APBIL 
MOOBE’S  BUBAL  NEW-YOBStEB 
WAITING  FOK  SPKING. 
Thod  of  th«  unnny  hPAd . 
With  liHes 
And  bosons  fairer  than  the  blown  sea  foam ;  . 
O  Sprinfr,  in  what  waste  desert  dost  thou  stay . 
Whilst  leaves  await  thy  presence  to  unfold  ? 
The  branches  of  the  lime  with  frost  arc  gray. 
And  all  iropriaoned  is  the  croons’  irold. 
Come,  sweet  enchantress,  come 
Arise,  and  briiuf  with  thee 
The  rathe  bud  for  the  tree, 
The  healinjr  sunshine  for  the  trampled  grass ; 
Loose  tendrils  for  the  liougrhs  which  bless  the  eaves, 
And  shield  the  swallows  in  the  rainy  hours, 
The  pendant  flamo.-i  which  the  laburnum  heaves. 
And  faint  scents  for  the  wind-stlrred  lilac  flowers, 
Knehantroas,  l)reathe  and  pass  ! 
The  larks  shall  sing  again, 
Hetwcou  the  sun  and  rain, 
The  brown  Isie  through  ttie  flowered  pasturee  roams. 
There  shall  ho  music  in  the  frozen  woods, 
A  gurRling  carol  in  thn  rushing  brook. 
An  odor  in  the  half  unbosomed  buds. 
And  daucuig  foxgloves  in  each  forest  nook. 
Then  come,  enchantress,  come  ! 
rf’intutiers’s  Journal. 
®l)f 
AUTUMN  BLOSSOMS. 
now  was  11  that  I  came  to  be  an  old  bachelor? 
rcot  because  of  ha-hng  women,  I  am  sure,  for  1 
liked  them  very  ranch,  and  never  could  have 
spoken  to  one  rudely  or  discourteously  tor  my  life. 
Ai  nearly  as  1  knOM'.  tt  was  In  this  wiser 
My  father  died.  UiavUig  a  family  of  children,  a. 
wife,  and  no  old  father  and  mother,  not  one  of 
whom,  only  myself,  was  able  to  earn  a  shilling, 
lie.  had  never  saved  .tnyllilng. 
So,  alter  llio  first  grcatgilef,  when  we  had  calm¬ 
ed  down  arid  were  avde  lo  look  matters  quietly  In 
the  face,  there  was  a  wretched  sort  of  prospect 
Mr  UR.  I  wn.s  only  am  accountant,  .and  had  a  young 
feuow’s  liaVilt  of  vvAstlng  my  small  salary  In  a 
thousand  tlinen  iit.  w.iys.  1  had  been  '•  paying  aU 
tent  Ion”  too,  lo  Klslc  nail  who.  young  and  cUlld- 
t.sh  a-s  she.  was,  had  a  way  that  some  girls  do  have 
of  leading  thetr  admirers  Into  extravagance.  Of 
all  1  he  IrhiH  Of  that  never-to-be-forgotten  time.  1 
think  the  greatest  was  appearing  niggardly  In 
those  biiby  blue  eyes.  Idld  not  mind  wearing 
plain  suits,  clLsc.irdlng  kid  gloves  and  renouncing 
tlie  oiKTii;  but  not  lo  lay  those  bouquets,  and 
books,  and  music,  and  dainty  hits  of  Jewelry,  and 
mullltudlnou.s  trines  at  Elsie’s  feet,  was  a  very 
terrible  ordiMl.  1  passed  lU  though;  and  If  ever 
man  luul  reason  to  be  thankful  I  had,  for  the  ac¬ 
quisitive  little  beauty  Jilted  me  in  a  month  for 
T'om  Tandem,  who  was  rich  and  lavish  of  gifts, 
and  who  ran  away  from  her  after  a  marriage  of 
ten  months. 
T  worked  day  and  night,  and  managed  to  keep 
the  wolf  from  the  door. 
