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[For The Sunny South.] “MV QUEEN.” FOR MINNIE LECLAIR. BY ANNIE MARIE. The daylight gleams within your eyes, The midnight in your hair; Your lips like coral-tinted shells, Your brow like lilies rare. I know not if you’re beautiful, As others beauty hold: To me your beauty lies within Your true and tender soul. I dream of you through happy days, I shut my eyes, and then A vision bright comes o’er my dream— I see you now, as when, Standing beneath the silent heavens, The moon with ray divine Shining athwart your midnight hair, I kissed and called you mine. Oh! since that time when, neath the stars I kissed you mine alone, The moonbeams shining in your hair, To me you’ve fairer grown; r You are more than beautiful, my Queen, When, with love’s ray divine Shining within their soul-lit depths, Your eyes look into mine. I love you with a love, my Queen, / As strong and pure and leal As ever knight or prince of old Did for his mistress feel. When, midst the mighty throng he stood, The tourney’s victor crowned, And at his lady’s feet the wreath, So proudly won, laid down. Oh! had I kingdoms for my own, A sceptre and a crown, I’d lay them at your feet, my Queen, With willing homage down; I’d gather from Golconda’s shore Jewels, the rarest seen, To place upon your snowy brow, My peerless love, my Queen. But none of these I have, my Queen — Gems, kingdom, crown or throne— So in iny heart alone, my Queen, You shall a kingdom own; And on a throne, as regally As e’er Bat queen of old, Shall sit, while on your brow I place A crown of love’s pure gold. BLOODY LINKS; —OR,— The Devil’s Chain. BY EDWARD JENKINS. A Member of the British Parliament, and the Au thor of “ Ginx's Baby," etc. Mate a chain : far the land it full nf bloody crimes, and the city is full of violence.—Ezekiel. the oolor began to gather in her cheeks as soon as she knew he was looking at her intently, and did not mean to go away. “You are still needy," he said; “come, let me give you an arm and help you along. I dare ■ not leave you like this.” His voice was rather deep and full. His face, ! though not a handsome one, was open and manly. His eyes were large and brown. They seemed to speak frankness. She thought so, though she hesitated. London streets were familiar to j her. She had trodden them unharmed, but she knew something of their perils. “I think I can manage,” she said, trying to | get up. But her knees trembled, for the crowd was still there, and the police were taking notes over the body of the dead woman. It was clear the shock bad unnerved the girl too much for so rapid a recovery. He held out his arm, and she , took it. “Now,” he said, “which way are you going?” ; “To Russell Square,” she si!. “And there ! I nearly left my parcel!” (stooping to pick it up). “I am taking this lace to a lady 7 at No. 52.” “Ah ! then you work in a shop, eh?” “Yes, Cutter & Chettam’s. But I think I can [ get on alone now. Please let go of my arm, sir. Thank you very much; I don’t want to keep i you.” “0, nonsense ! I mean to see you now as far as Russell Square. I am going to Bedford Row. Suppose you were to faint in the street, and some wicked people were to get hold of you, an d you so pretty ! ” The world was too young to her for this ob vious stroke to set her on her guard, and at that moment her attention was diverted by the noise of the crowd coming close behind them. In the midst were the silent men bearing the dark, dread object. It recalled her terror, and she } n ;arly swooned away. “Look here,” said the young man, “I see j ' uhat you want. You must have some brandy, i Here is a public.” And he dragged her into the j side bar of a public house, and put her on the seat against the wainscot. “ Twobrandy-and-waters hot.’ ” he said, “and be quick, please, The young lady is unwell.” The bar-maid, with her withering, painted cheeks, and garish dress, looked over the bright handles of the beer pumps, and the tall bottles, and the ranged pewters, at the pretty face of the girl on the seat, with a meaning leer. Then she winked to the young man. He understood her directly, and his face crimsoned. The dev ilish idea this woman—let us admit naturally in the circumstances and with her experience—had suggested to the young man, had really not be fore crossed his mind. He was no greenhorn^— no Christian —no moralist—no born gentleman— he was, in fact, a lawyer’s clerk, who ought at that time to have been hurrying to his employ- j er's office in Bedford Row, with the bundle of letters and papers that made his side pocket bulge so much. At