Agnes looked at the Student. He spoke 
so warmly, his eyes were so clear and large, 
his voice so musical. This was the first 
time she had really looked attentively at 
him, and she no longer thought him ugly. 
His expression was so mild and serious; he 
had no longer that pedantic, selfish line 
round his mouth; she thought he looked 
nearly as young as herself, but yet she felt 
a good deal of respect for him. His manner, 
too, was so agreeable and sociable; much 
more so than those town dandies, who 
only stroked their mustaches. And yet she 
had spoken ill of him behind his back; she 
had pondered much over this during her 
solitary walks. But was this really the old 
Student?—could this really be the same, 
who used to walk along so gloomily, look¬ 
ing neither to the right nor left, and who 
seldom, spoke to any one? Was it only hla 
desire to know her better that made him so 
animated, or did he still think that she could 
become the canvas upon which he might 
paint the features of the woman of his 
dreams. Agnes said nothing, and the Stu¬ 
dent stood hesitating. 
“Yes;" he said at last, “i had intended 
going this way, but if you wish to do so, I 
will turn back at once.” 
“Oli, no,” answered Agnes, timidly; 
“ will you not accompany me?” 
“ Yes, willingly,” be said, astonished at 
her answer. “ But you must not complain 
if you repent of it.” 
They continued their walk a few moments 
without speaking. At last the Student said : 
“ Have you had news from town lately ?’’ 
“ Yes.” 
“ And your friends there are all well ?” 
“ Yes, thank you.” 
“ I am glad to hear it,” he answered; “ it 
is always pleasant to receive good news from 
those we like." 
“ He would, indeed, have been pleased to 
hear Mathilde’s last letter,” she thought, 
as her conscience pricked her. There was 
again a pause. 
“ Which way shall we go now ?” he said 
at length. 
“ I do not know—straight on, I think.” 
“ If you will allow me, I will take you to a 
most lovely scene—but you have doubtless 
seen it before.” 
“ If it is not too far,” remarked Agnes. 
“ Oh no, you can take my arm if you are 
tired; I wish to show you that the country 
has also its beauties. Have you ever trav¬ 
eled here in your native Norway ?” 
“ No, never,” 
“And yet, l daresay, quite as much as the 
most puIL of your neighbors, Is it. not, won¬ 
derful that people who can afford to travel, 
go to Italy, to China, anywhere, hut know 
little or nothing of their own country ? # And 
yet, to my thinking, no laud is so beautiful 
as Norway." 
“ Have you seen much of it ? ” asked 
Agnes. 
“ IV Yes. Ever since I was quite a boy, J 
have wiuudeit'd, with a knapsack on my 
shoulder, through Vuldcrs, llalliugdalen, 
Gudloroudsdafen. Bergeiislit't, and 1 never 
have felt so happy as when 1 went singing 
over t he bills, with all my cares left til home, 
new scenes before me, and new feelings in 
my breast. I think no food tasted so sweet 
as that which l ate in the brown heather. 
In foreign countries, there is much to be seen 
that is beautiful and pleasing, but little that 
is so imposing in grandeur as here iu Nor¬ 
way. Italy may enchant and charm, but 
Norway can awaken manly thoughts and 
powerful actions. Norway has Suren and 
llalliiigen.f Italy has Tumburina and Sal- 
tarella—” 
Agnes looked at him, and he continued. 
“ You wonder, perhaps, that. I, an old book¬ 
worm, cau talk thus; but to tell you the 
truth, sometimes iu the spring, when the 
warmth has thoroughly penetrated the air, I 
feel as though 1 must away to other scenes; 
this feeling sometimes nearly overcomes me, 
but then again 1 remember my books, and 
remain quietly at homo. Do you not think 
it extraordinary, this power which nature 
lias over us? iu the winter, when the earth 
is enveloped in its white mantle, we, loo, 
shrink Up into ourselves, buy Jumps and fire¬ 
wood, and make ourselves comfortable at 
home. As soon as spring arrives, and nature 
awakes, we also awaken to a new life ami 
warm, sunny feelings; our rooms then seem 
too small for us. when summer comes, ami 
everything appears iu its full glory, then the 
heart expands in grateful joy; and when 
again it. is autumn, aud the skies weep, and 
the earth utters its last wishes in Uie with¬ 
ered, fast-falling leaves, then the heart feels 
so strange, one becomes silent and thought¬ 
ful, and longs for, we know not what.” 