SomoUiues  I  used  tothlnk  how  well  It  was  for 
Elcln  that  she  had  not  really  loved  me,  for  she 
could  li  ne  had  nothing  but  a  dismal  prospect 
of  wearing  out  her  youth  In  a  dreary,  hopeless 
r  nogf  ment  to  one  too  poor  to  marry.  That  was 
uaiil  I  cm  ran  off.  Then  I  thought  it  would  have 
beeri  bcl'cr  for  her  to  have  shared  our  humhle 
homo  and  jjoor  fare,  and  the  love  I  could  have 
given  her,  than  to  be  deserted  so.  And  T  pitied 
hi,  asir  she  hud  not  proved  herself  heartless, 
lint  I  novtr  went  near  her,  of  course ;  and  I  never 
even  spoke  of  her  to  my  mother. 
I  grew  no  younger  all  this  while,  and  every  year 
SCI  lucdtc  add  five  to  my  looks.  I  had  never  boon 
very  liandsome  or  verj'  merry,  and  soon  I  became 
conscious  Of  a  peculiar  middle-aged  look,  which 
sott  les  down  upon  some  people  very  early. 
strangers,  too,  began  to  take  me  tor  the  head  Of 
the  family ;  and  once,  in  a  now  nclghtsirhood,  the 
butcher  alluded  to  “  ray  wife.”  l  found  out  that 
ho  inoanf  my  mother,  and  only  wondered  that  It 
was  not  dear  old  grannie. 
She  w.as  eighty,  grandfather  ninety,  and  they 
died  one  bright  autumn  day,  before  prosperity 
came  to  ua— died  within  an  hour  of  each  other; 
for  grannie  just  said,  “  i  think  I’ll  lie  down  a,  hit, 
now  Lemuel  don't  need  me.  I'm  very  tired.” 
Then  she  kissed  mo  and  said :  You’ve  been  a 
good  boy  to  your  grandpa,  Kdward.  You’ll  have 
that  to  think  or.” 
And  when  next  we  looked  at  her  she  was  dead,, 
with  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  like  a  sleeping 
child. 
So  two  were  gone,  and  we  were  sadder  than  be¬ 
fore.  And  then  Jean,  my  eldest  sister,  manlod 
at  si.xtcen  a  phyidclan,  who  carried  her  off  to  Hln- 
dostan  in  her  honeymoon. 
.Vnawe  could  none  of  us  feel  the  wedding  a 
happy  thing. 
But  prosperity  did  come  at  last.  l  had  worked 
liiii'd  for  It,  and  anything  a  man  makes  his  sole 
Object  in  this  life  he  Is  very  sure  to  attain. 
\v'.?  were  corn  fort, able— easy.  Ah,  what  a  word 
that  i;.,  after  years  oi  struggle!  At  last  we  were 
rich.  But  by  that  time  I  wa.s  nvfv.and-rort,y— a 
large,  (lurk,  middle-aged  man,  with  a  face  that 
looked  to  myaolf.  In  the  glass,  as  though  It  were 
pernetuaily  intent  on  ilgures.  The  girls  were  mar- 
rl‘‘rt.  Dick  had  taken  to  the  sea,  .md  we  saw  him 
once  a  yc.ir  or  so,  and  Ashton  was  at  home  with 
motiier  and  myself-the  only  really  huudsomn 
member  of  our  ru  Hilly,  and  just  iwo-and-iwenty. 
And  It  was  on  his  bh’thday,  I  rememher,  that  that 
letter  came  to  me  irom  poor  Hunter — the  letter 
which  began “  When  iheso  lino.s  reach  you,  Ned 
Sanford,  I  shall  have  my  six  feel  of  earth— all  I 
ever  owned,  or  would,  It  I  had  U\  ed  to  be  a  hun¬ 
dred." 
We  had  been  young  together,  though  he  was 
really  older  than  I;  and  we  had  been  close  friends 
once,  but  a  roving  tit  seized  him,  and  we  had  not 
met  for  years,  t  knew  he  had  married  a.voung 
Kentish  girl,  and  knew  no  more;  hut.  now  he  fold 
me  that  she  was  dead,  and  that  hts  death  would 
leave  a  daughter  an  orphan. 
‘'She  is  not  quite  pcntiness,”  he  wrote,  "for  her 
mother  had  a  little  income  which,  fioor  as  I  was, 
1  WHS  never  brute  enough  lo  meddle  with,  and  It 
has  descended  to  her.  But  1  have  been  a  rolling 
stone,  gathering  no  mosii.  all  my  life,  and  we  never 
staid  long  enough  In  one  place  to  make  friends. 
Will  you  be  her  guardian?  It  Isa  dying  man’s 
last  rei.picsi’'  — 
And  then  lie  wrote  some  words,  coming  from  his 
heart  l  knew,  which,  being  of  myself,  I  cannot 
quote  even  here— I  could  not  think  that  1  deserved 
them. 
And  the  result  of  that  letter  and  of  another  from 
the  lawyer  who  had  Annie  Hunter’s  little  fortune 
In  charge,  w.as  Hint  one  sott  spring  day  found  me 
on  board  of  a  steamer  which  lay  at  rest  aftor  her 
voyage,  in  the  protecting  arms  of  Liverpool,  with 
two  little  hands  In  mine,  and  a  pair  of  great  brown 
eyes  lifted  u>  toy  face  and  a  sweet  voice  choked 
with  sohs  .saying  something  of  "  poor  papa,”  and 
how  much  he  had  spoken  or  me,  and  of  the  lovely 
voyage,  and  the  green  graves  left  behind;  and  I. 
who  had  gone  to  meet  a  child  and  found  a  woman, 
looking  at  her  and  feeling  toward  her  as  I  had 
never  looked  upon  nor  felt  to  any  other— not  to 
Elsie  Hall.  It  was  not  the  boyish  love-dream  come 
again. 
Analyzing  the  emotion,  T  found  only  a  great 
longing  lo  protect  and  comfort  her— to  guard  her 
from  every  pain  and  111;  and  I  said  to  m,yself: 
“  This  Is  as  a  father  inustr  feel  to  a.  daughter.  I 
can  be  a  parent  to  George  Hunter's  child  In  very 
truth.”  Arid  I  took  her  homo  to  the  old  house  and 
to  my  old  mother.  I  thought  only  of  those ;  some¬ 
how.  I  never  thought  of  .Ashton. 
Shall  I  ever  forget  how  she  brightened  the  som¬ 
ber  rooms !  How.  as  her  sailncss  wore  away,  she 
sang  to  ns  in  tho  twilight!  How  strangely  a 
something  which  made  the  return  home  and  the 
long  hours  of  the  evening  seem  so  much  brighter 
than  they  had  ever  been  before,  stole  into  my 
life  I  I  never  went  to  sleep  In  church  now.  I  kept 
awake  to  look  at  Olive  Hunter— to  listen  to  her 
pure  contralto  as  she  joined  In  the  singing.  Some¬ 
times  I  caught  her  eye -her  great,  unfatliomablo 
brown  eye  for  she  had  a  habit  of  looking  at  me. 
“  Was  she  wondering  how  a  face  could  be  so  st-ern 
and  grim  7”  I  used  to  ask  myself. 
Ashton  used  to  look  at  her  also.  Ho  had  been 
away  when  she  first  came  to  us,  and  when  he  re¬ 
turned  she  was  a  grand  surprise  to  him. 
"  Oh,  how  lovely  she  is !”  ho  had  siild  to  me. 
“  She  Is  very  pretty,”  1  replied. 
Ashtou  laughed. 
'*  M<iy  I  never  be  an  old  bachelor  if  it  brings  me 
to  calling  such  a  girl  '  very  pretty,’  ”  he  said ;  and 
I  felt  conscious  that  my  cheek  flushed,  and  felt 
angry  that  ho  should  have  spoken  of  me  thus, 
though  I  never  cared  before. 
