ARTIST AND PEASANT.

"I wish, Mr. Painter, a picter—
A model o' beauty to me--
An' if ye can paint it like life, sir,
This stout bag of gold is yer fee.
The task will be naught, sure, for ye, sir:
A little brown hand full o' flowers;
Wild roses, an' ferns, an' field blossoms,
Thet grow in thet meader o' ours.
On course, we'd prefer the whole picter,
With eyes all aglow, an' her hair
Full o' sunbeams, thet lingered caressin',
'S if loth tu escape from their lair.
No artist could paint that, I'm sure, sir,
The face o' thet baby o' ours ;

So joyous she held up thet hand, sir,

Sayin', 'Papa, I've dot 'oo some f'owers!'
We thought, p'r'aps the hand an' the flowers-
So purty they looked thet June day—
A master might make 'like as life,' sir,
If so, I'm right willin' tu pay."

"I think, my good man, I can do it,
The little one bring for your quest;
One sitting, perhaps, will suffice me,
I'll do what I can-do my best.
And when she's before me, I'll try then,
Those eyes, and locks kissed by the sun;
Perchance, the sweet babe in her beauty
You'll find on the canvas when done."

"What! bring her 'round here? Why, I can't, sir! She lies with flowers clasped to her breastClasped loose, in that little dead hand, sir,

The way we have laid her to rest;

We thought p'r'aps ye might easy do it,
If told, or made plain to yer eye;

Well-a-day! there are things we would have, sir,
That money, though mighty, can't buy."

Fannie L. Fancher.

MARSE PHIL.

Well, well, you is Marse Phil's son-yo' favor 'm might'ly too;

We wuz like brothers, we wuz-me an' him;

You tried to fool d' ole nigger, but marster, 'twould n' do

Not ef you is done growed so tall an' slim.

Hi! Lord! I'se knowed you, honey, sence long befo' you born

I mean I'se knowed be fambly dat long;

An' dee's all white-folks, marster, dee hands white as young corn;

An' ef dee want to—could n' do no wrong.

You' gran'pa buyed my mammy at Gen'l Nelson's sale;

An' Deely she come out de same estate;

An' blood is jes like pra'r is, hit tain' gwine nuver fail-

Hit's sutney gwine to come out soon or late.

When I was born, you' gran'pa gi' me to young Marse Phil,

To be his body-servant like, you know;

An' we growed up togerr, like two stalks in one hill, Bofe tasslin' an' den shootin' in de row.

Marse Phil was born in harves', an' I dat Christmascome,

My mammy nussed bofe on we de same time; No matter what one got, suh, de urr one sho git

some,

We wuz two fibe-cent pieces in one dime.

We cotch ole hyahs togerr, an' 'possums, him an'

me;

We fished dat mill-pawn over night an' day, Rid horses to de water, treed coons up de same tree; An' when you see one, turr warn' fur away.

When Marse Phil went to college, 't wuz, "SamSam's got to go "--Ole marster say, "Dat boy's

a fool 'bout Sam."

Ole Mistis jest say, "Dear, Phil wants him." An', you know,

Dat Dear hit use to sooth' him like a lamb.

So we all went to college, way down to Williamsbuʼg,
But 'warn' much larnin' out o' books we got;
Dem urrs warn' no mo' to him 'n a' ole wormy lug—
Yes, suh, we wuz de ve'y top de pot.

An' ef he didn't study dem Latins an' sich things
He wuz de popularitest all de while;

De ladies use' to call him a'" angel widout wings,"
An' when he come I lay, dee use' to smile!

You see he wuz ole marster's on'y chile-besides,
He had a body-servant at he will;

An' wid dat big plantation dee'd all like to be brides,
Dat is, ef dee could have de groom Marse Phil.

'Twuz dyah he meet young mistis,--she is you' ma,

of co'se!

I disremembers now which mont' it wuz;

One night he come, an', says he, "Sam, I need new clo'es; "

An' I says, "Marse Phil, yes, suh, so you does."

Well, suh, he made dat tailor meck ev'ything bran'

new;

He would n' wear one stitch he had on

han' Jes th'owed 'em in de chip-box, an' says, " Sam, dem's

for you

Marse Phil, I tell you, wuz a gentleman!

So Marse Phil cotes de mistis, an' Sam he cotes de maid

We al'ays sot we traps upon one parf; [say'd, An' when ole marster hear we bofe was gwine, he "All right; we'll have to kill de fatted calf."

An' dat wuz what dee did, suh; de Prodigal was home ;

Dee put de ring an' robe upon you' ma;

Den you wuz born, young marster, an' den de storm hit come--

An' den de darkness settled from afar.

De storm hit comed, an' wrenchted de branches from de tree,

De war-you' pa-he's sleep dyah on de hill;

An' dough I know, young marster, de war hit sot me free,

I jes says, "Yes, but tell me whar's Marse Phil?" "A dollar"-thankee, marster, you sutney is his

son;

His ve'y spi't-an-image, I declar'!

What say, young marster? Yes, suh, you say, it's "fibe, not one."

You favors, honey, bofe you' Pa an' Ma!

Thomas Nelson Page.

A LITTLE MISTAKE.

St. Nicholas was resting

From his Christmas work at last,

The gifts had all been given,
The holidays were past;
And dozing in his arm-chair,
With his cat upon his knees,

The good Saint smoked his honest pipe,
And took his honest ease.
But something roused him quickly-
He started from his seat,

A soldier bold, a maiden fair.
Were kneeling at his feet
"St. Nicholas," the maiden cried,
"Behold my fearful plight!
These wounds have been inflicted
Since that dreadful. dreadful night.

When you left me in the stocking
Of a being I dare not name—”
She paused. The soldier raised his voice,
And said, "I blush, with shame
To stand before your saintship
In the dress you now behold,
But the way I have been treated
Makes my very blood run cold.

I've been nursed and kissed and coddled,
I've been rocked and sung to sleep,
Oh, were I not a soldier still,
I'd almost like to weep."

"Ah!" mused the good St. Nicholas,
"I think I understand,"

And he smiled a merry little smile,
And coughed behind his hand.
"'Twas on that busy Christmas eve
When all was in a whirl

This doll was given to a boy,
This soldier to a girl."

And then aloud he gravely said,
"I grieve to see your pain,
But if you stay with me a year
All shall be well again.
Next Christmas eve, my children,
When you are well and strong,
I will put you in the stockings
Where you really do belong."

"I wonder where my soldier is!" Cried gentle little Moll,

And Bobby gazing round him sobbed, "Where is my baby-doll?"

But though they hunted high and low,
And searched both far and near,

The maiden and the soldier bold
Were seen no more that year.

J. McDermott, in "Youth's Companion.”