They stopped an instant, and looked round. 
“ We shall soon arrive,” he said; “it is up 
there, near that farm. Have you never been 
here before V” 
“ No, never 1” 
“ Then you see that you have left unseen 
much beauty quite within your reach, aud 
long for that which you cannot obtain.” 
They went up the hill, and the Student 
spread his cloak for Agnes to sit upon. 
" You must not be particular here, but. must 
lie contented with my cloak for a throne 
aud the earth for a footstool,” he said, alter 
again arranging it. Agnes thanked him, 
and sat down to gaze upon the lovely scene 
beneath them. The Student stood by her 
side. “ Well, what do you think of it ?” he 
added, after a few minutes. 
“ Yes, it is indeed beautiful—very beauti¬ 
ful,” she said, without taking her eyes from it. 
* How many Americans who go abroad have ever 
visited Niagara Kails, the Mammoth Cave and the 
\"semue valley?—or even the White Mountains or 
Rapids of the St. Lawrence?—[E ds. Rural. 
+ Dances among the peasants. 
“ That ridge of mountains, rising in the 
distance, looking so youdifully proud and 
strong; there that lower chain surrounding 
the valley, so calmly and securely, like 
gray-haired, experienced men ; the valley 
itself, with its meadows and farm houses 
lying at the foot of the mountain,as though 
it thought, 1 There is no danger so long as 
the mountain keeps guard/ Is not. this all 
lovely ? And then the Elf down there 1 
See how she dances over the stones, singing 
to herself; docs it not seem as though she 
were relating to us her life? Do you under¬ 
stand that story, Miss Agnes V” 
“I do not quite understand what you 
mean. Speak, and then 1 ant sure I shall 
understand you,” said Agnes. “ But 1 for¬ 
got you were standing; will you not sit?” 
He thanked her, and now they sat side by 
side on his cloak. 
“ 1 will tell you the story that the Elf 1ms 
so often murmured to me,” he said. “ Up 
there, iu the most snowy waste, where the 
icebergs rear their broad white backs and 
tlje muddy channels trickle forth,—there, 
where man seldom comes, aud where the 
trolls play together and throw avalanches, 
like snowballs, from the mountain’s top,— 
up there, where man feels himself so small 
and insignificant, that he creeps stealthily, 
like a frightened child, and wishes Jiimself 
back in Jiis valley;—that is the birthplace of 
the Elf. That is the powerful cradle in 
which she lias been rocked, and this the 
fresh air which has nurtured her from her 
temlereat infancy. 
“ But when spring comes, and the sun’s 
rays cause I he drops to trickle down from 
the old snow men's heads and beards, then 
the little elf becomes impatient; she will 
away and then not even these grim old ice 
men can keep her. One fine day she creeps 
cautiously out, and peeps first, down into the 
depth below. At first site does this very 
slowly, but soon throwing herself recklessly 
upon the shoulders of the stream, she dashes 
on with a rushing noise, making the ravine 
dance around her. She laughs gayly as she 
hurries on, whipping the little pebbles and 
the flowers which lie in her way. But soon 
she gets tired, and the way is more difficult. 
TbestOnes tear lier mantle and the hushes 
scratch her face, then she becomes afraid and 
complains, weeping, that she cannot go on. 
BuL on she mil, on she mmt, and so with 
hasty flight, over stock and stone and turf 
she goes. Bui more considerable hindrances 
present themselves, the end seems more and 
more distant, but suddenly she becomes 
calm; she stops, reposes and thinks. And 
now she no longer rushes over the stones 
with giddy speed, but flows onward, humbly 
and patiently, site no longer plays with the 
flowers and pushes, but purls calmly, and 
modestly begs to be allowed to flow on until 
she cornea to tbe wide fjord, !lienee to the 
endless ocean, here she expands, stretches 
out her arms towards Die waves and reposes 
upon her faithful friend’s breast. 