They  liked  each  other  very  much— those  two 
young  things.  They  were  together  a  great  deal. 
pretty  picture  they  made  In  the  Venetian  win¬ 
dow  In  the  sunset.  He  a  talr-hcadcd,  bluc-eyerl, 
Haxon-lookIng  youth  ;  she  soexqiilRltely  dark  and 
glowing. 
Kveo'  one  liked  he;*.  Even  my  old  clerk,  Ste¬ 
phen  HiMlley,  used  to  say  hec  presence  ill  the 
office  more  than  a  dozen  lamps— the  nearest  ap¬ 
proach  to  a  poefical  speech  of  which  old  Steiihen 
was  ever  known  to  be  guilty ;  and!  never  knew 
how  much  she  was  to  me  until  one  evening  when, 
coming  homo  earlier  than  usual,  1  saw  In  that 
Venetian  window  where  Ashton  and  Olive  had 
made  so  many  pleasant  plcturea  for  mo.  one  that 
I  never  shall  forget-  as  long  as  I  llvo. 
She  stood  with  her  back  to  me.  Ashton  was 
kneeling  at  her  feet.'  Tho  sound  of  the  opening 
door  dlsHolvcd  the  pluturo;  but  I  had  seen  it,  and 
1  stole  away  to  hide  the  steb  that  it  had  given  me. 
1  sat  down  in  my  own  room  and  hid  my  face  In 
my  hands,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  hide  It 
beneutli  toy  coffin-lid.  t  know  now  that  T  loved 
Olive  Hunter;  that  I  loved  her  not  as  nn  old  man 
plight  love  a  child,  bid  a.s  a  young  man  might  love 
the  woman  who  ought  to  he  his  wife— hetter  than 
I  Inid  loved  Klsle  Hall,  for  It  was  not,  a  boyish 
passion,  but  earnest,  heartfelt  love. 
I  in  love  I  I  arose  and  looked  In  tho  mirror,  and 
my  broad-shouldered  reflection  blushed  before  my 
gaze.  The  springtime  of  my  life  had  flown  and 
my  summer  had  come  and  gone,  and  In  the  au- 
tumu  1  bad  dreamt  of  love’s  bud  and  blossom. 
1  knelt  beside  my  bed  and  prayed  that  l  might 
not  hate  my  brother— that  I  might  not  even  envy 
him.  His  touch  upon  my  door  startled  mo.  He 
came  In  with  something  In  hla  manner  not  usual 
with  him,  and  sat  down  opposite  me.  For  a  few 
moments  we  were  both  silent.  Then  he  said, 
speaking  rapidly  and  blushing  like  a  girl "  Ned, 
old  fellow,  you— you  saw  me  making  a  fool  of  my¬ 
self  just  now,  I  suppose?  " 
"  I  saw  you  on  your  knees,”  i  said. 
"And  thought  me  a  Billy  fellow,  eh?  But  you 
don’t  know.  Nod.  You  can’t  understand— you’ve 
been  so  calm  and  cool  all  your  life  through,  you 
know.  She’s  driving  me  mad.  Ned,  1  do  believe 
she  likes  me,  but  she  won’t  say  yes.  I'd  give  my 
right  hand  for  her  love.  1  must  have  it,  and  I 
think  you  can  help  me,  Nod.  From  something  she 
said,  1  believe,  she  thinks  you  would  disapprove ; 
perhaps  you  are  one  of  those  old  fellows  who  want 
every  ono  to  marry  for  money.  Toll  her  you  aro 
not.  Ned— dear  old  fellow- tell  her  you  liavo  no 
objection,  and  I’ll  never  forget  It -Indeed  I  wonX” 
“  Tell  her  I  have  no  objection,”  1  repeated,  rae- 
chanloally. 
“  You  know  yon  are  master  here,  and  as  much 
my  father  as  If  you  really  were  one  instead  of  a 
brother,"  said  Ashton.  “  If  1  did,  not  know  how 
kindly  yon  had  always  fell  to  us  both,  I  should 
not  confide  In  you,  for  It’s  a  serious  thing  to  be  In 
love,  Ned,  and  you  may  thank  heaven  you  know 
nothing  about  It." 
