I've mended his mittens for him-why, who is this creeping in? Why it's surely my own white kitten, so tired and grimed and thin! And now we will keep Thanksgiving, Dolly and kitty and I; I'll go to church in the morning; I'm so glad I'm afraid I'll cry. O kitty! my lost, lost treasure, you have found your own way back, And now I'll forget my troubles, and be friends again with Jack. Margaret E. Sangster. THE GRAVEYARD OF THE AGES. The nineteenth century is the heir of all the ages; our inheritance the riches of every century; our legacy the fruits of every cycle. Thoughts are the pioneers of civilization. Empires that rise, and institutions that rule are but the lengthened shadows of individual minds walking before the sun of immortal glory. American progress is the result of the evolution of six thousand years-the last and golden link in the chain of cause and effect, whose outer ends bind us fast to creation's throue. The framework of our country is built from the ruins of a dozen empires. The fabric of our society is woven from the scattered threads of the experience of six hundred centennials. Well may we prostrate ourselves before the goddess of liberty. Well may we bow in adoratio.. at the altar of Columbia-"Queen of the world, and child of the skies," for every gem that sparkles on her brow was once enshrined in the diadem of Minerva or sparkled on the bosom of Clio. Man is a creature of contradictions. Life and death lock arms in love. In every human breast two opposite desires are striving for mastery. Hope, gay goddess of the future, stands beside restless ambition pointing to the golden future of the west and the possibilities of life. Memory, clothed in sable robes, silently sits beside some new-made grave, dreaming of the days that are gone. The Graveyard of the Ages! 'Tis the Niobe of nations; the Arcana of time; the Delphi of the world; the sacred spot where secret sorrow mourns over the mistakes of life, and spirit meets spirit in sweet and solemn thought. Every age is a volume, written by time and dedicated to man. The centuries are its chapters, the seasons its pages. Its lines are traced with human blood; its leaves are stained with human tears. Every lesson the past has taught has cost a life, Every experiment is supplemented with sorrow. Every wreck upon the shoals of time is a lighthouse to some future sailor. The ruins of cities are the silent admonitions of death, the remains of nations— warning voices speaking from the grave. Tell me, thou reverend chronicler of the grave, can all the illusions of ambition be realized? Can the wealth of commerce secure to nations the permanence of its possession? Alas, Thebes thought so once, yet her hundred gates have crumbled. So thought the Athenians and the Spartans: yet the dust of Leonidas is trampled by the cringing slave. Though Phidias cut his name on the shield of Minerva, and Byron left his inscription on the shield of Apollo, millions of men, who were good and great, have gone back again into the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust, where scathing sorrow nor anxious care never more can break their peaceful sleep. Dreamer among the possibilities of life, do you ever grow weary waiting for fortune to lift you upon the pedestal of prominence? For untold ages the New World, impatient, lay hidden behind the veil creation dropped, till time proudly lifted the curtain, and the Old World gazed in silent awe upon her beauteous sister world. Do you ever grow tired of the dry routine of life? Every age teaches some new lesson, every season brings some new sorrow, every June some new joy. Age on age rolls silently away. Humanity lives and loves and dies. Yet Time-Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career-and pauses not, like other conquerors, to muse upon the fearful ruins he hath wrought." Soon our own loved land shall go to join the sisterhood of nations in the Graveyard of the Ages, America, where persecuted liberty found a peaceful home, and free institutions flourished unmolested! Oh, thou child of time! prodigy of the Ages! Bethlehem's Star of the West! loving lips breathe benisons on thy life, devoted hands wait ready to defend, and young ambition registers a solemn vow that thou shalt not be forgotten till memory's chain lies broken in the dust, and hearts no longer love.- Wilhelm. MRS. LEO HUNTER. One morning, Sam Weller handed Mr. Pickwick a card bearing the following inscription : MRS. LEO HUNTER. The Den, Eatonswill. "Person's a-waitin'," he said. "Does the person want me, Sam?" inquired Mr. Pickwick. "He wants you partickler, an' no one else'll do." "But this is a lady's card." "Given me by a gen'l'm'n, hows'ever, an' he's a-waitin' in the drawin'-room." Mr. Pickwick hastened to the drawing-room, where sat a grave man, who started up on his entrance, and said, with an air of profound respect, "Mr. Pickwick, I presume?" "The same." "Allow me, sir, the honor of grasping your handpermit me, sir, if you will, to shake it." "Certainly." 66 "We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your antiquarian discussion has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo Hunter--my wife, sir; I am Mr. Leo Hunter." The stranger paused, as if he expected that Mr. Pickwick would be overcome by the disclosure ; but, seeing that he remained perfectly calm, proceeded- My wife, sir, Mrs. Leo Hunter, is proud to number among her acquaintance all those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. Permit me, sir, to place in a conspicuous part of the list, the name of Mr. Pickwick and his brother members of the club that derives its name from him." "I shall be extremely happy to make the acquaintance of such a lady, sir." "You shall make it, sir. To-morrow morning, sir, we give a public breakfast-a fête champêtre-to a great number of those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. Permit Mrs. Leo Hunter, sir, to have the gratification of seeing you at the Den." "With great pleasure." "Mrs. Leo Hunter has many of these breakfasts, sir; 'feasts of reason,' sir, and flows of soul,' as some one who wrote a sonnet to Mrs. Leo Hunter feelingly and originally observed." "Was he celebrated for his works and talents?" "He was, sir; all Mrs. Leo Hunter's acquaintance are; it is her ambition, sir, to have no other acquaintance." "It is a very noble ambition." "When I inform Mrs. Leo Hunter that that remark fell from your lips, sir, she will, indeed, be proud. You have a gentleman in your train, I think, sir, who has produced some beautiful little poems." "My friend, Mr. Snodgrass, has a great taste for poetry." "So has Mrs. Leo Hunter, sir. She dotes on poetry. She adores it. I may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up and entwined with it. She has produced some delightful pieces herself, sir. You may have met with her Ode to an Expiring Frog.' I don't think I have." "You astonish me, sir; it created an immense sensation. It was signed with an 'L' and eight stars, and appeared in a lady's magazine. It com mences "Can I view thee panting, lying Expiring frog?' "Beautiful!" said Mr. Pickwick. "Fine," said Mr. Leo Hunter; "so simple!" "Very." The next verse is still more touching. Shall I repeat it?" "If you please." "Say, have fiends, in shapes of boys, With wild halloo and brutal noise, With a dog, 999 |