“ This is the story of the Elf, and it is also 
the story of Life. The beginning is strong 
and great, iu the world of fancy and legend ; 
then a thought awakes of something else, 
something uiiknow, and theuce the desire to 
come out! Then begins a career of enjoy¬ 
ment, of pleasure, until there conics a day 
when a contrary wind blows and the stones 
pain and the bushes tear. Then one gets 
afraid, and then obstinate, bitter or daring. 
But the road is long, and after much weeping 
the heart becomes softened, one wanders 
along with solitary steps, humbly and calm¬ 
ly, avoiding the stones, and only longing for 
repose in something great, something that 
can receive us entirely iu its strong arms. 
And then eternity opens, tiie abode of light, 
and one throws one’s soul upon God, where 
the only true repose is to be found." 
The Student spoke with warmth, and 
what he said came from his heart. Agnes 
listened, enchanted, to his description, and 
her eyes beamed with fire. Shu could not 
reply,—only sit motionless, as it listening 
still. 
The Student continued:—“ Have you not 
often listened to the voice of nature? You, 
who were born amidst forests and mountains, 
and have listened to their voices from your 
infancy.” 
“ I have always felt happy in nature,” 
answered Agnes,’ “ especially of a summer’s 
evening, when the sun sinks below the 
horizon, and the waves beat on the strand ; 
for the stories and legends 1 have read then 
appear so real. Indeed, it went so far, that 
in town they called me * sentimental,*" she 
added, smiling. 
“ Indeed,” answered the Student. 
“ We never had any opportunity of seeing 
such things there," she continued; “and 
besides, there were so many other tilings to 
see and think about; hut it seems now as 
though all these old feelings begin to re¬ 
awaken within me—now that I am alone 
again.” 
A tear stood in Aones’ eye as she said 
this, hut he did not notice it, for his eyes 
were bent on the ground and he listened to 
her in silence. 
“ It is very foolish of me to talk so to you,” 
she said, “for you cannot understand me; 
you have your books to talk to, but I have 
no one." 
“ Aud your friend MATini.DE — Is she no 
one?” lie asked, without loooking at her. 
"Yes, lint I hear from her only once a 
fortnight, and then I feel quite refreshed and 
gay; but that only lasts till I have read her 
letter. It is nothing that I can keep." 
Something passed through the Student's 
mind; lie was going to say something, but 
checked himselt. 
“ But is there no one else here of whom 
you might make a friend?" 
“No one but the Attorney’s daughter,” 
answered Agnes, contemptuously; " but 
she talks of nothing bat baking and brewing." 
“1 think that I cau understand you, 
although I am a man aud you a woman. 
You begin to long for somebody that you 
could so rely upon that you dared confide in 
him everything that burdens your heart, 
feeling sure that he would lighten it.” 
Agnes meditated a few minutes and then 
said, in a low voice, “ Perhaps.” 
“ You regret your mother, do you not?” 
he said. “ But yet she could not have 
helped you if she had lived. She might 
have been something to you, but she could 
not. have been all. She would have made 
you impatient if she laid not entirely under¬ 
stood you. No; what you seek is an equal 
iu warmth, in feeling, and yet one who is 
somewhat your superior, that he might lead 
aud direct you when you need help.” 
“Yes, but where am I to find such a 
person?” said Agnes, smiling, bitterly, 
“1 do not think that any one besides 
yourself can find such a friend,” replied the 
Student, “and that friend may come, per¬ 
haps soon, or perhaps delay long; that friend 
may he a woman, but do you not think he 
might be a man V” Agnes blushed, but did 
not answer. “ And so you would not be 
ashamed to rejoice at God’b beautiful Na¬ 
ture, or think yourself sentimental lbr that. 
In that case must God himself have been 
sentimental when lie gave man that feeling 
for nature: and the Apostle Paul must 
also have been ho when lie wrote that all 
nature sighed for deliverance. But it is 
getting somewhat cold. The mist is rising, 
and you said you were in a hurry. Perhaps 
it would be best to go home now.” 
Aones answered by r getting up. She then 
took a long, I are we 11 glance at the lovely 
scene, and went down, followed by the 
Student. On their way home the conversa¬ 
tion turned upon travels and the manners 
and Customs of the different European races, 
and the Student became so engrossed that 
he did not perceive that lie had accompanied 
Agnes as far as her home, and that they 
were now standing outside the Parsonage. 
Agnes was so interested in all that she had 
heard that she forgot to ask him to come in; 
hut doubtless the Student would have re¬ 
fused, as he always did. The lamp was 
already lit in the dining-room, for the Pastor 
had received newspapers from town and 
was busy reading them. lie put them aside 
when Aones came in. 
“ Well, dear, you have taken a long walk 
this evening," lie said, smiling tenderly at 
her. Agnes threw herself down on the sofa. 
“Yes; do you know that 1 have been to 
tins highest farm?" she said. 
“ Why, whatever made you go there? 
Were you alone ? 
“ The Student was wit h me,” she answered 
“ Alt, was lie with you ? Well, what did 
he talk about?" 
“Tie talked of his travels, amoflgst other 
things,” said Agnes; and now she felt as 
though she would like to talk still more of 
him. 
“ Yes; his conversation is very interesting 
to listen to;” and saying this, the Pastor 
leaned back in bis chair and began to smoke. 
Aones sat in tbe sofa corner, musing over 
the afternoon’s conversation. Suddenly she 
felt her father's eye fixed upon ln-r, 
“Is there anything new in the papers?” 
she asked, in order to escape Ids look. 
“No, nothing at all. The Prussians only 
boast as usual,” answered the Pastor, puffing 
a cloud of smok^ftwin bis pipe. They were 
again silent. .resumed her train of 
thought, and again her father looked at her. 
“ Would you like me to sing to you ?" she 
asked, hurriedly, going, as she spoke' to the 
piano. 
“ Yes, if you are not tired.” 
She struck a few chords, and then began 
to sing her old favorite, “ Ola , ola, min eigen 
unge.” It was a long time since she had 
sung this, hut now it seemed a relief to her 
to sing it. She had scarcely begun ere the 
Pastor exclaimed: 
“No, no. my dear; don’t sing that old 
song, but let me have some of your new 
ones; the couplets in‘Orpheus’—they are 
so amusing.” 
Aones obeyed, and took out “ OrpTiee avx 
Enfers.' and began to sing “When I was 
Prince of Arcadia.” She began it in an af¬ 
fected tone, as she had heard it sung at the 
theater; but after the first verse, threw the 
music on the ground. 
“No, I cannot sing that, now, papa; an¬ 
other lime 1 will do it, hut. to-day 1 really 
cannot;” and so she began again, willi 
“ Ant under J Inn rneleuH faste” and sang 
other old songs. It seemed as though she 
sang with a new power,—and lier thoughts 
wandered with the song through forest, over 
mountains, where the Student had so often 
wandered with his knapsack. There was 
some one who stood outside and listened 
that evening,—and he was none other than 
the Student himself. 
After Agnes had entered the house be 
stood a lew minutes and looked around, 
after which he sat down to rest on a garden 
seat. He had sat here about half jtn hour, 
and was just thinking of going home, when 
he heard music from within. That must be 
Agnes’ voice. lie sat down again and lis¬ 
tened; I he same voice began, “ When 4 was 
Prince of Arcadia.” The Student got up. 
“ Is it possible she can sing that alter our 
conversation of to-day?” but just then Ag¬ 
nes began, " Ola , ola, min eigen unge." The 
tones came to him so clearly, so sadly, with 
a strange, complaining sound. “ Ah," that is 
her voice!’’ be exclaimed; “ that is her 
voice, full of soul; thank God, she can still 
sing so !” He stood longand listened, drink¬ 
ing in every tone. All those old ballads she 
had sung for him when u child, that first 
evening he had seen her; they seemed now 
to come from her lips fuller, richer, aud— 
now she was a woman 1 He clambered up 
on the seat, put his eyes to the window 
pane, and looked in,—for the curtains were 
not drawn. Yes, there she sat at the piano, 
singing:—“ I see thee, through the window, 
my beloved ; 1 recognize thy shadow, but 
thou can’s!, not come iu.” 
The Student jumped down. “Did she 
see me?” he said to himself. “Her, I am 
certainly not 4 her beloved;’ but ‘ come iu ’— 
that I can do, if I like.” 
The Student walked homeward, but when 
he passed through the gale he cast a fare¬ 
well glance at the lighted window and mur¬ 
mured, “ Thank God, she can still sing so.” 
Agnes no longer avoided him; on the 
contrary she always walked the way she 
thought it was most likely he would go; 
and her heart often beat faster when she 
saw him in the distance. She almost wished 
sometimes that she were far away, and yet 
she was always so glad when he talked to 
her and walked with her. She had no one 
else, for her father could only talk of com¬ 
mon-place things; slic knew not why, but 
she felt that he could not understand and 
elevate her thoughts as the Student did. 
There was always bo much lile in what he 
said, and he read her thoughts so easily. 
Sometimes he was serious and sometimes he 
spoke on lighter subjects, but lie was always 
entertaining. Shu often went up to her 
room in the dusk and looked towards the 
East, where might be seen, like a star 
amongst the trees, the Student’s lamp. And 
then she would sit and think of bow lie sat 
up there surrounded by his books, with his 
hands in his hair, forgetting every tiling else, 
and thinking least of all of her who sat 
therein her lonely room thinking of him. 
She could not understand how she could 
ever have thought him disagreeable and 
conceited, uml how she could have written 
of him its she had done to MATitn.DE. 
Mathilde had fallen considerably into 
shadow these last two or three months. She 
still wrote to lier—siie dared not discontinue 
that; but she owned to herself that she 
would like to give it up entirely, lier let¬ 
ters were not so long, nor did she write so 
often as before. She would not mention 
any thing of the Student, for Matuii.de 
would only laugh at him, and she was 
obliged to try and write as gayly and pigvante 
as possible, so that Mathji.de might not 
notice any change. She could not, restrain 
herself from writing of the Student. Ma- 
TiriLDE had made lun of him, and put a 
wrong construction on what she had first 
written of him. Agness was so vexed that 
she nearly cried, and resolved to write the 
following letter: 
“I must boa you, my dear Mathilob, never 
attain to laugh at i lie Student, us you do ; it is I 
who have wrongly judged him. If you should 
ever make his iieijiinnitRnccs you "’til see that 
he Is neither stiff nor pedantto. llis behavior 
aud mn a net's are quite us Rood us those of your 
town dandies, and his conversation is a thou¬ 
sand times better than theirs. It >ou were here 
you would surely leant to like hint.” 
Agnes was glad she had wriLtcn this, for 
she had Joug reproached herself with hav¬ 
ing written as she bad done in her first let¬ 
ter, find now she did not mind how much 
Matiiilde might laugh at her for it.—[To 
be continued. 
- 4 44 
BREAD UPON THE WATERS, 
AN AFrECTING STORY. 
“ Please, sir, will you buy my chest¬ 
nuts ?” 
“ Chestnuts! No 1” returned Ralph Moore, 
looking carelessly down on the upturned 
face whose large, brown eyes, shadowed by 
tangled curls of flaxen luor, were appealing 
so pitifully to his own. “ What do I want 
with chestnuts?" 
' But, please, sir, buy ’em,” pleaded the 
little one, reassured by the rough kindness 
of his tone. “ Nobody seems to care for 
them, and—and—” 
She fairly burst into tears, and Moore, who 
had been on the point of brushing carelessly 
past her, stopped instinctively. 
“Are you very much in want of the 
money ?" 
“Indeed, sir, w r e are,” sobbed the child; 
“ mother sent me out, and—” 
“ Nay, little one, don’t cry in such a heart¬ 
broken way,” said Ralph, smoothing her 
hair down with careless gentleness. “ I 
don’t want your chestnuts, hut here’s a 
quarter for you, if that will do you any 
good.” 
He did not stay to hear the delighted in¬ 
coherent thanks the child poured out through 
a rainbow of smiles ami tears, but strode bn 
his way, muttering between bis teeth — 
“ That cut off my supply of cigars for the 
next twenty-four hours. I don't care though ; 
the brown eyed object really did cry as if it 
hadn’t a friend in the world. Hang it ! 1 
wish 1 was rich enough to help every poor 
creature out of the slough of despond 1" 
\Y bile Ralph Moore was indulging in these 
very natural reflections, the dark eyed little 
damsel whom he had comforted w’as dash¬ 
ing down Llie street with quick, elastic foot¬ 
steps, utterly regardless of the basket of 
unsold nuts that still dangled upon her arm 
Down an obscure lane she daned, between 
tall, ruinous rows of houses, and up a narrow 
wooden stair ease to a room where a pale, 
neat looking woman, with large brown eyes 
like her own, was sewing as busily as if the 
breath of life depended upon every stitch, 
and two little ones were contentedly playing 
in the sunshine, that temporarily "supplied 
the place of tbe fire. 
“Mary! back already? Surely you have 
not sold your chestnuts so soon?" 
“ Oh, mother, mother! see," ejaculated the 
breathless child, “a gentleman gave me a 
whole quarter. Only think, mother, a whole 
quarter 1” 
If Ralph Moore could only have seen the 
rapture which his tiny silver gift diffused 
around it in the poor widow’s poverty- 
stricken home he would have urged still less 
the temporary privation of cigars to which 
his generosity had subjected him. 
******* 
Years came and went. Tbe little chestnut 
girl passed as entirely' out of Ralph Moore’s 
memory as if pleading eyes bad never 
touched the soft spot in Ids heart, but Mary 
Lee never forgot the stranger who had given 
her the silver piece. 
******* 
The crimson window curtains were close¬ 
ly drawn to shut out the storm and tempest 
of the black December night.—the fire was 
glowing cheerily in tbe well filled grate, and 
the dinner table in a glitter with cut glass, 
rare china and polished silver, was only 
wailing for the presence of Mr. And ley. 
“ What can it be that detains papa ?” said 
Mrs. Aud ley, a fair, handsome matron of 
about thirty, as she glanced at the dial of a 
tiny enameled watch. “ Six o’clock, and he 
does not make his appearance!” 
“ Therc’s a man with him in the study, 
mamma—come on business,” said Robert 
Audley, a pretty boy r , eleven years old, who 
was reading by' the fire. 
“ I’ll cali him again,” said Mrs. Audley, 
stepping to the door. 
But, as she opened it, the brilliant gas¬ 
light fell full on the Ihce of an humble look¬ 
ing man, in worn and threadbare garments, 
who was leaving the house, while lier hus¬ 
band stood in the doorway of bis study, ap¬ 
parently' relieved to be rid of bis visitor. 
“ Charles,” said Mrs. Audley, whose cheek 
had paled aud flushed, “ who is ihat man, 
and what does he want ?” 
“His name is Moore, I believe, and he 
came to see if 1 would bestow upon him 
that vacant messengers!lip in the bank.” 
“ And will you ?*’ 
“ I don’t know', Mary, I must think about 
it.” 
“ Charles, give him the situation.” 
“ Why, my love?” 
“ Because I ask it of you as a flavor, and 
you have said a thousand times you would 
never deny me anything.” 
“ And 1 will keep my word, Mary,” said 
the loving husband, with an affectionate 
kiss. “ I’ll write the fellow a note lids even¬ 
ing. I believe I’ve got his address about me 
somewhere.” 
