ence where, nevertheless, we know that all is well-for all of us-and therefore for her.

Did any twinge of remorse, any pang of painful recollection, pierce at that moment the incense of glory which she was inhaling? Did any vision flit across her of a sad, mourning figure which once had stood where she was standing, now desolate, neglected, sinking into the darkening twilight of a life cut short by sorrow? Who can tell? At such a time, that figure would have weighed heavily upon a noble mind, and a wise mind would have been taught by the thought of it, that, although life be fleeting as a dream, it is long enough to experience strange vicissitudes of fortune.

But Anne Boleyn was not noble and was not wise--too probably she felt nothing but the delicious, all-absorbing, all-intoxicating present; and if that plain, suffering face presented itself to her memory at all, we may fear that it was rather as a foil to her own surpassing loveliness. Two years later she was able to exult over Katharine's death; she is not likely to have thought of her with gentler feelings in the first glow and flush of triumph.

MILTIADES PETERKIN PAUL.-JOHN BROWNJOHN.

Little Miltiades Peterkin Paul

Had been heard to declare he feared nothing at all.
"There's Abiathar Ann"-he would say-"now, at her age,
One would think she might show a little more courage.
Why, I really believe she would fall dead with fright,
If she came down the lane by herself in the night.

I can tell you, though, that's not the stuff I am made of!
I never saw anything I was afraid of!"

But one warm summer evening it chanced to befall
That little Miltiades Peterkin Paul,

Having been to the village for John Henry Jack,

Found it growing quite dark when he came to start back.
But he thought, "Pooh! I don't care for that in the least!"
And he winked at the full moon, just up in the east;
Then with hands in his pockets he swaggered along,
While he kept up his courage with whistle and song.

All at once young Miltiades Peterkin Paul,

As he turned down the lane, perceived, close by the wall, Right before him, a dark, ghostly shape, crouching low, Which frightened poor little Miltiades so

That he turned cold all over-our valiant young heroJust as though the thermometer'd dropped down to zero; Then, his heart beating loudly, he covered his face

With his hands, and trudged on at a much quicker pace.

But little Miltiades Peterkin Paul

Had not gone many steps, when he thought, "After all,
I may be mistaken; perhaps I mistook

Some old stump, or a rock, or the cow, for a 'spook.'
Why, what could I be thinking of?" Then growing bolder,
He ventured to cast a glance over his shoulder,
When what was his wonder and horror to find
That the spectre was following close behind.

For one moment Miltiades Peterkin Paul

Was so terribly frightened he thought he would fall;
Then he flung his checked apron up over his head
To shut out the dread sight, and ingloriously fled.
But, alas! by the footsteps behind he soon knew
That his ghostly pursuer began to run, too;

And he uttered a shriek, and sped on without knowing
(With his eyes covered up) just which way he was going.

But little Miltiades Peterkin Paul,

Though he ran like the wind, found 'twas no use at all.
The footsteps grew louder behind, and at last
He suddenly found himself caught and held fast.
Whereupon, faint with terror, he sank to his knees,
And in piteous accents besought, "Oh, sir, please,
Good, kind Mr. Ghost, let me go! Oh, please do!
I am sure I would do as much, gladly, for you!"

But just then the ghost spoke and soothed his alarms,
And he found he'd rushed into his own brother's arms.
"Why," cried John Henry Jack, "what does this mean, my
lad? Oh,

I see. Ha, ha, ha! Why, sir, that's your own shadow!”

And, sure enough, when he uncovered his face,
Our hero saw plainly that such was the case.
"Well," said little Miltiades Peterkin Paul,

"Please don't tell our Abiathar Ann-that is all!"

-The Wide Awake.

THERE'S WORK ENOUGH TO DO.

The black-bird early leaves its rest,
To meet the smiling morn,

And gather fragments for its nest,
From upland wood and lawn.

The busy bee, that wings its way 'Mid sweets of varied hue,

And every flower would seem to say,
"There's work enough to do."

The cowslip and the spreading vine,
The daisy in the grass,

The snow-drop and the eglantine,
Preach sermons as we pass.
The ant, within its cavern deep,
Would bid us labor too,

And writes upon his tiny heap-
"There's work enough to do."

The planets, at their Maker's will,
Move onward in their course,
For nature's will is never still-
'Tis progress, labor, force!
The leaves that flutter in the air,
And summer breezes woo,
One solemn truth to man declare-
"There's work enough to do."

Who then can sleep, when all around
Is active, fresh, and free?

Shall man-creation's lord be found
Less busy than the bee?

Our courts and alleys are the field,
If men would search them through,
That richest sweets of labor yield,
And there's enough to do.

To have a heart for those who weep,
The sottish drunkard win;
To rescue all the children, deep
In ignorance and sin;

To help the poor, the hungry feed,
To give him coat and shoe;

To see that all can write and read-
"Is work enough to do."

The time is short-the world is wide,
And much has to be done;

This wondrous earth and all its pride
Will vanish with the sun!

The moments fly on lightning's wings,
And life's uncertain, too;

We've none to waste on foolish things"There's work enough to do."

MARION'S DINNER.-EDWARD C. JONES.

A British officer, sent to negotiate an exchange of prisoners, was conducted into Marion's encampment. There the scene took place which is here commemorated. The young officer was so deeply affected by the sentiments of Marion, that he subsequently resigned his commission and retired from the British service.

They sat on the trunk of a fallen pine,
And their plate was a piece of bark,
And the sweet potatoes were superfine,
Though bearing the embers' mark;
But Tom, with the sleeve of his cotton shirt,
The embers had brushed away,
And then to the brook, with a step alert,
He hied on that gala day.

The British officer tried to eat,

But his nerves were out of tune,
And ill at ease on his novel seat,
While absent both knife and spoon,
Said he, you give me but Lenten fare,
Is the table thus always slim?
Perhaps with a Briton you will not share
The cup with a flowing brim!

Then Marion put his potato down,
On the homely plate of bark-
He had to smile, for he could not frown,
While gay as the morning lark ;-
'Tis a royal feast I provide to-day,

Upon roots we rebels dine,

And in Freedom's service we draw no pay,

Is that code of ethics thine?

Then, with flashing eye and with heaving breast,
He looked to the azure sky,

And, said he, with a firm, undaunted crest,

Our trust is in God on high!

The hard, hard ground, is a downy bed,

And hunger its fang foregoes,

And noble and firm is the soldier's tread,
In the face of his country's foes.

The officer gazed on that princely brow,
Where valor and genius shone,

And upon that fallen pine, his vow,
Went up to his Maker's throne,

I will draw no sword against men like these,
It would drop from a nerveless hand,

And the very blood in my heart would freeze,
If I faced such a Spartan band.

From Marion's camp, with a saddened mien,
He hastened with awe away,

The Sons of Anak, his eyes had seen,
And a giant race were they.

No more on the tented field was he,
And rich was the truth he learned,
That men who could starve for Liberty,
Can neither be crushed, nor spurned.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.-W. C. BRYANT.

Our band is few, but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold;

The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,
As seamen know the sea;
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear;
When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain,

And they who stand to face us

Are beat to earth again;

And they who fly in terror deem

A mighty host behind,

And hear the tramp of thousands

Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil;

We talk the battle over,

And share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout

As if a hunt were up,

And woodland flowers are gathered

To crown the soldier's cup.

With merry songs we mock the wind

That in the pine-top grieves,

And slumber long and sweetly

On beds of oaken leaves.