and to sleep upon the turret of an adjoining chapel, which looked upon his grave; and here she lived, and here she died,

about four months after the death of her beloved master.

XLVI. MOONLIGHT IN THE TROPICS.

Gosse.

[From A Naturalist's Sojourn in Jamaica, a work by Philip Henry Gosse, a distinguished living naturalist of England.]

THERE is something exceedingly romantic in the nights of the tropics. It is pleasant to sit on the landing place at the top of the flight of steps in front of Bluefields House,* after night has spread her "purple wings" over the sky, or even to lie at full length on the smooth stones; it is a hard bed, but not a cold one, for the thick flags, exposed to the burning sun through the day, become thoroughly heated, and retain a considerable degree of warmth till morning nearly comes again. The warmth of the stones is particularly pleasant, as the cool night breezes play over the face.

The scene is favorable for meditation; the moon, "walking in brightness," gradually climbing up to the very centre of the deep-blue sky, sheds on the grassy sward, the beasts lying down here and there, the fruit trees, the surrounding forest, and the glistening sea spread out in front, a soft but brilliant radiance unknown to the duller regions of the north. The babbling of the little rivulet, winning its seaward way over the rocks and pebbles, comes like distant music upon the ear, of which the bass is supplied by the roll of the surf falling on the sea beach at measured intervals a low, hollow roar, protracted until it dies away along the sinuous shore, the memorial of a fierce but transitory sea breeze.

But there are sweeter sounds than these; the mocking bird takes his seat on the highest twig of the orange tree at my

* The name of a country house in the Island of Jamaica.

feet, and pours forth his rich and solemn gushes of melody, with an earnestness as if his soul were in his song. A rival from a neighboring tree commences a similar strain; and now the two birds exert all their powers, each striving his utmost to outsing the other, until the silence of the lonely night rings with bursts, and swells, and tender cadences of melodious song.

Here and there, over the pasture, the intermittent green spark of the firefly flits along, and at the edges of the bounding woods scores of twinkling lights are seen, appearing and disappearing in the most puzzling manner. Three or four bats are silently winging along through the air, now passing over the face of the vertical moon like tiny black specks, now darting through the narrow arch beneath the steps, and now flitting so close overhead that one is tempted to essay their сарture with an insect net. The light of the moon, however, though clearly revealing their course, is not powerful or precise enough for this, and the little nimble leather-wings pursue their giddy play in security.

XLVII.-THE CONJUGATING DUTCHMAN.

Two English gentlemen once stepped into a coffee house in Paris, where they observed a tall, odd-looking man, who appeared not to be a native, sitting at one of the tables, and looking around with the most stone-like gravity of countenance upon every object. Soon after the two Englishmen entered, one of them told the other that a celebrated dwarf had arrived in Paris. At this the grave-looking personage above mentioned opened his mouth and spake. "I arrive," said he, "thou arrivest, he arrives, we arrive, you arrive, they arrive."

The Englishman whose remark seemed to have suggested this mysterious speech stepped up to the stranger and asked, "Did you speak to me, sir?" "I speak," replied the stranger, "thou speakest, he speaks, we speak, you speak, they speak."

"How is this?" said the Englishman: "do you mean to insult me?" The other replied, " I insult, thou insultest, he insults, we insult, you insult, they insult." "This is too much," said the Englishman; "I will have satisfaction: if you have any spirit with your rudeness, come along with me." To this defiance the imperturbable stranger replied, "I come, thou comest, he comes, we come, you come, they come;" and thereupon he rose with great coolness, and followed his challenger.

In those days, when every gentleman wore a sword, duels were speedily despatched. They went into a neighboring alley, and the Englishman, unsheathing his weapon, said to his antagonist, "Now, sir, you must fight me." "I fight,” replied the other, "thou fightest, he fights, we fight," (here he made a thrust,) "you fight, they fight;" and here he disarmed his antagonist. "Well," said the Englishman, "you have the best of it, and I hope you are satisfied." "I am satisfied," said the original, "thou art satisfied, he is satisfied, we are satisfied, you are satisfied, they are satisfied." "I am glad every body is satisfied," said the Englishman; "but pray leave off quizzing me in this strange manner, and tell me what is your object, if you have any, in doing it."

The grave gentleman now, for the first time, became intelligible. "I am a Dutchman," said he, "and am learning your language. I find it very difficult to remember the peculiarities of the verbs; and my tutor has advised me, in order to fix them in my mind, to conjugate every English verb that I hear spoken. This I have made it a rule to do. I don't like to have my plans broken in upon while they are in operation, or I would have told you of this before." The Englishman laughed heartily at this explanation, and invited the conjugating Dutchman to dine with them. I will dine," replied he, "thou wilt dine, he will dine, we will dine, you will dine, they will dine, we will dine all together." This they accordingly did, and it was difficult to say whether the Dutchman ate or conjugated with most perseverance.

66

XLVIII.-NEW YEAR'S EVE.

TENNYSON.

[Alfred Tennyson, the author of this poem, is the most distinguished of the living poets of England.]

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New Year;
It is the last New Year that I shall ever see;

Then you may lay me low in the mould, and think no more of

me.

To-night I saw the sun set; he set and left behind

The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of

mind;

And the New Year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The May upon the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day! Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen o

May;

And we danced about the May-pole, and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain * came out above the tall, white chimney

tops.

There's not a flower on all the hills; the frost is on the pane; I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again ;

I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on high;

I long to see a flower so, before the day I die.

The building rook 'll caw from the windy, tall elm tree,

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea;

And the swallow 'll come back again with summer o'er the

wave;

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

A constellation in the heavens.

Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine,
In the early, early morning, the summer sun 'll shine,
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning

light,

You'll never see me more in the long, gray fields at night;
When from the dry, dark wold the summer airs blow cool
On the oat grass, and the sword grass, and the bulrush in the

pool.

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid; I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head, in the long and pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow; Nay,—nay, -you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild; You should not fret for me, mother; you have another child.

If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting place;
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,
And be often, often with you, when
think I'm far away.

you

Good night, good night: when I have said good night forever

more,

And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door, Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing

green;

She'll be a better child to you than I have ever been.

She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor;

Let her take 'em; they are hers; I shall never garden more;