"No, my dear, I haven't been out this evening. I changed my mind."

Just then, Wallis entered the room with that peculiar Kossuth on his head, and the mystery was explained. Mrs. Centre was not a little confused, and very much ashamed of herself.

Wallis had been in Smithers' library smoking a cigar, and had not seen Sophia. Her statement that she had not seen Centre for a month was strictly true, and Mrs. Centre was obliged to acknowledge that she had been jealous without a cause, though she was not "let into" the plot of Wallis.

But Centre should have known better than to tell his wife what a pretty, intelligent, amiable, and kind-hearted girl Sophia was. No husband should speak well of any lady but his wife,

AUNT TABITHA.-O. W. HOLMES.

Whatever I do and whatever I say,
Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn't the way;
When she was a girl (forty summers ago),
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.

Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice-
But I like my own way, and I find it so nice!
And besides I forget half the things I am told;
But they all will come back to me-when I am old.

If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt,
He may chance to look in as I chance to look out;
She would never endure an impertinent stare,
It is borrid, she says, and I musn't sit there.

A walk in the moonlight has pleasure, I own,
But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone;
So I take a lad's arm--just for safety, you know-
But Aunt Tabitha tells me, they didn't do so.

How wicked we are, and how good they were then!
They kept at arm's length those detestable men;
What an era of virtue she lived in!--but stay-
Were the men such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day?

QQQ

If the men were so wicked,-I'll ask my papa
How he dared to propose to my darling mamma?
Was he like the rest of them? goodness! who knows?
And what shall I say, if a wretch should propose?

I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin,
What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been!
And her grand-aunt-it scares me-how shockingly sad
That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!

A martyr will save us, and nothing else can ;
Let us perish to rescue some wretched young man!
Though when to the altar a victim I go,
Aunt Tabitha'll tell me--she never did so.

THE DESERTED MILL.-Trans. from A. SCHINEZLER.

It stands in the lonely Winterthal,

At the base of Ilsberg hill;

It stands as though it fain would fall,-
The dark deserted mill.

Its engines coated with moss and mould,
Bide silent all the day;

Its mildewed walls and windows old
Are crumbling into decay.

So through the daylight's lingering hours,
It mourns in weary rest;

But soon as the sunset's gorgeous bowers
Begin to fade in the west,

The long-dead millers leave their lairs,

And open its creaking doors,

And their feet glide up and down its stairs,

And over its dusty floors.

And the miller's men, they too awake,
And the night's weird work begins;

The wheels turn round, the hoppers shake,
The flour falls into the binns.

The mill bell tolls again and again,

And the cry is "Grist here, ho!"

And the dead old millers and their men

Move busily to and fro.

And ever as night wears more and more
New groups throng into the mill,

And the clangor, deafening enough before,
Grows louder and wilder still.

Huge sacks are barrowed from floor to floor;
The wheels redouble their din ;

The hoppers clatter, and the engines roar,
And the flour o'erflows the bin.

But with the morning's pearly sheen,
This ghastly hubbub wanes,

And the moon-dim face of a woman is seen
Through the meal-dulled window-panes;
She opens the sash, and her words resound
In tones of unearthly power-

"Come hither, good folks, the corn is ground;
Come hither and take your flour!"

Thereon strange hazy lights appear,
A-flitting all through the pile,

And a deep, melodious, choral cheer
Ascends through the roof the while;
But a moment more, and you gaze and hark,
And wonder and wait in vain;

For suddenly all again is dark,

And all is hushed again.

It stands in the desolate Winterthal,

At the base of Ilsberg hill;

It stands as though it would rather fall,

The long deserted mill.

Its engines, coated with moss and mould,
Bide silent all the day;

Its mildewed walls and windows old
Are crumbling fast away.

SOME MOTHER'S CHILD.-FRANCIS L. KEELER.

