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." "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.' 66 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.' 66 6 Say, have fiends, in shapes of boys, With a dog, Expiring frog?'" "Finely expressed," said Mr. Pickwick. "All point, sir, all point; but you shall hear Mrs. Leo Hunter repeat it. She can do justice to it, sir.” Charles Dickens. THE ELF-CHILD. Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board an' keep; An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the gobble-uns 'at gits you ef you don't watch out! Onct they was a little boy, wouldn't say his pray❜rs An' when he went to bed at night, away upstairs, His mamma heerd him holler, an' his daddy heerd him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down he wasn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubbyhole an' press, An' seeked him up the chimney-flue, an' everywheres, I guess, But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout! An' the gobble-uns 'll git you ef you don't watch out! An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one an' all her blood-an-kin, An' onct, when there "was company," an' ole folks was there. She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turnt to run an' hide, They was two great, big, Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! An' the gobble-uns 'll git you ef you don't watch out! An' little Orphant Annie says when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp wick sputters, an' the wind goes Woo-00! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin' bugs in dew is all squenched away— You better mind your parents, an' your teachers, fond an' dear, An' cherish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the po' an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the gobble-uns 'll git you ef you don't watch out! James Whitcomb Riley. By permission of the Bowen-Merrill Pub. Co., Indianapolis. MACBETH AND THE DAGGER. Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?・ ・ ・ ・ Come, let me clutch thee; I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. . . Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible |