A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS. 'Twas the night after Christmas, when all through the house I sprang from my sleep, crying, "What is the matter?" Tore open the curtains and threw off the clothes; For, what to the fond father's eyes should appear When my Nancy exclaimed-for their sufferings shocked her "Don't you think you had better, love, run for the doctor?" I ran-and was scarcely back under my roof, When I heard the sharp clatter of old Jalap's hoof; I might say that I hardly had turned myself round, And he looked like John Falstaff half fuddled with sack. And the beard on his chin wasn't white as the snow. Must get rid"-here he laughed-" of the rest of that jelly." THE OLD STORY.-ALICE CARY. The waiting women wait at her feet, And down and down from the mossy eaves, Ah! never had sleeper a sleep so fair; And the waiting women that weep around, Have taken the combs from her golden hair, And the night wind cries and cries and cries. From her hand they have taken the shining ring, They have brought the linen her shroud to make: Oh, the lark she was never so loath to sing, And the morn she was never so loath to awake! And at their sewing they hear the rain,— Drip-drop, drip-drop over the eaves, And drip-drop over the sycamore leaves, As if there would never be sunshine again. The mourning train to the grave have gone, And the waiting women are here and are there, With birds at the windows, and gleams of the sun, Making the chamber of death to be fair. And under and over the mist unlaps, And ruby and amethyst burn through the gray, And driest bushes grow green with spray, And the dimpled water its glad hands claps. The leaves of the sycamore dance and wave, And the mourners put off the mourning shors; And over the pathway down to the grave The long grass blows and blows and blows, And every drip-drop rounds to a flower, And love in the heart of the young man springs, And the hands of the maidens shine with rings, As if all life were a festival hour. To whose sacred trust is given Without which each mortal living Can the way of life be spoken And all ears receive the token May the unerring word be written And all seeking eyes be smitten No! my inmost soul makes answer Right and wrong's perplexing riddle No! I may not teach another Truth and error are but darkly Each may hold a little measure Each may give his little treasure But the eternal search remaineth Loftier and still loftier Pisgahs Something from the ancient sowing But the manna of the Hebrew Give us daily bread, O Father! To our growing needs, that ever Thou who lead'st thy yearning children Know'st their strength is in the climbing AURELIA'S UNFORTUNATE YOUNG MAN. MARK TWAIN (S. L. CLEMENS). The facts in the following case came to me by letter from a young lady who lives in the beautiful city of San José; she is perfectly unknown to me, and simply signs herself “ Aurelia Maria,” which may possibly be a fictitious name. But no matter, the poor girl is almost heart-broken by the misfortunes she has undergone, and so confused by the conflicting counsels of misguided friends and insidious enemies, that she does not know what course to pursue in order to extricate herself from the web of difficulties in which she seems almost hopelessly involved. In this dilemma she turns to me for help, and supplicates for my guidance and instruction with a moving eloquence that would touch the heart of a statue. Hear her sad story: She says that when she was sixteen years old she met and loved, with all the devotion of a passionate nature, a young man from New Jersey, named Williamson Breckinridge Caruthers, who was some six years her senior. They were engaged, with the free consent of their friends and relatives, and for a time it seemed as if their career was destined to be characterized by an immunity from sorrow beyond the usual lot of humanity. But at last the tide of fortune turned; young Caruthers became infected with small-pox of the most virulent type, and when he recovered from his illness, his face was pitted like a waffle-mold, and his comeliness gone forever. Aurelia thought to break off the engagement at first, but pity for her unfortunate lover caused her to postpone the marriage-day for a season, and give him another trial. The very day before the wedding was to have taken place, Breckinridge, while absorbed in watching the flight of a balloon, walked into a well and fractured one of his legs, and it had to be taken off above the knee. Again Aurelia was moved to break the engagement, but again love triumphed, and she set the day forward and gave him another chance to reform. And again misfortune overtook the unhappy youth. He lost one arm by the premature discharge of a Fourth-ofJuly cannon, and within three months he got the other pulled out by a carding machine. Aurelia's heart was almost crushed by these latter calamities. She could not but be deeply grieved to see her lover passing from her by piecemeal, feeling, as she did, that he could not last forever under this disastrous process of reduction, yet knowing |