the same time he was not a roue. “ Mind your own business, Miss,” he said to the bar-maid. “ A woman has just fallen out of a window close by, and this young lady nearly fainted.” “Oh ! I see," said the other, handing over two glasses of hot stuff. “ One and fourpence, please. A woman out of the window, IIE IS DEAD. Oh! heart-thrilling words— Carelessly, lightly, indifferently 6poken ! While elsewhere some fond heart is broken— Oh! words fraught with dread ! Whom did you say ? I tremblingly asked, while a throb Rose in my heart, which turned to a sob— Only a stranger over the way ! Cause of his death ? Can you tell me the wherefore and why ? Slowly and sadly I ask with a sigh— Under my breath! Unexpected ! Ah, me! these heart-breaking changes— Our nearest, our dearest, the augel of death, Oft chills with his pitiless breath ; Unwatched unattended 1 Where are his friends ? Heaven pity and aid them to bear That cross in which, sooner or later all share The cup which he sends ! Do they know? Have you sent them the tidings to-day? If not, break it gently, I pray— That mesage of woe! “Only a stranger I” It brought to my heart a sense of relief. Yet some home is bow’d down with grief— Mine out of danger! Ah, well! “ Only a stranger,” you carelessly say; You may fathom its pathos, alone, some day; Who can tell ? For nuawares, Sometimes, some day we know not when, Somewhere, somehow, we may not ken— Azareel awaits us. Only a stranger: Be pitiful. Lay him to rest. Folded away in the earth's dark breast Safe from all danger ! No longer a stranger ! [For The Sunny South.] Studies From Thackeray and Dickens. LINK THE FIRST. One February 7 afternoon, just as the yellow, dingy thing in London called light was deepen ing into absolute darkness, and the gas was be ginning to flicker in the streets and shops, pas sengers in St. Martin’s Lane, about half way between St. Martin’s Place and the crossways, Vt- ie statled by — Wliioir-nriv.n‘. frttut u window in the third floor of a house on the east sid i. A shrill, harrowing shriek it tvas, that cut and pierced the dismal air, and seemed to make it quiver as with horror—the shriek, too, of a woman. Those who, hearing it, at once lifted their eyes to the window whence it came, dis cerned for a moment, through the dusk, a strug gling shadow within the casement, struggling with some unseen hands, struggling only an in stant, for the next moment it sprang through the window, with a second shriek more keenand ter rible than the first, turned once, struck with its head almost noiselessly on a projecting sill of stone, tnrned over again, and then dropped head first with a dull thud on the stone pavement. And there it lay, a bundle of clothes and clay. Within three feet of the fallen heap, whatever it was, a man, who had been reeling up the street, with alternate lunges toward the curbstone and the bouses, and had brought up just then against a door post, looked down with bleary eyes upon the object so suddenly presented to his gaze. “W—w—wy !” he said, “d—d—damn you! w—w—where do you come from, eh? w—w— ho’s a meaning o’ shis? G—g—get out o’ the way, will you?" And reeling forward, he made an attempt to strike the heap before him with his foot, but, missing bis blow, be stumbled over it prone upon his face. Accustomed though it was to London sights, a thrill of horror ran through the small group that immediately formed on the footway. Hands were stretched out swiftly, and drew the cursing \ vagabond, with his bleeding nose and forehead, : from oft the awful heap of humanity that lay there dark and motionless, and he was thrown ; with maledictions on some stone steps not far away. Then two or three trembling men laid hold of j a woman’s gown and petticoats, and drew them i down decently over a woman's feet, which a | glance showed to be covered with gay shoes and stockings. And then they tnrned over what ; they knew must be a body, for there were drops j spattered about the flags that told their own ! tale. Ah ! the pavement was dinted and split, but what terrific vengeance it had taken on the tender object which had so broken it! The crowd had now grown large. Among the men and boys, the women and girls, who thronged together and stood there, with shocked faces and chilled hearts, shuddering at the spec tacle I dare not describe, was a young woman in her teens, neatly and rather coquettishly dressed, carrying a milliner's box. A minute before, she bad been tripping rapidly along the street with a light step and jaunty air, her face brightened with a sui ite as she hummed to herself a tamiliar