“  Know  nothing  about  It  ?”  Ah,  If  he  could  have 
read  ray  heart  just  then ! 
“  m  do  what  I  can,  Ashton,”  I  said  at  last.  “  I’ll 
try  my  best.” 
'T'fIXTlXI..<>\V  WT2T2I>. 
•  And  he  flung  his  arm  about  me  In  his  own  boy¬ 
ish  fashion  and  left  me  alone— alone  with  my  own 
UiouglUa. 
He  had  said,  truly,  f  ”  had  been  like  a  father”  to 
him.  1  was  old  enough  to  be  hers,  and  no  one 
should  know  my  silly  dream.  I  would  hide  It 
while  1  lived.  As  l^liad  said  once I’ve  only 
the  old  folks  and  the  children  now,”  I  said  then. 
"  1  will  only  think  of  mother  ami  of  Ashton.  Let 
my  own  life  be  as  nothing ;  I  have  Uvcrl  for  them 
—It  neod.R  be,  I  will  die  lor  them.’’ 
BiitJ  would  not  .see  or  speak  to  Olivo  that  night 
nor  until 4, he  next  day  was  quite  done.  Then,  In 
the  twilight,  I  sat  beside  her  .and  took  her  hand. 
"  Olive,"  1  said,  "  I  think  you  know  that  .Ashton 
loves  yon.  l  am  sure  he.  has  told  you  so.  And 
yon— can  you  not  love  him  ?” 
She  drew  her  hand  from  mine,  and  said  not  one 
word. 
“  I  should  rejoice  In  tny  brother’s  happiness.  I 
should  think  him  happier  In  having  yotir  love 
than  anything  else  (;buld  make  him.  I  told  him  1 
would  I, el  I  you  so,” 
And  then  she  spoke. 
“  You  wish  me  to  mairy  Ashton  7” 
Keproach  was  tn  Mu?  tone— reproach  and  sorrow. 
“If  yon  can  love  him,  Olive,”  I  said 
She  arose.  She  socracd  to  shrink  from  me, 
though  In  the  d.ark  I  could  not  see  her  face. 
“  I  do  not  love  him.”  she  said. 
And  wc  were  still  a.R  death.  Then  suddenly 
Olive  Hunter  began  to  sob. 
"Yon  have  been  veiY  kind  to  me  I  love  yon 
all.”  she  said;  “but  1  cannot  stay  here  now. 
Please  to  let  mo  go  somewhere  else.  I  must- 1 
cannot  live  here.” 
" Go  from  ns,  Olive ?"  l  said.  “Nay.  we  are  not 
tyrants;  and  once  assured  you  do  not  love  him, 
Ashton  will - ” 
"Hush !”  she  pleaded ;  "hush!  Please  let  me 
go  away !  Please  let  me  go  away  1” 
The  moon  was  rising.  Her  new-born  light  fell 
upon  Olive's  face.  Perhaps  its  whiteness  made 
her  look  pale. 
She  leaned  against  the  wall,  with  her  little  hand 
upon  her  heart,  her  unfathomable  eyes  full  of 
pain.  How  hud  I  hurt  so?  A  new  thouebt struck 
mo. 
“  Perhaps  yon  love  some  one  else,  Ollviv” 
And  at  that  she  turned  her  face  from  me.  and 
hid  It  IrThcr  hands. 
“Too  much— too  much.  You  might  have  saved 
me  that,” she  said.  “Let  me  go  away.  1  wish 
you  had  never  brought rao  here." 
And  1  arose  and  wonl^  to  her.  I  bent,  over  the 
woman  I  loved,  f  touched  her  with  my  hand; 
her  soft  hair  brushed  my  cheek. 
“Olive,"  I  said,  "11  coming  here  has  brought 
pain  upon  you,  I  wish  1  hud  not.  I  would  rather 
have  died  to  make  you  happy,” 
And  ray  voice  trembled  and  my  hand  shook,  and 
she  turned  her  face  towards  me  .again  and  looked 
Into  my  eyes.  What  she  sa  w  In  mine  I  do  not 
know'— tho  truth,  I  think,  in  Imrs  I  read  this  - 1 
was  not  too  old  to  her;  t/oo  old  to  be  loved. 
