told him what we could do in the way of style, variety, and quantity. Well, he came, and he made his collection in four days. As to variety; why, he confessed he got hundreds of kinds of weather that he had never heard of before. And as to quantity; well, after ho had picked out and discarded all that were blemished in any way, he not only had weather enough, but weather to spare; weather to hire out; weather to sell; weather to deposit; weather to invest; weather to give to the poor.

The people of New England are by nature patient and forbearing; but there are some things that they will not stand. Every year they kill a lot of poets for writing about "Beautiful Spring." These are generally casual visitors, who bring their notions of spring from somewhere else, and cannot, of course, know how the natives feel about spring. And so, the first thing they know, the opportunity to inquire how they feel has permanently gone by.

Old Probabilities has a mighty reputation for accurate prophecy, and thoroughly well deserves it. You take up the papers and observe how crisply and confidently he checks off what to-day's weather is going to be on the Pacific, down South, in the Middle States, in the Wisconsin region, see him sail along in the joy and pride of his power till he gets to New England, and then see his tail drop. He doesn't know what the weather is to be in New England. He can't any more tell than he can tell how many Presidents of the United States there are going to be. Well, he mulls over it,and by and by he gets out something about like this: "Probable northeast to southwest winds, varying to the southward and westward and eastward and points between; high and low barometer, sweeping around from place to place; probable areas of rain, snow, hail, and drought, succeeded or preceded

by earthquakes, with thunder and lightning." Then he jots down this postscript from his wandering mind to cover accidents: "But it is possible that the programme may be wholly changed in the meantime."

Yes, one of the brightest gems in the New England weather is the dazzling uncertainty of it. There is only one thing certain about it, you are certain there is going to be plenty of weather. A perfect grand review; but you never can tell which end of the procession is going to move first. You fix up for the drought; you leave your umbrella in the house and sally out with your sprinkling-pot, and ten to one you get drowned. You make up your mind that the earthquake is due; you stand from under and take hold of something to steady yourself, and the first thing you know you get struck by lightning. These are great disappointments; but they can't be helped. The lightning there is peculiar; it is so convincing when it strikes a thing it doesn't leave enough of that behind for you to tell whether-well, you'd think it was something valuable, and a Congressman had been there. And the thunder. When the thunder commences merely to tune up, and scrape and saw and key up the instruments for the performance, strangers say, "Why, what awful thunder you have here!" But when the baton is raised and the real concert begins, you'll find that stranger down in the cellar, with his head in the ash barrel.

Now as to the size of the weather in New England-lengthways I mean. It is utterly disproportionate to the size of that little country. Half the time when it is packed as full as it can stick, you will see that New England weather sticking out beyond the edges and projecting around hundreds and hundreds of miles over the neighboring States. She can't hold a tenth part of her weather. You can see cracks all about, where she has strained herself trying to do it.

I could speak volumes about the inhuman perversity of the New England weather, but I will give but a single specimen. I like to hear rain on a tin roof, so I covered part of my roof with tin, with an eye to that luxury. Well, sir, do you think it ever rains on the tin? No, sir; skips it every time. Mind, in the speech, I have been trying merely to do honor to the New England weather; no language could do it

justice. But after all there are at least one or two things about that weather, (or, if you please, effects produced by it) which we residents would not like to part with. If we had not our bewitching autumn foliage, we should still have to credit the weather with one feature which compensates for all its bullying vagaries-the ice storm-when a leafless tree is clothed with ice from the bottom to the top-ice that is as bright and clear as crystal; every bough and twig is strung with ice-beads, frozen dew-drops, and the whole tree sparkles, cold and white like the Shah of Persia's diamond plume. Then the wind waves the branches and the sun comes out and turns all those myriads of beads and drops to prisms, that glow and hum and flash with all manner of colored fires, which change and change again with inconceivable rapidity, from blue to red, from red to green, and green to gold; the tree becomes a sparkling fountain, a very explosion of dazzling jewels, and it stands there the acme, the climax, the supremest possibility in art or nature of bewildering, intoxicating, intolerable magnificence! One cannot make the words too strong.

Month after month I lay up hate and grudge against the New England weather; but when the ice storm comes at last, I say, "There, I forgive you now; the books are square between us; you don't owe me a cent; go and sin no more; your little faults and foibles count for nothing; you are the most enchanting weather in the world.

BERNARDO'S REVENGE.

What tents gleam on the green hill-side, like snow in the sunny beam?

What gloomy warriors gather there, like a surly mountain stream?

These, for Bernardo's vengeance, have come like a stormy blast,

The rage of their long cherished hate on a cruel king to cast. "Smiters of tyranny!" cries their chief, "see yonder slavish

host,

We shall drench the field with their craven blood, or freedom's hopes are lost;

You know I come for a father's death, my filial vow to pay, Then let the 'Murdered Sancho!' be your battle cry to-day.

On, on! for the death of the tyrant king!" "Hurrah!" was the answering cry;

"We follow thee to victory, or follow thee to die!"

The battle-field-the charge-the shock-the quivering struggle now—

The rout-the shout!-while lightnings flash from Bernardo's angry brow.

The chieftain's arm has need of rest, his brand drips red with gore,

But one last sacrifice remains ere his work of toil is o'er. The king, who looked for victory, from his large and welltrained host,

Now flies for safety from the field, where all his hopes are lost;

But full in front, with blood-red sword, a warrior appears, And the war-cry, “Murdered Sancho!” rings in the tyrant's

ears.

"Ha! noble king, have we met at last?" with scornful lip he cries;

"Don Sancho's son would speak with you once more before he dies;

Your kindness to my sainted sire is graven on my heart, And I would show my gratitude once more before we part. Draw! for the last of Sancho's race is ready for your sword;Bernardo's blood should flow by him by whom his sire's was poured!

What wait you for, vile, craven wretch? it was not thus you stood

When laying out your fiendish plans to spill my father's blood.

Draw! for I will not learn from you the assassin's coward trade,

I scorn the lesson you have taught-unsheathe your murderous blade!"

Roused by Bernardo's fiery taunts, the king at length engaged:

He fought for life, but all in vain; unequal strife he waged! Bernardo's sword has pierced his side-the tyrant's reign is

o'er

"Father I have fulfilled my vow, I thirst for blood no more."

A TRAPPER'S STORY.-CHARLES F. ADAMS.

"Twas a moonlight night, the trapper began,
As we lay by the bright camp fire,—
Come, fill up your pipes, and pile on the brands,
And draw a little nigher,—