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I might say that I hardly had turned myself round,
When the doctor came into the room with a bound.
He was spattered with mud from his hat to his boots,
And the clothes he had ou seemed the drollest of suits;
In his haste he'd put all quite awry on his back,
And he looked like John Falstaff half fuddled with sack.
His eyes, how they twinkled! Had the doctor got merry ?
His cheeks looked like Port and his breath smelt of Sherry;
He hadn't been shaved for a fortnight or so,
And the beard on his chin wasn't white as the snow.
But, inspecting their tongues, in despite of their teeth,
And drawing his watch from his waistcoat beneath,
He felt of each pulse, saying, “ each little belly
Must get rid”-here he laughed—“of the rest of that jelly."
I gazed on each plump, chubby, sick little elf,
And groaned when he said so, in spite of myself.
But a wink of his eye, as he physicked dear Fred,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He didu't prescribe--but went straightway to work
And dosed all the rest-gave his trousers a jerk,
And adding directions while blowing his nose,
He buttoned his coat, from his chair he arose,
Then jumped in his gig, gave old Jalap a whistle,
And Jalap dashed off as if pricked by a thistle.
But the doctor exclaimed, ere he drove out of sight.
They'll be well by to-morrow-good night, Jones, good

night!"

THE OLD STORY.-ALICE CARY.

The waiting women wait at her feet,

And the day is fading into the night,
And close at her pillow, and round and sweet,

The red rose burns like a lamp alight,
And under and over the gray mists fold;

And down and down from the mossy eaves,
And down from the sycamore's long wild leaves
The slow rain droppeth so cold, so cold.
Ah! never had sleeper a sleep so fair;

And the waiting women that weep around,
Have taken the combs from her golden hair,

And it slideth over her face to the ground.
They have hidden the light from her lovely eyes;-

And down from the eaves where the mosses grow

The rain is dripping so slow, so slow,
And the night wind cries and cries and cries.

From her hand they have taken the shining ring,

They have brought the linen her shroud to make: Oh, the lark she was never so loath to sing,

And the morn she was never so loath to awake! And at their sewing they hear the rain,

Drip-drop, drip-drop over the eaves,

And drip-drop over the sycamore leaves, As if there would never be sunshine again. The mourning train to the grave have gone,

And the waiting women are here and are there, With birds at the windows, and gleams of the sun,

Making the chamber of death to be fair. And under and over the mist unlaps,

And ruby and amethyst burn through the gray,

And driest bushes grow green with spray, And the dimpled water its glad hands claps. The leaves of the sycamore darce and wave,

And the mourners put off the mourning shor's; And over the pathway down to the grave

The long grass blows and blows and blows, And every drip-drop rounds to a flower,

And love in the heart of the young man springs,

And the hands of the maidens shine with rings, As if all life were a festival hour.

QUESTIONS.-HENRY S. KENT.

Who shall lead a brother duly

By the light?
Who shall teach another truly

What is right?
Who our night of error turneth

Into day?
In whose lamp is oil that burneth

Clear away?
Who is priest of God's anointing

Richly blessed,
Raised by his divine appointing

O'er the rest?
Whose extended vision reaches

Through the spheres ?
Whose unerring wisdom teaches

All the years?
Who of ancient seers or sages

Found such dust
As these searching acid ages

May not rust?

To whose sacred trust is given

The saving faith
Without which each mortal living

Dies the death ?
Can the way of life be spoken

By a word
And all ears receive the token

In accord ?
May the unerring word be written

In a book
And all seeking eyes be smitten

If they look?
No! my inmost soul makes answer

To my quest,
Right and wrong's perplexing riddle

Still is guessed.
No! I may not teach another

All of good;
Truth and error are but darkly

Understood.
Each may hold a little measure

of the light,
Each may give his little treasure

Labeled right;
But the eternal search remaineth

Ours to find
Loftier and still loftier Pisgahs

Of the mind.
Something from the ancient sowing

We may reap;
But the manna of the Hebrew

Will not keep.
Give us daily bread, O Father!

