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around for her false teeth that had slipped out of her mouth in the confusion.
“She must certainly be drunk," soliloquized Mumford, watching her actions with amazement.
“If I was a man I'd skin you alive for this, you wretch !* she shouted, when she had got her teeth back, her bonnet on, and her bustle propped up.
“Drunk, and a lunatic both. What ’ve I got to do with her slamming herself arou.nd on the sidewalk, I'd like to know ?” he asked himself, as he watched her fading away in the darkness with her flattened boy in tow.
A few moments later, as he was flattening his nose against the window-pane, a pair of lovers came tripping along.
“And, Amy, love,” said the gentleman, “I can hardly realize that soon you are to be my own little darling duckseySuffering alligator!” he shrieked, as his legs opened like a pair of compasses, and he struck the sidewalk with a jar that loosened his back teeth, lifted his scalp an inch or two, cooled his love, ripped his pantaloons, started his eyes full of tears, and made him regret bitterly that he'd forgotten so much of his boyhood's profanity.
"O Fred !” exclaimed his fiance, trying to lift him up by his paper collar, and the next instant his charmer's feet slipped on the ice, and after swaying to and fro violently for a moment, she attempted to turn a back somersault which her lover did not look upon as a success, owing probably to the fact of her kicking him in the ear as she went over him, with more of the force of a yellow mule or a dynamite cartridge, than that of the cardinal-stockinged idol of his heart.
They got up, glanced sheepishly around to see if any one had noticed them, tried to coax up a sickly smile, and limped away trying to look as if they didn't want to rub themselves.
Hang it all! why don't you sprinkle some ashes on that ice?”' called out a grocer, who had skated off into the gutter, and mashed two dozen eggs, the back of his head, and : bottle of olive oil, in falling.
“Oh! there 's ice there; so that accounts for the gymnastics,” said Mumford, filling a scuttle with hot coals and ashes, and hurrying out.
Some of the neighbors, who happened to be looking out of their front windows about this time, have said since that
it was grand and awe-inspiring to see Mumford, after remaining for a second on the back of his neck, pointing at the twinkling stars with his heels, and emptying his pockets out on to the walk, suddenly collapse into a tangled, scorched and bruised heap, and fill the air with shrieks and more sparks than a firework explosion would make.
A policeman helped his wife and the cook carry him into the house, and he has informed the doctor who is attending him, that as soon as he can cultivate enough skin to cover the burned places, he's going to move to a climate where it don't freeze once in a billion years. His wife thinks she has read of such a place in the Bible.
The evening was glorious, and light through the trees
'Twas the presence of God in a symbol sublime,
THE CIRCUS CLOWN.-Nathan D. URNER.
With his painted face, and his coxcomb crest,
, cracked voice, for his nightly dues-
That make the little ones roar again,
From laugh to laugh, and devoid of pain.
To the dim tent corner he swiftly seeks,
For a respite brief. Lo! his painted cheeks
The hollow groan from his breast ascends,
As there by a pallet, whereon appears
The wasted form of his wife, he bends.
To choke the sobs from her dying ear;
Unroll their length like a desert sere.
She presses in token of love and pride,
As the roar comes in from the ring outside!
Calls forth those plaudits that once were hers,
Hath dragged her down with its subtle curse?
Her hand grows icy, the pulse flies fast,
At its last wild flicker: 'tis out at last!
The sobs burst forth-he would voice his grief;
His cue is on-there is no relief!
With the cap and bells, in the cirque's expanse;
Quip, joke, and jest for their laughter glance.
In the world's arena, whose heavy task
By the jester's garb, as a laughing mask ?
Ill would it fare with us, rich or poor,
The cares and troubles, that most endure.
THE CORONATION-PAGEANT OF ANNE BOLEYN.
J. A. FROUDE. Glorious as the spectacle was, perhaps, however it passed unheeded. Those eyes were watching all for another object, which now drew near. In an open space behind the con. stable there was seen approaching "a white chariot,” drawn by two palfreys in white damask which swept the ground,
As if the flesh which walled about her life
a golden canopy borne above it making music with silver bells: and in the chariot sat the observed of all observers, the beautiful occasion of all this glittering homage; fortune's plaything of the hour, the Queen of England--queen at last !-borne along upon the waves of this sea of glory, breathing the perfumed incense of greatness which she had risked her fair name, her delicacy, her honor, her self-respect, to win; and she had won it.
There she sat, dressed in white tissue robes, her fair hair flowing loose over her shoulders, ard her temples circled with a light coronet of gold and diamonds-most beautifulloveliest-most favored, perhaps, as she seemed at that hour, of all England's daughters. Alas!“ within the hollow round of that coronet
“Kept Death his court, and there the antick sate
Bored thro' her castle walls; and farewell, Queen!" Fatal gift of greatness! so dangerous ever! so more than dangerous in those tremendous times when the fountains are broken loose of the great deeps of thought, and nations are in the throes of revolution; when ancient order and law and traditions are splitting in the social earthquake; and as the opposing forces wrestle to and fro, those unhappy ones who stand out above the crowd become the symbols of the struggle, and fall the victims of its alternating fortunes. And what if into an ur.steady heart and brain, intoxicated with splendor, the outward chaos should find its way, converting the poor silly soul into an image of the same confusion--if conscience should be deposed from her high place, and the Pandora box be broken loose of passions and sensualities and follies; and at length there be nothing left of all which man or woman ought to value, save hope of God's forgiveness.
Three short years have yet to pass, and again, on a summer morning, Queen Anne Boleyn will leave the Tower of London-not radiant then with beauty on a gay errand of coronation, but a poor, wandering ghost, on a sad, tragic errand, from which she will never more return, passing away out of an earth where she may stay no longer, into a pres