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him to the vacant place next her own, at
the bountifully spread table, and with her
own little hands helped the plate of the
astonished boy with rich and rare dain
ties.
Asa servant drew near, with some of
Marco’s own beautiful apples in a hand
some silver basket, Amy put out her
hand and taking several, placed them
near the well-filled plate of the Italian
boy. The boy looked down upon the
fairy-like little creature at his side and
murmured, “ This must be a dream, Sig
norina; it carries me back to the happy
days, before we left our beautiful home
across the seas.”
By-and-by the couples began to leave
the arbor and stroll about the large,
beautiful garden. Then someone pro
posed a story. At that moment Mr.
Chilton and Amy left the arbor, together
with Marco.
“ There! let us ask Marco to tell us a
story,” and, gathering around him, the
little voices all eagerly begged of the
Italian boy a story.
“A story!” he replied, in his musical
voice, “Would you deign to listen to the
story of a poor, lone boy?”
“Yes! yes!” said the merry voices,
and they drew him down upon a low
garden chair beneath the illuminated
boughs of a waving evergreen, and clus
tered about him.
“Do tell us a story, good Marco!”
whispered the sweet voice of the little
hostess. And, looking into her beautiful
eyes, the boy answered with all the win
ning flattery and fascinating manner
which so well become the children of that
far-off, sunny land :
“Ah, Signorina, you speak, and I obey.
I cannot resist that melodious voice, those
starry eyes.”
With a rosy blush upon her velvety
cheek, Amy crept near her father’s side
’ and placing her hand in his, looked into
his smiling face and said : “ Father, what
| did he mean ?”
“ Why, he meant, pet, that you are a
| very fascinating young lady,” and Mr.
Chilton’s face shaped itself into a very
' comical expression as he glanced at the
puzzled little face at his side. “Are we
[ going to have a story?” he asked a ino
iment later, turning towards Marco.
With a graceful wave of his hand,
Marco Castino commenced his story:
i “My home across the seas was very
beautiful, for it was in a lovely land —-
... the land of beautiful clouds, blue waters,
sweet songs, and magnificent paintings.
My father was of noble birth ; my bright,
,my lovely mother was a Contossa. But,
BURKE’S WEEKLY.
alas ! my parents were poor. My father
toiled early and late, and many were the
beautiful pictures he painted. Our little
home was a sweet nook, with flowers and
fruits, running vines and birds, and my
mother was the blithest bird of all. I was
their only child, petted and caressed.
Thus we lived until my tenth year, when
my father, having been robbed or cheated
out of his most beautiful painting by a
gentleman of high rank, his fierce Italian
nature was aroused. He demanded satis
faction ; they met, and my father came
home with his hands stained with the
nobleman’s blood. My father’s friends
advised him to leave the country, and,
disposing of his property, we embarked
for America.
“We reached the city of Hew Orleans
during the yellow fever season; and in
that strange city, among strangers, my
parents died of that terrible disease, and
I was left alone and desolate. For more
than two years I wandered from place to
place, striving to find a home; living first
here and then there ; picking up a few
English words at this place and at that,
until I reached this city. I was wander
ing about the streets one morning, faint
with hunger and wmary with walking,
when an old gentleman with a kind, hon
est face approached me, and having asked
my name, age, and all about me, told me
to go home with him, and I might assist
him in overlooking his farm and orchard.
So I went to the country with him, and
during the winter I brought winter ap-
and other nuts to the city
and sold them, and during the strawberry
season I walked the streets with fresh
berries to sell; and now that cherries and
apples are coming in I have quite a- busy
time. To-day at noon, as I was about
leaving for home, I heard two gentlemen
talking together, one of them —yourself,
signor,—was regretting that he had fail
ed in getting a sufficient supply of apples
for his little daughter’s festival, and ask
ed if his friend knew where he could get
some. £ I do not know, Mr. Chilton,’ re
plied his friend. I hastened home as
speedily as possible, and, gathering a bas
ket full of the nicest and best, I return
ed to the city; but it was already dusk,
and having tramped up and down several
streets before I could find the residence
of Mr. Chilton, these young signors and
signorinas were enjoying their festival
supper ere I made my rude entrance up
on them, interrupting and marring their
merriment.”
“O, no, no! Marco,” cried the little
voices; “we are so glad you came, and
thank you so much for your story.”
“ But, my boy,” said Mr. Chilton,
“ docs such a life suit you ? are you con
tent, to spend your life as an ‘ apple ven
der?”’
“ Content! alas, no, signor! Iso crave,
so long to be an artist, as my father was
before me ; but, ah, it cannot be, and I
must content myself with what a kind
Providence gives to me.”
“ Marco ! Marco ! come home and live
with me,” exclaimed many voices in uni
son. Little Amy Chilton said nothing,
though she thought much.
Two hours later, her guests having
taken their departure, the little lady was
dreaming quietly upon her pillow,—
dreaming of large, rosy June apples, of
dark, sad eyes, and birthday festivals.
Some nine or ten years later, I visited
the city on business, and, becoming ac
quainted with Mr. Chilton, he invited me
to his house to dine with his family. At
the table I was introduced to a tall, hand
some Italian, Signor Castino, and a beau
tiful, fairy-like little creature, Signora
Amy Castino, his wife. In the drawing
room I saw and admired many beautiful
paintings. “ All by the same master, my
son-in-law, Signor Castino,” said my de
lighted host, gently rubbing his hands
together, and thereupon told me the whole
story of his daughter “Amy’s birthday
party, and wffiat came of it.”
♦♦♦
My Garden.
My garden spot is very small.
And yet fresh flowers, rich and rare,
Shed within its narrow wall
Sweetest fragrance all the year;
For when dark clouds of leaden hue
Lower without, within my ground
Shine two bright spots of Heaven’s own blue,
With golden sunbeams glancing round.
There bluest violets appear
That sometimes through clear rain-drops glisten,
And merry chirping fills the air
Where all day long I sit and listen.
There roses always brightly glow
Upon their soft and downy bed,
And on little banks of snow
Lie twin cherries, ripe and red.
And would you know why all the year
My flowers are gay, and bright my skies ?
The sunshine dwells in Clelia’s hair,
The violets bloom in Charley’s eyes.
Clarkesville, Ga. M.
♦♦♦ —
Logic.—As a specimen of the utility of
logic, Ave gi\ r e the following:
A sharp student was called up by tho
worthy professor of a celebrated college,
and asked the question :
“Can a man see without eyes?”
“Yes, sir,” Avas the prompt ans Aver,
“llow, sir,” cried the amazed professor,
“can a man see without eyes ? Pray, sir,
how do you make that out ?”
“He -can see with one, sir,” replied tho
ready-witted youth ; and the whole -class
shouted Avith. delight at the triumph over
metaphysics.
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