An hour or two later, when Bobbie, Frank 
and Eugene were snugly lucked in bed in 
the spacious nursery above stairs, Jits. Aud¬ 
ley told her husband why she was so inter¬ 
ested in the fate of a man whom she had not 
seen for twenty years. 
“ That’s right, my little wife,” replied her 
husband, folding her fondly to his breast, 
when the simple tale was concluded, “never 
lbrget one who has been kind to you in the 
days when you needed kindness most.” 
******* 
Ralph Moore was sitting in his poor lodg¬ 
ing, beside bis ailing w ife’s sick bed, when a 
liveried servant brought a note from the rich 
and prosperous bank director, Charles Aud¬ 
ley. 
“Good news, Bertha!” ho exclaimed, as 
lie read the brief words. “ We shall not 
starve—Mr. Audley promises me the vacant 
situation.” 
“You have dropped something from the 
note, Ralph,” said Mrs. Moore, pointing to a 
slip of paper on the floor. 
Moore stooped to recover the estray r . It 
w'as a fifty dollar bill neatly folded in a 
piece of paper, on which was written :—"In 
grateful lemeuibrance of a silver quarter 
that a kind stranger bestowed on a little 
chestnut girl over twenty years ago." 
Ralph Moore had thrown his morsel of 
bread on tbe waters, and after many clays it 
had returned to him. 
portal topics. 
SOCIAL CURIOSITIES. 
Ttatt Noble Nature. 
It is not growing like ii tree 
lu bulk doth make man better be; 
Or standing longuii oak, three hundred year. 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald and sere. 
A lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May; 
Although It fall and die that night, 
It was the plant and flower of light. 
In small proportions we just beauties see 
Aud in short measures life may perfect be. 
_ [Ben. Johnson. 
’Wishing. 
When I reflect how little 1 buve done. 
And add to that how little 1 have seen, 
Then, furthermore, how little I have won 
01 joy, or good, hew little known or been : 
I long for other life more full, more keen, 
And yearn to chunge with such as well have run. 
Yet reason mocks me—nay, the soul, 1 ween. 
Granted her choice would dare to change with none. 
No—not to feel as Blonde), when his lay 
Pierced the strong tower, and Richard answered it— 
No, not to do as Eustace, on the day 
He loft fair Calais to her weeping feet— 
No, not to be Columbus, waked from sleep. 
When his new world rose from the charmed deep. 
_ [Jean Ingetow. 
Deaf and Dumb—Male* anil Females. 
In England, at the last census, it was found 
that there w'ere 6,841 deaf-mute men and 
boys, 5,395 women and girls—a proportion 
of 14 u> 11. In American schools for the 
deaf and dumb, the proportion of males to 
females, is about four to three. Even iu 
Massachusetts, where the women have con¬ 
siderably outnumbered the men for many 
years, there are more deaf mutes among the 
men and boy's than among the women and 
girls. It has been suggested that a reason 
for this disparity may be found in tbe old 
rabbinical legend, that when nine baskets of 
talk were let down in Lite garden of Eden, 
Eve ran and appropriated six of them before 
Adam could say a word, so that lie was ob¬ 
liged to put up with only three for himself 
and his male heirs. 
nlarrlocro vs. SiuKlc Blessedness. 
It is asserted that statistics prove that a 
large majority of our criminals, Stale Prison 
convicts, etc., are unmarried. Think of this, 
young men ; and if you wish to escape all 
that is bad, try to form a partnership with a 
good woman, and y T ou will be secure. 
-- 4 - 4 -*- 
Situations. —Situations are like skeins of 
thread or silk. To make the most of them, 
we need only to take them by tbe right end. 
Listening.— The best of lessons, for a 
good many people, would be to listen at the 
key hole. * ’Tis a pity for such that the prac¬ 
tice is dishonorable. 
Weakness and Strength.— We deceive 
ourselves when we fancy that only weakness 
needs support. Strength needs it far more. 
A straw or a feather sustains itself long in 
the air. 
