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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. 31