You never saw children behave half so well
Why, nobody had any gossip to tell!

And (can you believe it?) for badness, that day,
No dolly was sent from the table away.

One dolly, however, the proudest one there,
Was driven almost to the verge of despair,
Because she had met with a simple mishap
And upset the butter-plate into her lap.

The cups and the saucers, they shone lily-white;
We helped all the dollies, they looked so polite,
We had cake and jam from our own pantry shelves;
Of course, we did most of the eating ourselves.

But housewives don't know when their cares may begin.

The window was opened and pussy popped in;
She jumped on the table; and what do you think?
Down fell all the crockery there in a wink.
We picked up the pieces with many a sigh;
Our party broke up and we all said good-bye;
Do come to our next one; but then we'll invite
That very bad pussy to keep out of sight.

THE VICTORY OF THE FROSTS.

One sweet September morn-so sweet a morn
As one might well believe was born in heaven,
I looked out from my window height, and saw
The silent, white encampment of the frosts,
Specking the green hill-side with many tints.
"There's war in that," I said; "such bold array
Means death to all fair, fragile, helpless things."

And so I shut my window with a sigh,
And thought of the dead summer's holy realm
That she had left as autumn's legacy;

And wondered if, amid his groaning vats,

Gorged with the vineyard's and the orchard's wealth,
He would be mindful of the sweet, frail things
That had been left his charge by the dead Queen.

I looked again, when in the clear, blue sky,
The brave strong sun rode in high state at noon,
And lo! of all that vast array, no tint

Lingered to mark the first alarm of war.

I said, "The frost king feared to meet the sun,
And so, at his approach, has fled away."

Next morn I looked again, and lo! again
The white tints glistened thickly, as before,
But when the sun approached, they all were gone.
So was it many morns; but, ah! one day
I looked out, and my heart sighed heavily,
For over all the landscape crimson stains
Told of the conflict and the victory;
And then I knew that in the silent night
The stealthy, cruel frosts had done their work.

Oh! it was pitiful and sad to see

The green crown of the ancient, kingly oak
All dabbled with the crimson stains of war,
While all around his feet lay, dead and pale,
The sweet things that he might not e'en protect,
Since he could not protect himself! I heard
Him sigh and whisper, oh! so mournfully,
To the fair maple growing at his side,

Dabbled, like him, with blood, save that her stains
Were brighter, because womanly hearts do give
Their richest life-tide, if it be required.
And she, the maple, lifted up her hands,
And touched his forehead with a soft caress.

That seemed at once to soothe and strengthen him,
And so his sigh grew gentle and more low.

So I went out and kissed the crimson stains
Upon the meek, fair maple, and I pressed

Her bleeding hands against my weary brow,
And said, "Baptize me with thy ebbing life,
That when the frosts of time slay all my bloom
I may be beautiful as thou art now,"

Then she spread out her hands above my head,
And murmured softly, like a mother praying,
And sprinkled crimson on my bended head,
And tore a fragment from her blood-dyed robe,
And gave it me, a dear remembrancer
Of how a queen can, uncomplaining, die.
Avanelle Holomes.

LOST IN THE SEA FOG.

The night was dark upon the sea, and chill.
The fog hung o'er the weary mariner,
As off New England's rocky shore;",

His frail barque tossed on the Atlantic wave.
No moon nor star looked down

To guide him o'er the trackless deep.

All, all was gloom!

The deep, dense fog hung o'er him

Like a midnight pall over a silent world

Or a sable shroud o'er the newly dead.

?

No sound, save the moaning of the distant thunder, The wild shriek of the ocean bird

Or the restless wave, dashing against the lonely barque.

The thought of home; of loved ones waiting there, Had nerved the father's arm.

His wife, his boy, his humble cottage

On the distant shore, were dear to him;
The thought renewed his strength
And desperately he plied the oar,

While despair and hope alternate rose,

For the Father's love burned pure as "the star of eve.'

And constant as the cynosure.
At last when exhausted, chilled,
The lost and stricken one,
Tossed on the midnight wave,

Fell upon his knees

And lifted up his voice in prayer.

"Oh God! thou who hearest the mourner's sigh, Thou, who reign'st supreme o'er all the world, Hear! oh, hear, my humble prayer!

Father thou knowest what I would ask of thee,
If I must perish here, be thou their prop and stay,
And let me calmly die.

Yet, oh Father, if it please thee

I would live, gladly live, for them;
But Thy will, not mine.'

"This way, my father!"

"Hush! hark! What voice was that?

It is no it cannot be-but that voice-" "This way, my father!"

"It is! it is my boy!

I hear him, high on that rocky cliff.

I come! I come! Thy father comes!
God bless my boy!'

Guided by that voice,

The father reached the shore

And found his noble boy

Chilled, prostrate on that rocky cliff,
Where, through the long, long weary night
He lay, sending out his clear sweet voice
O'er the darkened wave

To guide the wanderer home.

Enfolded in his father's arms,

The dying boy looked up,

And smiling through his tears, murmured low, "Father, I thought that you would come."

Gently the father bore to his cottage home
His little boy. Softly the shades of death
Settled upon that pallid brow,

Parents kneeled beside that lowly couch,
A father's tear was on his cheek,
And unseen angels hovering near

On snowy wings, bore away a mother's prayer
And a bright young spirit home to heaven.

And now when long, long years have passed
At the silent midnight hour,

An old man, with thin white locks
Is seen standing on that rocky cliff,
And he seems to hear an angel's voico
Calling from the pearly gates ajar,
"Come this way, my father,
Steer straight for me,
Here safely in heaven,
I'm waiting for thee."

THE CHARIOT RACE.

The circus at Antioch stood on the south bank of the river. At the beginning of the third hour, the audience was assembled.

Looking westward across the sanded arena, there is a pedestal of marble, supporting three low conical pillars of gray stone. Many an eye will be turned toward those pillars, before the day is done, for they are the first goal, and mark the beginning and end of the race course. Behind the pedestal, leaving a passage-way, commences a wall ten or twelve feet in breadth and five or six feet in height, extending thence two hundred yards. At the further extremity of the wall, there is another pedestal surmounted with pillars which mark the second goal. The racers will enter the course on the right of the first goal, and keep the wall all the time to their left.