Fashioned so
To our growing needs, that ever

We shall grow.
Thou who lead'st thy yearning children

Toward the light,
Know'st their strength is in the climbing

Not the height.

AURELIA'S UNFORTUNATE YOUNG MAN.

MARK TWAIN (S. L. CLEMENS). The facts in the following case came to me by letter from a young lady who lives in the beautiful city of San José ; she is perfectly unknown to me, and simply signs herself " Aurelia Maria," which may possibly be a fictitious name. But no matter, the poor girl is almost heart-broken by the misfortunes she has undergone, and so confused by the conflicting counsels of misguided friends and insidious enemies, that she does not know what course to pursue in order to extricate herself from the web of difficulties in which she seems almost hopelessly involved. In this dilemma she turns to me for help, and supplicates for my guidance and instruction with a moving eloquence that would touch the heart of a statue. Hear her sad story:

She says that when she was sixteen years old she met and loved, with all the devotion of a passionate nature, a young man from New Jersey, named Williamson Breckinridge Caruthers, who was some six years her senior. They were engaged, with the free consent of their friends and relatives, and for a time it seemed as if their career was destined to be characterized by an immunity from sorrow beyond the usual lot of humanity. But at last the tide of fortune turned; young Caruthers became infected with small-pox of the most virulent type, and when he recovered from his illness, his face was pitted like a waffle-mold, and his comeliness gone forever. Aurelia thought to break off the engagement at first, but pity for her unfortunate lover caused her to postpone the marriage-day for a season, and give him another trial.

The very day before the wedding was to have taken place, Breckinridge, while absorbed in watching the flight of a balloon, walked into a well and fractured one of his legs, and it had to be taken off above the knee. Again Aurelia was moved to break the engagement, but again love triumphed, and she set the day forward and gave him another chance to reform.

And again misfortune overtook the unhappy youth. He lost one arm by the premature discharge of a Fourth-ofJuly cannon, and within three months he got the other pulled out by a carding machine. Aurelia's heart was almost crushed by these latter calamities. She could not but be deeply grieved to see her lover passing from her by piecemeal, feeling, as she did, that he could not last forever under this disastrous process of reduction, yet knowing of no way to stop its dreadful career; and in her tearful despair she almost regretted, like brokers who hold or and lose, that she had not taken him at first, before he had suffered such an alarming depreciation. Still her brave sou? bore her up, and she resolved to bear with her friend's unnatural disposition yet a little longer.

Again the wedding day approached, and again disappointment overshadowed it; Caruthers fell ill with the erysipelas, and lost the use of one of his eyes entirely. The friends and relatives of the bride, considering that she had already put up with more than could reasonably be expected of her, now came forward and insisted that the match should be broken off; but afte, wavering awhile, Aurelia, with a generous spirit that did her credit, said she had reflected calmly upon the matter, and could not discover that Breckinridge was to blame.

So she extended the time once more, and he broke his other leg.

It was a sad day for the poor girl when she saw the surgeons reverently bearing away the sack whose uses she had learnt by previous experience, and her heart told her the bitter truth that some more of her lover was gone. She felt that the field of her affections was growing more and more circumscribed every day, but once more she frowned down her relatives and renewed her betrothal.

Shortly before the time set for the nuptials another disaster occurred. There was but one man scalped by the Owens River Indians last year. That man was Williamson Breckinridge Caruthers, of New Jersey. He was hurrying home with happiness in his heart, when he lost his hair forever, and in that hour of bitterness he almost cursed the mistaken mercy that had spared his head.

At last Aurelia is in a serious perplexity as to what she ought to do. She still loves her Breckinridge, she writes, with true womanly feeling-she still loves what is left of him-but her parents are bitterly opposed to the match, because he has no property and is disabled from working, and she has not sufficient means to support both comfortably. “Now what should she do ?” she asks with painful and anxious solicitude,

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