catch. Glued to the spot by a fatal fascination, she had seen all we have been describing; and now, when the silent men lifted the dead crea ture, the sight was too much for the young girl to bear. Her face grew pallid, and slle began to . stagger. As she was about to fall, a young man saw her, caught her round the waist with his right arm—a right strong man—and said: “Hold up, my dear! Don't look at it any more. Here, I'll lead you out of the crowd.” He succeeded in getting her to a door-step, and, fanning her with his hat, she soon begun to revive. “Thank you,” she said, trying to smile at her benefactor. “ I shall be better presently. Thank you ever so much.” The face she turned up to the young man wae a very sweet one. It was plump and full; ths round cheek was evidently not often so colorless as it was then. The delicate, aquiline nose, the ; cherry lips, and bright blue eyes, the fair, long hair she left disporting about her shoulders, and the dainty little hat upon her head, altogether formed a striking picture; such a picture as in our dull city often makes an honest man turn round, and, with a kindly wish, say to himself, “ How pretty she is !” It was a modest face, too. The long lashes immediately drooped over the eyes under the young man’s ardent gaze, and BY TREBLA. The comparison sought to be drawn between Thackeray and Dickens in a late number of The Sunny South, while in the main a correct one, taking “Vanity Fair” as the masterpiece of the first named author, still I am bound to think that great injustice has been done one of my favorite novelists. I know it is fashionable to speak of the fame of Thackeray as though it depended on “Vanity Fair;” but there is an other of his works to which I have always given the preference, rather to his celebrated bur lesque on life. Ireferto “Pendennis.” Every in telligent reader must acknowledge and yield to “ Vanity Pair” praise for its matchless satire, its stuking delineation of the baser elements of human character; but every one who has fol lowed the fortunes of its puppets till, in the Mrs. Stingo,” she Shouted through a small aper-! language of the author himself, “the play is ture behind her to some one in a back-room, j played out,” must fee! at last that there is some- “ Another inquest for us, I shouldn’t wonder.” . thing lacking; that those men and women who “Thank God !” cried a woman’s voice. j have been parading the stage before us are not Other people, who bad witnessed the catastro- real ones—are not such as we meet in the world. As in a beautiful landscape, which is shrouded in clouds and gloom, the rays ol the sun are needed to throw the warmth of light and life over the scene, so in “Vanity Fair” that essence of. for tliHyatnnBk specied and' charity tbr ev^n their frailtira— is needed to give its character a more life-like air. In “Penden- nis,” wiioh is a^kno’Wledgei.'l, I believe, to/be in a great measure the history ‘of the author him self, Thackeray has dropped much of that fan tastic and’ intense effort at caricature which mars phe and found it too much for their feelings, now began to pour into the outer bar, and called off the attention of the bar-maid from the young I couple. The young man drank his toddy like •0^3 wlto took kindly to it. girl sippeu : i slowly. It soon began to revivt- her. Her blood grew warm, her eyes brightened, her cheeks nushea. She looked more boldly in her com panion’s face, and her tongue, unloosed, spoke more readily and cordially to him. On his part, he was not unaffected by the spirit. His glances at her face became more frequent and direct, and his “Vanity Fair.” His characters act, move once or twice, in speaking, he placed his hand ! and speak like ordinary mortals. They have on her shoulder in a familiar way. Alas! she j not the temper, the conventional graces met seemed not to notice it. Seeing she had not ! only in the pages of your average novel. Aside half finished her glass, he ordered a second to j from a seemingly natural exuberance of animal be prepared for himself. He was forgetting bis papers and bis master. Her parcel was lying unregarded by her side. At length, as they each looked at the bottoms of their empty tumblers, they spoke of going. “ Thank you,” she said with brightening eyes. “That has made me feel ever so much better. Good-by.” She put out her hand and smiled. “ Good-by ? ” he said. “ Are you going to de sert me so soon ? How ungrateful you are. Let me walk part of the wav with you.” Her face looked rather 3illy. When they got outside, the street seemed to reel about hef. The sounds struck upon her ear with confusing loudness ; her eyes saw dimly and strangely in the dull darkness. And her steps—her steps were stumbling and uncertain! She grasped his arm tightly. “Hallo!” he cried. “You’ve taken too much.” “Yes. I never took so much before. I feel ill. I can scarcely stand.” It was then that the devil entered into the heart of Joseph Cray, and whispered to him that this young girl was now in his hands to do with her as he would. And the mind of Joseph Cray, after those two glasses of hot grog, was feeble to repel the insidious hints of the Evil One. The girl clung to his arm, and spoke thickly in his ear— “You—you’re so good. I like you so much. It is so kind of you to help me.” “Look here,” he said, laughing ; do you know yon can’t stand? You’re not fit to walk about the street now. I must take you somewhere, where you can rest till you get better. Here, I’ll call a cab, and take you to my place.” “Ob ! you’re so good—so good,” the poor girl cried, putting her arm around his neck, while the maudlin tears ran down her face. Joseph Cray held her up a moment, and hesi tated. She was nearly insensible. The struggle within him was short. That which twenty min utes since he could have bravely withstood, he had cast away the power to resist. He called a cab, and lifted her in. She lay there now un conscious. “To Pentonville,” said Joseph Cray, as he shut the door, and from that moment he was a lost man. _ _ And, my fair reader, virtuous, and pure, and j been betrayed into the melting mood as he has gentle, from that day your sister, Lucy Merton— been in the pathetic passages. The character of spirits at the start, the author soon settles down steadily to his work. Indeed, I am often re mined, while reading the works of both Thack eray and Dickens, of the gambols of a horse of really fine qualities, but who, for some time after he had been gotten in harness, cuts such fantastic capers as to astonish the lookers-on, besides sorely taxing the patience of his driver. But, after all, there is no horse who does his work so well, or who can stand the fatigues of a long journey as well as your spirited and blooded animal that at the start gave pnomiseof trouble. So it is with our authors, f After following them thvough a long and _• veiltful period, we part with our imaginar w*Duds with feelings akin to those felt when we lose a real friend, which is, after all, I take it. the greatest test of a novelist. In the quotation from “Vanity Fair,” used as a test by the recent reviewer, we see the spirit that pervades the book. In the one which follows, and which all readers of Thackeray will recognize as the conclusion of “Penden nis,” we see by contrast the difference between the spirit of the two, and we can see at a glance the superiority of the tone of the hero quoted, j “ If the best men do not draw the great prizes < in life, we know that it has been so settled by j the Ordainer of the lottery. We own and see j daily bow the false and worthless live and pros- ; per,' while the good are called away, and the | dear and young perish untimely. We perceive ! in every man’s life the mourned happiness, the j frequent falling, the bootless endeavor, the j struggle of Right and Wrong, in which the ! strong often succumb and the swift fail. We i see flowers of good blooming in foul places, as j in the most splendid fortunes flowers of vice ! and meanness and slums of evil; and knowing i bow weak the best of ns are, let us give a hand j of charity to “Arthur Pendennis,” with all his j faults and shortcomings, who does not claim to | be a hero, only a man and a brother.” There is the'ring of the genuine metal in these j words, and taken as a whole, they furnish an j epitome of life as striking as any found outside ! of uninspired writings. In it we find none of that forced cynicism, that spirit of dissatisfac- • tion with human life and human kind character istic of •• Vanity Fair,” in which the author seems to struggle against anything like natural ness of feeling, and to be ashamed of having never loses sight of the main chance. We laugh ; at the poor boy, but cannot help pitying him the while, as he announces, in his grandiloquent style, to the worldly old major his engagement with “ Miss Castigan, daughter of J. Chesterfield Castigan, of Castigantown.” And we give our unqualified approval of the course adopted by that old campaigner, his uncle, in breaking off the foolish engagement. I We might follow the hero to the last chapter, : and in all his trials, all of his mistakes, all of 1 his victories, the same frank, noble nature, a trifle