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was always confined to a yacht or a yew-tree; and Z, condemned forever to be a zebra or a zany.

But now the very tree itself changes, and becomes a beanstalk,—the marvelous bean-stalk by which Jack climbed up to the giant's house. Jack,-how noble, with his sword of sharpness and his shoes of swiftness!

Good for Christmas-time is the ruddy color of the cloak in which, the tree making a forest of itself for her to trip through with her basket, Little Red Riding-Hood comes to me one Christmas eve, to give me information of the cruelty and treachery of that dissembling wolf who ate her grandmother, without making any impression on his appetite, and then ate her, after making that ferocious joke about his teeth. She was my first love. I felt that if I could have married Little Red Riding-Hood I should have known perfect bliss. But it was not to be, and there was nothing for it but to look out the wolf in the Noah's Ark there, and put him late in the procession on the table, as a monster who was to be degraded.

Oh, the wonderful Noah's Ark! It was not found seaworthy when put in a washing-tub, and the animals were crammed in at the roof, and needed to have their legs well shaken down before they could be got in even there; and then ten to one but they began to tumble out at the door, which was but imperfectly fastened with a wire latch; but what was that against it?

Consider the noble fly, a size or two smaller than the elephant; the lady-bird, the butterfly, - all triumphs of art! consider the goose, whose feet were so small and whose balance was so indifferent that he usually tumbled forward and knocked down all the animal creation! consider Noah and his family, like idiotic tobacco-stoppers; and how the leopard stuck to warm little fingers; and how the tails of the larger animals used gradually to resolve themselves into frayed bits of string.

Hush! Again a forest, and somebody up in a tree, not Robin Hood, not Valentine, not the Yellow Dwarf,-I have passed him and all Mother Bunch's wonders without mention, but an Eastern King with a glittering scymitar and turban. It is the setting-in of the bright Arabian Nights.

On now all common things become uncommon and enchanted to me! All lamps are wonderful! all rings are talisinans! Common flower-pots are full of treasure, with a little earth scattered on the top; trees are for Ali Baba to hide in; beefsteaks are to throw down into the Valley of Diamonds, that the precious stones may stick to them, and be carried by the eagles to their nests, whence the traders, with loud cries, will scare them. All the dates imported come from the same tree as that unlucky one with whose shell the merchant knocked out the eye of the genii's invis. ible son. All olives are of the same stock of that fresh fruit concerning which the Commander of the Faithful overheard the boy conduct the fictitious trial of the fraudulent olive. merchant. Yes, on every object that I recognize among those upper branches of my Christmas tree I see this fairy light!

But hark! the Waits are playing, and they break my childish sleep! What images do I associate with the Christmas music as I see them set forth on the Christmas tree! Known before all the others, keeping far apart from all the others, they gather round my little bed. An angel, speaking to a group of shepherds in a field; some travelers, with eyes uplifted, following a star; a baby in a manger; a child in a spacious temple, talking with grave men: a solemn figure with a mild and beautiful face, raising a dead girl by the hand; again, near a city gate, calling back the son of a widow, on his bier, to life; a crowd of people looking through the opened roof of a chamber where he sits, and letting down a sick person on a bed, with ropes; the same, in a tempest, walking on the waters; in a ship, again, on a sea-shore, teaching a great multitude; again, with a child upon his knee, and other children around; again, restoring sight to the blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, health to the sick, strength to the lame, knowledge to the ignorant; again, dying upon a cross, watched by armed soldiers, a darkness coming on, the earth beginning to shake, and only one voice heard, "Forgive them, for they know not what they do!"

Encircled by the social thoughts of Christmas time, still let the benignant figure of my childhood stand unchanged! In every cheerful image and suggestion that the season

brings, may the bright star that rested above the poor roof be the star of all the Christian world!

A moment's pause, O vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are dark to me yet, and let me look once more. I know there are blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved have shone and smiled, from which they are departed. But, far above, I see the Raiser of the dead girl and the widow's son,-and God is good!

Whittier's "Child Life in Prose."

YE EDITOR'S PERPLEXITIES.

An editor is Mister Squibbs,
A man of lordly will;

A mighty man likewise to wield
Ye scissors and ye quill.

Ye humble honors of ye press
With lofty pride he wears;
Although no millionaire, he hath
Well, nigh a million airs.

He strives with dignity to feed
Ye little Squibbs with bread,
And eke upon ye wings of fame
Ye name of Squibbs to spread.

He takes his little perquisites-
Ye which each Press man knows-
With ever ready, gracious air,

For which he "puffs" bestows.

Now, Mr. Squibbs he had a pass
Upon ye railroad train;

Ye which was stolen; ye loss of which
It vexed him sore with pain.

Then, with a frown of dignity,

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Squibbs sought ye President:

'Give orders to your hirelings straight,

Through all your road's extent,

"To seize the man, wherever found,
Who to my name aspires."

Ye orders flew, and Mr. Squibbs
With dignity retires.

Not many days thereafter, Squibbs
With dignity arose,

And clad his dignity and limbs
All in his Sunday clothes;

For Squibbs was bid to scenes of mirth
All in ye distant town,

And merrily he cut his pen

To note ye doings down.

And while he viewed his toilette o'er,
All by a luckless chance,
He hit upon ye stolen pass,

Safe in his Sunday pants.

With lofty air Squibbs gave ye pass
Unto ye ticket man:

"Eureka!" muttered he, and turned
Ye face of Squibbs to scan.

Then, with a flaming lantern, sore,
He smote Squibbs on ye head;
Three bloody brakemen then he called,
Who bore him out as dead.

Upon ye lordly Squibbs then sat
Three brakemen, great and small,
Ye while ye wrathful ticket man
His clothes did overhaul.

They found a pass on every road
That runs ye world around;

They bound him fast, and swore they had
Ye king of pass-thieves found.

His freedom was at last restored;

His dignity, alas,

Was wrecked! and even to this day
Squibbs won't ride on a pass,

CASSIUS AGAINST CESAR.-SHAKSPEARE.

I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,
As well as I do know your outward favor.
Well, honor is the subject of my story.--
I cannot tell what you and other men

Think of this life; but, for my single self,
I had as lief not be, as live to be

In awe of such a thing as I myself.

I was born free as Cæsar; so were you:
We both have fed as well; and we can both
Endure the winter's cold as well as he:
For once, upon a raw and gusty day,

The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores,
Cæsar said to me, "Dar'st thou, Cassius, now
Leap in with me into this angry flood,

And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word,
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,

And bade him follow: so, indeed, he did.
The torrent roared; and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews, throwing it aside,

And stemming it, with hearts of controversy:
But ere we could arrive the point proposed,
Cæsar cried, "Help me, Cassius, or I sink!"

I, as Æneas, our great ancestor,

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Cæsar, and this man

Is now become a god; and Cassius is

A wretched creature, and must bend his body

If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him.

He had a fever when he was in Spain,

And, when the fit was on him, I did mark

How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake:
His coward lips did from their color fly;

And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world,
Did lose his lustre: I did hear him groan:

Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books,
Alas, it cried, “Give me some drink, Titinius,”

As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,

A man of such a feeble temper should

So get the start of the majestic world,
And bear the palm alone.

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world,
Like a Colossus; and we petty men

Walk under his huge legs, and peep about

To find ourselves dishonorable graves.

Men at some time are masters of their fates:

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Brutus, and Cæsar: what should be in that Cæsar?

Why should that name be sounded more than yours?
Write them together, yours is as fair a name;
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;
Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with them,

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