THE GENIUS OF MENDELSSOHN.

THERE are very few persons born into the world whom fortune favors with all her gifts. To one she gives beauty without talents or wealth, to another wealth with neither talents nor beauty, and so on, dispensing, it is true, with a liberal hand, but very seldom bestowing all her good gifts on one individual. Yet sixty-three years ago fortune so turned her wheel that all fell to one person. This was Felix Mendelssohn, who was born on the 3d of February, 1809. He was well named Felix, for in character, talents, and circumstance he was indeed the "happy one."

Immensely wealthy, perfectly beautiful in person and character, and with such a mighty genius, we may well say he merited his name.

When a very young child, his musical talents developed themselves, and some of his most exquisite music was written before his twentieth year. The music of the "Midsummer Night's Dream" was composed when he was nineteen. He was an admirable performer on the piano at fifteen, being possessed of a talent for improvisation and a memory so wonderful, that not only could he play almost all Bach, Handel, Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, but could also accompany a whole opera from memory, having seen the score but once.

His music is a faithful representation of his character. Delicate and graceful, solemn and earnest, grand and sublime, it lifts one to a pure region where there is nothing but good and heavenly ideas. Who is not familiar with the plaintive sweetness of the "Songs without Words," the dreamy barcarolles, to hear one of which wafts one to fair Italy, drifting in imagination on the blue waters of Naples, and catching the drowsy ripple of the oars?

In Mendelssohn's music there is none of the hopeless sorrow that so breathes throughout all of Chopin's melodies; for, though it is often intensely sad, still there is always a glimpse of a fair future, for he was Felix, the happy.

In gracefulness of expression, purity of ideas, healthiness of tone, Mendelssohn's music seems always to me like Longfellow's poetry.

In Mendelssohn's letters there is always shown a most touching and childlike affection for his family; and all his life he maintained a deep and tender regard for all his loved ones. He lived one of the most virtuous and heavenly lives on record, and died on the 4th of November, 1847, in his thirty-eighth year.

M. F., age 16.

"THAT FIVE-DOLLAR BILL."

He has been a

MOST Washingtonians know, or have heard, of Ham Hughes. frequenter of the "Mash Market" for years innumerable, and any one who can truthfully boast that he ever got the best of Ham has cause, indeed, to be proud of the achievement. Many stories are told of his shrewdness, and some have even crept into print; but the one I am about to relate I can vouch the printer never saw.

It happened some years ago, when old Press Dorsey had just attained the height of his ambition, that of a hotel-keeper. He had leased a large house, and named it in honor of himself, the Dorsey Hotel, which name it still retains, though it has long since passed into other hands. Press was great on a practical joke; could enjoy one highly when perpetrated upon some one else, but if he happened to be the victim, in his opinion it was "disgusting." But I am digressing.

Dorsey had had in his possession for some time a bad five-dollar bill, and all his

efforts to get rid of it were in vain. One day he met Ham, and a brilliant idea flashed through his mind. Ham was a "sharp un," and if it was possible to pass

the bill, Ham could do it. So, stopping that innocent individual, he observed, 'Ham, here is a torn bill; I have n't time to bother with it, you shove it off, and I'll give you half."

"All right," says Ham, in a very confident tone, "I'll bring you two dollars and a half to-morrow morning, sure."

Dorsey, well pleased, started down town, and what does Ham do but walk into the bar-room of the Dorsey Hotel and loudly call for a drink. Bob, the genteel bar-keeper, with his blandest smile sets up the bottle, and Ham takes a good “swig.” He then pulls out the torn bill and tenders it in payment. Bob does n't look quite so bland, and with more force than elegance he informs Ham that "they ain't takin' them kind of bills as much as they used to."

"O, it's all right," says Ham, "Mr. Dorsey gave me the bill himself, not halfan hour ago."

He maintained his assertion with such vehemence, that Bob finally gave him his change, and he went his way rejoicing. Soon afterward he met Dorsey.

"O," says he, "I passed that bill; here's your share of the spoils."

"Good for you!" says Dorsey, secretly wondering at Ham's shrewdness. He immediately started for the hotel, as he had a heavy draft to meet that day, and was in search of the "needful." Entering the bar-room he went behind the counter and began taking out what money there was in the till. The first thing his eyes rested upon was that unfortunate five-dollar note. "Where in the world did this bill come from?" he demanded of Bob.

"Why, Ham Hughes left it here," says that gentleman; "he said you gave it to him."

The scene that ensued baffles description, and I left.

E. B., age 18.

And they both seemed to say, as they joined her play,
"We 'se doin' for berries over the way."

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Two blue eyes like two bright stars,
Two little hands taking down the bars;
One pouting mouth like a rosebud red, -
"I'se dot my berries," in triumph it said.

C. D. B., age 13.

SONG TO SEPTEMBER.

sun is shining unclouded, The corn is stand-ing in

sheaves; The hills are red with the maples, The birches have gold - en

brown, The moun-tain-ash and the elder With ber-ries are bend-ing down.

My 7, 14, 15, 6, 18, some people are of a beet, and one sixth of a carrot, equals

Without my 1, 2, 3, I am part of the awkward chest of tools? body. Without my 5, 6, 7, I am part of the the most successful.

2. The best plan ever proposed was

Without my 1, 2, 3, 4, I am one of a says it is obsolete. pack of cards.

Without my 1, 2, 4, I am something soon be with us. that horses do.

My whole is the outside of anything.