NUMBER SIX. in my coat-skirt pocket. There was a camp-chair bung on me somewhere, too, but I forget just where. Now," said Maria Ann, "we must run or we shall not catch the train." "Maria Ann," said I, that is a reasonable idea. Ποι do you suppose that I can run with all this freight?" So I ran. I had one comfort, at least. Maria Ann fell down and broke her parasol. She called me a brute again because I laughed. She drove me all the way to the depot in a brisk trot, and we got on the cars; but neither of us could get a seat, and I could not find a place where I could set the things down, so I stood there and held them. "Maria," said I in winning accents, "how is this for a cool morning ride?" Said she, "you are a brute, Jenkins." Said I, you have made that observation before, my love." I kept my courage up, yet I knew there would be an hour of wrath when we got home. While we were getting out of the cars, the bottle in my coat-pocket broke, and consequently I had one boot half full of vinegar all day. That kept me pretty quiet, and Maria Ann ran off with a big whiskered music teacher, and lost her fan, and got her feet wet, and tore her dress, and enjoyed herself so much, after the fashion of pic-nic goers. I thought it would never come dinner time, and Maria Ann called me a pig because I wanted to open our basket before the rest of the baskets were opened. At last dinner came-the "nice dinner in the woods," you know. Over three thousand little red ants had got into our dinner, and they were worse to pick out than fish bones. The ice cream had melted, and there was no vinegar for the cold meat, except what was in my boot, The music and of course that was of no immediate use. teacher spilled a cup of hot coffee on Maria Ann's head, and pulled all the frizzles out trying to wipe off the coffee with his handkerchief. Then I sat on a piece of raspberry pie, and spoiled my white pants, and concluded I didn't "Take our souls;"-and past the casement Little souls that stand expectant, When your hand shall grasp this standard Pray to Him, the God of battles, Whose strong eyes can never sleep, In the warring of temptation, Firm and true your souls to keep. When the combat ends, and slowly When the last night's solemn shadow PATRIOTISM.-T. F. MEAGHER. BEREFT of patriotism, the heart of a nation will be cold and cramped and sordid; the arts will have no enduring impulse, and commerce no invigorating soul; society will degenerate, and the mean and vicious triumph. Patriotism is not a wild and glittering passion, but a glorious reality. The virtue that gave to Paganism its dazzling lustre, to Barbarism its redeeming trait, to Christianity its heroic form, is not dead. It still lives to console, to sanctify humanity. It has its altar in every clime-its worship and festivities. On the heathered hills of Scotland the sword of Wallace is yet a bright tradition. The genius of France, in the brilliant literature of the day, pays its high homage to the piety and heroism of the young Maid of Orleans. In her new Senate-Hall, England bids her sculptor place, among the effigies of her greatest sons, the images of Hampden and of Russell. In the gay and graceful capital of Belgium, the daring hand of Geefs has reared a monument, full of glorious meaning, to the three hundred martyrs of the revolution. By the soft, blue waters of Lake Lucerne stands the chapel of William Tell. On the anniversary of his revolt and victory, across those waters, as they glitter in the July sun, skim the light boats of the allied cantons. From the prows hang the banners of the republic, and, as they near the sacred spot, the daughters of Lucerne chant the hymns of their old poetic land. Then bursts forth the glad Te Deum, and Heaven again hears the voice of that wild chivalry of the mountains which, five centuries since, pierced the white eagle of Vienna, and flung it bleeding on the rocks of Uri. At Innspruck, in the black aisle of the old cathedral, the peasant of the Tyrol kneels before the statue of Andreas Hofer. In the defiles and valleys of the Tyrol, who forgets the day on which he fell within the walls of Mantua? It is a festive day all through this quiet, noble land. In that old cathedral his inspiring memory is recalled amid the pageantries of the altar-his image appears in every house-his victories and virtues are proclaimed in the songs of the people-and when the sun goes down, a chain of fires, in the deep red light of which the eagle spreads his wings and holds his giddy revelry, proclaims the glory of the chief, whose blood has made his native land a sainted spot in Europe. Shall not all join in this glorious worship? Shall not all have the faith, the duties, the festivities of patriotism? LL A CATASTROPHE, ON a pine woodshed, in an alley dark, where scattered moonbeams, shifting through a row of tottering chimneys and awnings torn and drooping, fell, strode back and forth, with stiff and tense-drawn muscles and peculiar tread, a cat. His name was Norval; on yonder neighboring sheds his father caught the rats that came in squads from the streets beyond Dupont, in search of food and strange adventure. Grim war he courted, and his twisted tail and spine upheaving in fantastic curves, and claws distended, and ears, flatly pressed against a head thrown back, defiantly told of impending strife. With eyes a-gleam and screeching blasts of war, and steps as silent as the falling dew, young Norval crept along the splintered edge, and gazed a moment through the darkness down, with tail awag triumphantly. Then with an imprecation and a growl-perhaps an oath in direst vengeance hissed-he started back, and crooked his body like a letter S, or like a U inverted (n) stood in fierce expectancy. 'Twas well. With eyeballs glaring and ears aslant, and open mouth, in which two rows of fangs stood forth in sharp and dread conformity, slap up a post from out the dark below, a head appeared. A dreadful tocsin of determined strife young Norval uttered, then, with a face unblanched and mustache standing straight before his nose, and tail flung wildly to the passing breeze, stepped back in cautious invitation to the foe. Approaching each other, with preparations dire, each cat surveyed the vantage of the field. Around they walked, tails uplifted and backs high in air, while from their mouths, in accents hissing with consuming rage, dropped brief but awful sentences of hate. Twice around they went in circle, each eye upon the foe intently bent, then sideways moving, as is wont with cats, gave one long-drawn, terrific, savage yeow and buckled in. Yeow-spit-rip-scratch-there goes an eye! Slapyeow-spit-rip-there goes an ear! Hirr-ra-rr-ooghyeow-hay! Curse you-cat you-maul you-kat! The fur flew. A mist of hair hung o'er the battle field. High above the din of passing wagons rose the dreadful tumult of struggling cats. So gleamed their eyes in frenzy, that to me who saw the conflict from the window near, naught else was plain but gory stars that moved in orbs eccentric. Silence supervenes! Then a low, tremulous wail, like the expiring note of a wheezy hand-organ, breaks the awful stillness. A shiver-a shake of the tail, a gasp, and the cat-as-trophe is consummated. A cat is in shadow land. Then went I forth with lantern, and the fleld surveyed -what saw I? Six claws, one ear, of teeth, perhaps, a handfull; naught else except a solitary tail. That tail was Norval's; by a ring I knew it. The ear was-but we'll let the matter pass. The tail will do without the ear. GRADATIM.-J. G. HOLLAND. HEAVEN is not reached at a single bound; I count this thing to be grandly true; We rise by things that are under our feet: We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, When the morning calls us to life and light; |