conceited, perhaps, but still natural. As showing the fashionable world in all of its hol lowness, the character of Major Pendennis is j certainly well drawn and well sustained. Too | poor, by bis own confession, to know a poor : man, all of bis precepts to his nephew smack of the same spirit, and we behold him bargaining with the weak and wicked Sir Francis Clover ing for his seat in Parliament, holding over him the fear of betraying the secret of the presence of his wife’s first husband, as a means of achiev ing the success of his pet scheme. The character of Blanche Amory is that of the fashionable, heartless woman, w 7 hose whole life is a mass of inconsistencies, affections and fol lies. Too weak to be thoroughly wicked, and certainly too wicked to be at all good, we read of her final estrangement from Harry Foker, for whom she had jilted the hero, with pleasure. Warrington is one of the best characters in the book, and we are almost sorry that he could not wed the beautiful “Laura Bell,” to the ex clusion of even “Pendennis.” Helen Pendennis is the very embodiment of goodness and motherly love; and the devotion between herself and Laura Bell, whose father she had loved with all the fervor of her nature, is as natural as it is pleasing. Her love for her son is just such as ttiousands of women feel for their children, and her desire to have her two children, as she called them, united, we are sorry she did not live to see accomplished. The glimpses given into the life of newspa pers and newspaper men in London is as fresh and racy as if taken—as it probably was—from the life. The gifted Shondon, who, as Buagoy said, worked best when in the Fleet Prison, be cause you are always certain to find him at home. Doolon, Archer, and a score of others are true types of the genuine Bohemian whose counter parts are found elsewhere than on the Strand or the “Back Kitchen.” It is common to say that the (Jathos of Thackeray cannot compare with that of Dickens; and yet, with due respect to the genius that created little Nell, Tiny Tim, Paul, and a host of other characters without rivals in OHr language, I must say that there are passages in the book under consideration that for simple pathos cannot be excelled. The al lusions made to the love borne by Helen for Laura’s father, are models of pure and unaffected pathos; while the death of Helen, preceded as it is by the simple but touching story of War rington’s life; the reconciliation between mother and son; the death of the mother, as she had prayed it might be, in the arms of her son, is certainly one of the finest pen-pictures in the English language. There are other passages in the book equally as good as the one referred tu, and other characters that might be dwelt on with pleasure, but to speak of them all would be to reproduce the entire work. There is, however, one serious objection that can be urged against even “Pendennis,” and the same objection applies with more or less force to all of the English works of fiction— that is the laxity of morals betrayed in the de velopment of the story. It is hard to conceive how such pure women as Helen Pendennis and Laura Bell can be associated with such a man as Ned Strong, who, with all his cleverness and fine points, is nothing more than what we would call in America a “/lead beat.” The only/solu tion to this apparent inconsistency is tile fact that gambling aml/its associating vices is looked on with much more allowance than wijth us. Even the hero, Pendennis, takes his turp at the bones, and the only remonstrance that is made against it comes from Harry Foker—the imuiac- culate Harry—and he bases his objection on no higher ground than the fear that Pendennis may be a loser. But aside from this, every one who reads “ Pendennis ” will rise from the perusal a better man or woman. There will be none of that feeling which possesses us after we have read one of the sensational stories now 30 fash ionable—a feeling of dissatisfaction with the world, and a desire to escape its responsibilities. We will be better contented with our lot, better prepared to take our place in the battle of life, and certainly better prepared to escape the temp tations and snares that beset us on every hand. I am bound to say that the resemblance be tween “Vanity Fair” and “Dornbey and Son,” as traced out by the reviewer, is rather a forced one. ’Tis true, that some of the characters in the one may be compared to another of some what similar nature in the ocher, and if my con ception of the design of the two be correct, they were intended to convey different and