I  stole  my  arm  about  her ;  she  did  not  untwine 
It.  1  uttered  her  name,  “Olive,"  huskily. 
Afterwards  I  told  her  of  my  struggle  with  my¬ 
self— not  then.  Tsfiki:  “Olive,  i  love  .you;  but 
It  cannot  he  that  yon  care  for  me.  1  am  old  enough 
to  be  yoiir  father.” 
And  again  1  saw  In  her  o.yeR  the  happy  truth 
and  took  her  to  my  heart. 
But  we  kept  our  secret  for  a  while,  for  we  both 
loved  Ashton,  and  both  knew  that  this  wound  was 
not  too  deep  to  find  a  balm;  and  within  a  year, 
when  the  hoy  brought  home  a  bride— a  pret  ty 
creature  whom  he  loved,  and  who  loved  him -I 
claimed  Olive.. 
And  she  18  mine  now ;  and  I  ho  autumn  hloshOm.4 
of  my  heart  will  only  fade  oneairUi  lo  bloom  ag.iln 
through  all  eternity  In  paradise. 
- .♦  »  »  - - 
A  THEEMOMETEE  MAN  IN  DETEOIT. 
He  was  a  way-worn  man  from  tho  Kast,,  a^nd  hr 
had  thlrt.y-sfwca  Lherrnometers  In  a  luiskcl,  on  Ills 
arm.  After  standing  on  the  street  comers  for  two 
or  three  hours  ivlthont  making  a  sale,  he  fitarr.ed 
for  the  eastern  part,  of  the  city,  hoping  1/)  do  l.i  l- 
ter  among  t  he  private  houses.  He  seemed  to  ga  in 
confldeuce  from  the  cheerful  look  of  thedwelllngi, 
and  he  bore  himself  like  u  hanker  us  he  .ascendf  d 
the  steps  and  pulled  a  door-bell. 
“Nothing  for  the  poor,”  said  the  lady,  as  she 
opened  tho  door. 
“  I  am  not  soliciting  for  the  poor— l  am  seUlcg 
thermometers,”  he  said,  In  a  balmy  voice. 
“  Don’t  want  any— bought  onr  stock  In  the  fall,  ’ 
she  said,  drawing  In  her  head. 
“  I  said  thermometers,  madam,”  he  called,  in  a 
despairing  voice. 
“  I  know  It;  but  we’ve  got-  all  the  vegetables  we 
can  use,”  she  called  back,  and  the  door  struck  Ills 
toes. 
Going  In  the  saloon  on  the  corner  the  man  ad- 
j  dressed  the  proprietor  with  a  sweet  smile,  asking : 
“  Would  you  like  a  thermometer  to-day  ?” 
“  Py  der  pushel?”  inquired  the  saloonlst. 
I  “No— a  thermometer— a  little  inustrument  for 
telling  you  when  It  is  cold  or  warm.” 
“Any  muslc-hox  In  It?”  Inquired  tho  saloonlst. 
“  No ;  It  records  the  weather.” 
“What  wedder?” 
“  Why,  the  weather  we  liavo  every  day  In  the 
year.  When  it  Is  warm  this  little  tube  runs  up; 
when  It  Is  cold  It  sinks  down.” 
“  Umph  !  Yen  It  Ish  warm  I  dakes  my  coat  off; 
ven  It  1ft  gold  1  put  more  goal  In  tho  stoat.  Go  sell 
dat  to  Rouii'  jxihinall  poy  as  knows  noddlngs !” 
I  The  thormomeiei  man  enwred  a  carpei-wea /- 
er’s,  and  a  bow-backed  man  nodded  kindly  and 
cordlahy  welcomed  him. 
“  Ac  uiratc  thermometers  for  only  twentj'-llve 
cents,”  said  the  peddler,  as  he  held  one  up. 
