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losing our vital sensation, which requires 
the assistance of the tenderest organs. 
As to what lies beyond the grave,—that is 
a question into which it is not our province 
to enter. Yet shall our pen ever be used 
to direct unceasing attention to that very 
serious thought ; for it shall speak of created 
things which have a voice far more powerful 
than that of silly, idle conjecture. 
_ Every THING IN NATURE HAS A VOICE 
—if we could but submit to listen to it. 
OUR PRIDE is the stumblingblock ! 
AN INVITATION. 
BY HELEN HETHERINGTON. 

Oh, Julie! you cannot imagine 
How truly I love you, my dear; 
Do get your mamma’s kind permission 
To spend a few weeks with us here. 
The country is brilliant,—enchanting ; 
Sweet melody dwells in the breeze ; 
And fruit in its richness and beauty 
Peeps out from the leaves of the trees. 
On Tuesday we had an excursion 
(A nice pic-nic party, you know), 
To the Park—and we dined on the turf, 
Where those splendid chesnut trees grow. 

The day was replete with enjoyment ; 
Light breezes swept over the plain,— 
The sweet voice of melody blended 
With Joy’s light vociferous strain. 
Refreshments were of the first order, 
And served up with excellent taste ; 
A smile of approval was welcomed 
Where wine, fruit, and sweetmeats were 
placed. 
The pleasure that beamed on all present 
Was greater than words can express ; 
And the day passed in social enjoyment, 
Unsullied by noise or excess. 
Leave the dark, smoky town to the victims 
Of fashion, oppression, and care ; 
Together we'll revel in pleasures 
That God has made spotless and fair. 
The lark shall awake us to join him 
In songs of thanksgiving and praise ; 
The caim soothing breeze of the ev’ning 
Shall waft us the happiest lays. 
The garden is teeming with treasures 
Of ev’ry bright color and hue, 
Such roses! do come, dearest Julie, 
And I will still love them with you. 
I want your kind friendship to soothe me, 
Your smile to enhance every joy ; 
Your sweet voice from care to relieve me, 
And Hope’s kind endearments employ. 
Oh, say, then, you will not refuse me, 
Do come! and together we’ll rove 
Where lilies and roses are breathing 
A FRAGRANCE ON THOSE THAT WE LOVE. 

KIDD’'S OWN JOURNAL. 
A VILLAGE TEA-PARTY. 
The following little episode is from the 
pen of Mrs. Gaskell, author of “ Mary Bar- 
ton.”’ It is full of genuine humor, and 
comes home to every one’s bosom. A more 
true picture of the realities of life was never 
painted. Miss Barker the mistress, and 
Peggv the maid, we have all seen. Is not 
Mrs. Jamieson, too, hit off to the very life? 
But let the curtain draw up at once, and the 
performance commence. 
Yes, Miss Betty Barker was a proud and happy 
woman! She stirred the fire, and shut the door, 
and sat as near to it as she could, quite on the 
edge of her chair. When Peggy came in, trotting 
under the weight of the tea-tray, I noticed that 
Miss Barker was sadly afraid lest Peggy should 
not keep her distance sufficiently. She and her 
mistress were on very familiar terms in their 
every-day intercourse, and Peggy wanted now to 
make several little confidences to her, which Miss 
Barker was on thorns to hear; but which she 
thought it her duty, asa lady, to repress. So 
she turned away from all Peggy’s asides and 
signs ; but she made one or two very mal-apro- 
pos answers to what was said; and at last, seized 
with a bright idea, she exclaimed, ‘Poor sweet 
Carlo! I’m forgetting him. Come down stairs 
with me, poor ittie doggie, and it shall have its 
tea, it shall!” 
In a few minutes she returned, bland and 
benignant as before; but I thought she had 
forgotten to give the “ poor ittie doggie” any- 
thing to eat ; judging by the avidity with which 
he swallowed down chance pieces of cake. The 
tea-tray was abundantly loaded. I was pleased 
to see it, I was so hungry; but I was afraid the 
ladies present might think it vulgarly heaped up. 
I know they would have done so at their own 
houses; but somehow the heaps disappeared here. 
I saw Mrs. Jamieson eating seed-cake, slowly 
and considerately, as she did everything; and I 
was rather surprised, for I knew she had told us, 
on the occasion of her last party, that she never 
had it in her house—it reminded her so much of 
scented soap. She always gave us Savoy 
biscuits. However, Mrs. Jamieson was kindly 
indulgent to Miss Barker’s want of knowledge of 
the customs of high life; and, to spare her feel- 
ings, ate three large pieces of seed-cake, with a 
placid, ruminating expression of countenance—not 
unlike a cow’s. 
After tea there was some little demur and diffi- 
culty. We were six in number; four could play 
at Preference, and for the other two there was 
Cribbage. But all, except myself—(1 was rather 
afraid of the Cranford ladies at cards, for it was 
the most earnest and serious business they ever 
engaged in)—were anxious to be of the ‘‘ pool.” 
Even Miss Barker, while declaring she did not 
know Spadille from Manille, was evidently 
hankering to take a hand. The dilemma was 
soon put an end to by a singular kind of noise. 
If a Baron’s daughtexin-law could ever be sup- 
posed to snore, I should have said Mrs. Jamieson 
did so then; for, overcome by the heat of the 
room, and inclined to doze by nature, the tempta- 
tion of that very comfortable arm-chair had been 