widely- dissimilar lessons. But with this I have noth ing to do, as my object was to rescue one of my favorites from the ctiarge—indirect it is true— of being a scoffer at human life and a cynic in all things. I was surprised too, to see that your reviewer took “Dornbey nd Son” as the one of Dicken’s works a fib r a* g the largest number of well-defined characters, or as being the best exponent of his style. I have always considered it as the least excellent of all the FOR THE YOUNG FOLKS. [For The Sunny South.] MY JLITTLE SISTER. BY SISTER CLARA. I have a little sister 8o merry and so gay— The little lambs who sport about Are not more fond of play. How pleasant is her merry laugh— Each prattling, childish way! E’en her tears are pearl-drops bright, That quickly pass away. Her voice is like the cuckoo’s song. Her face like lilies fair; The violets dew gleams in her eyes, The sunbeams in her hair. I pray each day that God will guard And keep her safe and well. How much I love my sister dear I’m sure I cannot tell! Rose Lawn, Burke County, Ga. CAPTAIN TRY AND CORPORAL CANT. BY “COUSIN ANNIE.” Here’s two fellows waiting to make your ac quaintance, little folks. First of all, here’s Cor poral Cant. What a long-faced, ugly old fellow he is, and what a terrible whine lie has ! My! he looks as sour as if he had swallowed a peck of crab apples! Bobbie had a hard lesson to learn. Along came old Corporal Cant and whis pered to him: “What a terrible lesson! Why, you can’t learn it. Give it up; it's no use to try.” Mama told Susie to sweep out the room. “Oh, my, what a dreadful task!” whined old Cant. “Such a little girl as you can't do it.” Papa sent Johnie on an errand. Who should he meet up with but old Corporal Cant, with j ust the sourest look on his long face. “ What a terrible long distance it is,” said he. “It is too much lor such a little fellow as you. And just look at that long, steep hill! No use to try to climb that; you couldn’t hold out to get to the top. Oh, you can't, I tell you 1” There was a building to be erected—a build: ing that required a great deal of skill and the most delicate of workmanship. Now, who should come along hut old Corporal Cant, with his sol emn countenance and lazy drawl: “Goodness me, build a house after that plan ! Whoever heart! of such a tiling? It can’t be doDe, I tell you.” Jack, the plowman, had for his day’s work just the roughest, stoniest kind of a field to plough. There stood old Cant waiting for him at the very head of the first row. “You can't ever begin to plough among all these rocks,” whined he. "Way, it would break your plow, ruin your horse, and almost kill you. Don’t think of attempting such a thing; you can't do it.” But now here is Captain Try waiting for an introduction. What a handsome, brave-looking soldier he is, and how pleasant his face, and such a bright, determined look in his eyes ! Why, it really does me good to look at him. “Tut, tut, Bobbie, my man,” says he, “call that a hard lesson ? Pshaw ! why, you’ll find it awful easy once you put your mind to it. Try now, and see.” “Oh, fie ! Susie, my little girl, get your broom and go ahead. Why, the room won’t be half so hard to sweep when you try it.” “ Up, up, -lohnyiie ! call that a steep hill?-*vLy ,~ j yen'll nevei kl ,'w how steep it is until you try “Can’t build that house?” says he, in his quick, decided way. “Pshaw! that is all non sense. Why, it is just the easiest thing in the world once you start at it. Don’t mind one fail ure, but try again.” “Why, Jack,” says he, giving our Jack a hearty slap upon the back, “my man, I’m sur prised at you ! Suppose the field is rocky, why, isn’t your plow sharp, and your horse strong and faithful? While as to yourself, just look at these great muscles of yours. Try it first, my man, try it.” “I will try,” says Bobbie, and behold the les son is learned 1 “It is a big room,’’saysSusie, “ but I’ll try it,” and see, the task is completed. “Well,” says Johnnie, “I’ll just try that old hill first,” and lo! he has reached the summit. “That house shall be built,” says the work man. “ We will try a dozen times before we’ll give it up,” and behold, in time, there stands the building, complete in every part, the won der of admiring eyes! And Jack, the plowman, stuck his plow into the flinty soil with a firm, unfaltering resolve. “I’ll try,” he said, and lo! at harvest time, there stood that very field clothed in rich, ripe grain. “ By far the finest of the whole harvest,” said the reapers. Ah ! children, see how much Try can accom plish. Cant sticlcs in the mad, but Captain Try, like a