At home or away, in the alley or street,
Wherever I chance in this wide world to meet
A girl that is thoughtless, or a boy that is wild,

My heart echoes softly, ""Tis some mother's child."

And when I see those o'er whom long years have rolled, Whose hearts have grown hardened, whose spirits are cold,Be it woman all fallen, or man all defiled,

A voice whispers sadly, "Ah! some mother's child."

No matter how far from the right she hath strayed;
No matter what inroads dishonor hath made:

No matter what elements cankered the pearl-
Though tarnished and sullied, she is some mother's girl.

No matter how wayward his footsteps have been;
No matter how deep he is sunken in sin:
No matter how low is his standard of joy ;—

Though guilty and loathsome, he is some mother's boy.
That head hath been pillowed on some tender breast;
That form hath been wept o'er, those lips have been pressed;
That soul hath been prayed for, in tones sweet and mild:
For her sake deal gently with-some mother's child.

TRUE HEROISM.

Let others write of battles fought,
Of bloody, ghastly fields,

Where honor greets the man who wins,
And death, the man who yields;

But I will write of him who fights

And vanquishes his sins,

Who struggles on through weary years
Against himself, and wins.

He is a hero staunch and brave
Who fights an unseen foe,
And puts at last beneath his feet
His passions base and low;
Who stands erect in manhood's might
Undaunted, undismayed,-

The bravest man who drew a sword
In foray, or in raid.

It calls for something more than brawn
Or muscle to o'ercome

An enemy who marcheth not

With banner, plume, and drum-

A foe forever lurking nigh,

With silent, stealthy tread;
Forever near your board by day,
At night beside your bed.

All honor, then, to that brave heart!
Though poor or rich he be,
Who struggles with his better part-
Who conquers and is free.

He may not wear a hero's crown,
Or fill a hero's grave,

But truth will place his name among
The bravest of the brave.

THE BABY'S FIRST TOOTH.-DANBURY NEWS MAN.

Mr. and Mrs. Jones had just finished their breakfast. Mr. Jones had pushed back his chair and was looking under the lounge for his boots. Mrs. Jones sat at the table, holding the infant Jones and mechanically working her forefinger in its mouth. Suddenly she paused in the motion, threw the astonished child on its back, turned as white as a sheet, pried open its mouth, and immediately gasped "Ephraim!” Mr. Jones, who was yet on his knees with his head under the lounge, at once came forth, rapping his head sharply on the side of the lounge as he did so, and getting on his feet, inquired what was the matter. "O Ephraim," said she, the tears rolling down her cheeks and the smiles coursing up. "Why, what is it, Aramathea?" said the astonished Mr. Jones, smartly rubbing his head where it had come in contact with the lounge. "Baby!" she gasped. Mr. Jones turned pale and commenced to sweat. "Baby! 0—0—0 Ephraim! Baby has-baby has got a little toothey, oh! oh!" "No!" screamed Mr. Jones, spreading his legs apart, dropping his chin and staring at the struggling heir with all his might. "I tell you it is," persisted Mrs. Jones, with a slight evidence of hysteria. "Oh, it can't be!" protested Mr. Jones, preparing to swear if it wasn't. "Come here and see for yourself," said Mrs. Jones. "Open its 'ittle mousywousy for its own muzzer; that's a toody-woody; that's a blessed 'ittle 'ump o' sugar." Thus conjured, the heir opened its mouth sufficiently for the father to thrust in his finger, and that gentleman having convinced himself by the most unmistakable evidence that a tooth was there, immediately kicked his hat across the room, buried his fist in the lounge, and declared with much feeling that he could lick the individual who would dare to intimate that he was not the happiest man on the face of the earth. Then he gave Mrs. Jones a hearty smack on the mouth and snatched up the heir, while that lady rushed tremblingly forth after Mrs. Simmons, who lived next door. In a moment Mrs. Simmons came tearing in as if she had been shot out of a gun, and right behind her came Miss Simmons at a speed that indicated that she had