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All this the little maiden said,
While yet her hat was on her head,
And shawl was o'er her shoulders spread.

I said, “ How is your Aunty Nell ?"
I hope to hear that she is well.”

She lifted up her great black eyes,
Pursed up her mouth, and looked so wise,
As if to note my great surprise.

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“ You do not want another cousin ?
For you have now at least a dozen:
There's Tom and Jim, and Joe and Hurley,
And then your little namesake, Perley."

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“O Perley ! how you rattle on;

I'll have to tell your Uncle John
Your tongue runs like a dinner-bell;
Come, let us go and see Aunt Nell;
Now hurry up, get ready quick-
You know Aunt Nell is very sick.”

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“Why, Perley, you have told a lie !"
She poked her fat fist in her eye,
And straightway raised a deafening cry.
The briny tears ran down her cheek,
Sobs choked her so she could not speak,
And all her attitude was meek.


“Why did you tell me such a tale ?

To find you out I could not fail !”?

She came and stood beside my knee-
A prettier puss there could not be.
My fingers in her hand she took,

And gave me such a curious look:
Tom read it to me in a book;

The boy was 'ittle Henwy Pool-
He dot ze book at Sunday-Tool,
An' Tommy says zose books are true,
An' papa says so, too-don't oo ?”



ON a Christmas morning, many years ago, I stood

upon the deck of a merchantman, in the harbor of Cadiz, in Spain.

The cathedral and convent bells were ringing out their carols, in commemoration of that event, which, two thousand years ago, brought the tidings of peace on earth and good will to men; and as I leaned on the taffrail, infused with the glamour of youth, enveloped in the Indian-summer haze of that delicious atmosphere, which predisposes the most stolid to revery, I gazed on the beautiful town, that rose like a city of pearl from the sea, and mused.

I could hardly realize my own identity; that I, a boy born and reared on the margin of the Great Lakes, was floating on the same waters which had borne the Phoenician feets three thousand years ago; that I was looking on a city contemporary with Carthage, and which was old before Rome was born. On the distant mountain side I could see the towers of Ronda, where Julius Cæsar had fought a pitched battle of which he said, that, although he had fought many times for victory, he had fought but once for his life, and here was the spot; and Hannibal had here probably stopped when starting on that march which was to end only in Rome's abasement or her triumph. o

I thought of the advent of Christianity, and the dethrouement of the idols of Baal; of Roderick, the last of the Goths, and his fateful love; of the coming of the Moors, and of the empire they reared ; of the sorrows of Boabdil, the man without a country-the king without a throne; and as these imaginings floated across my brain as pinnacles before a soft south wind, a strain of music struck upon my ear. As its cadences floated across the tremulous floor of the sea, it sounded wondrously familiar. It was our national hymn. I turned ; and there, thank God! our flag was flying at the peak of a man-of-war. A great lump rose in my throat, great drops rolled down my cheeks, I reached out my arıns as if to enfold it. What to me were the historic scenes of Spain, and its fables, what its olive groves and acacias, what was Xerxes, Saguntum, the Alhambra, or the Guadalquiver? Yet, to one who knew not its significance, it was but a piece of bunting with hues harmoniously blended, not half so attractive as a painting or a landscape ; but no Murillo nor the gardens of Atlantis, could have awakened any such emotions in my breast.

What was it that endowed it with such power? It was the emblem of all I held dear on earth. It was home, country, power, protection, inspiration, restraint, society in solitude, wealth in poverty. From it as from a camera were thrown upon my heart visions of those I loved, of the beautiful city where I was born, of my companions in its streets, of the primeval forests of my State, of its environing lakes, of my country and its happy homes.



TWAS Easter night in Milan, and before

1 The altar, in the great Basilica,
Saint Ambrose stood. At the baptismal font
The youthful neophyte, Augustine, knelt,
His brow still wet; and at his side low bowed
His mother, Monica, her raised eyes strained
With more than earthly rapture, as she breathed
Her Nunc Dimittis Domine. The words
Of comfort spoken—"Be very sure the child
For whom thou offerest up so many prayers,
Shall not be lost ”—had full accomplishment,
And her tired heart found peace.

Saint Ambrose raised
His hands to heaven, and on his face there shone
Light such as glorified the prophet's when
An angel from God's altar bare a coal
And touched his lips. With solemn step and slow
He turned to meet Augustine, as he rose
Up from the pavement; and thereon he brake
Forth in ascriptive chant:

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