brave soldier, surmounts every obstacle. There is no lesson too hard for Try to learn—no room too large for Try to sweep—no task too difficult for Try to accomplish—no hill too steep for Try to climb—no field too stony for Try to works of this inimitable author, though it is j plough—no victory too great for Try to win ! hard to single out one to be regarded with most favor from such a crowd of favorites. Even while I write a long array of faces familiar as “household words ’’ rise before me—poor Srnike, whom I first knew of all his shadowy kith and kin, and whom I first knew by such snatches as I could catch during a trip through the moun tains of Northeast Georgia. His simple, sad story can never be forgotten, nor his common face supplanted by even Little Nell, Paul, or Tiny Tim. But I have already drawn out this paper to too great a length, and must reserve what I intend to say of Diekens for a future number. herself fair, and pure, and sweet, and gentle from that day on forever, was to know virtue and honor no more. (TO BE CONTINUED.) Arthur Pendennis ” furnishes without doubt the best delineation of the career of a young man to be found in the whole range of fiction. From the first chapter, in which he appears as a very young man, to the end of the book, he chains our sympathy or merits our condemna tion. just as any other man who might be called on to go through the same temptations, triumphs or defeats. He has none of that stilted or forced perfection common to your novel heroes; but whether as a young man in love with an old Ready for the Worst.—A Detroit widow owns and occupies a cottage under the shadow of a church-steeple which is supposed to be in danger o( falling when a high wind blows. At midnight, a few nights ago, when the wind blew fiercely, she _ got up and dressed, called the children up and woman, the lover suffering from the knowledge dressed them, and then folded her arms with the that his idol has turned to very common clay, remark : “Now, then, if that steeple falls and the fast young man at college—fast, but not kills us people we’ll know that we were a respecta- vicious—he is at once the impersonation of ble family anyhow. George, you brush up your human nature, and the realization of the high- hair a little more, and Sarah, you take your feet I est dramatic art. We can but admire the boy- off the stove-hearth and pin your collar more to ish ardor and candor with which he lays his the left.—Detroit Free Press. heart and its whole wealth of emotions at the ».« feet of the beautiful but dull and and heartless A down-east editor says: “The ladies’ spring Chatteris actress, content if he receives the cau- hats are pretty, and wore on the upper edge of tious and calculating devotion of the woman the left ear, which makes one look arch and who, though she is in love, does not lose her piquant, like a chicken looking through a crack fondness for “pay,” and though her eyes are in a fence.” rolling in the frenzy of “ Love’s young dream,” A New Centennial Proposition--A Hun dred Steps for Glory. I have a great Centennial scheme which can be carried out by 40,000,000 of people on the Fourth of July this year, and will do more to unite and make us one than anything else I can think of. On that day at noon let every able-bodied per son, whatever he or she may be doing, get up and walk 100 steps toward the east, the land of the sun. The tramp of this embattled host would be the grandest spectacle ever seen, save only the waving of the American flag. I have calculated the force that would thus be exerted, and find it to be 600,000,000,000 foot pounds, taking the average weight as 150 pounds per maD. It will do much to counteract the tendency to 1 u 7 e /* ve ’ , " go West, where, owing to the rarity of the air onlj a llttle bo ?-’ elevel ? year * old - aad s0 - von and the nature of the land, people rapidly be come inflationists and theorists. I for one am JOE’S PETS. Dear “Cousin Annie,”—I want to tell you and the little readers of your column all about Caesar, my dog. He is a great, shaggy fellow, with big, soft-looking, brown eyes, and I think he has ever so much sense. He knows so many funny little tricks, too. He will stand up on his hind legs when I tell him to, and when I put a stick between his fore-paws, and a paper cap on his head, he will “ forward march ” just like a soldier, He will shake hands with you, and bring a stick or a ball when I throw it;*and | he can swim in the water, and jump over a chair, j and play “ dead doggie,” and ever so many I smart things. I think he loves me better than | any one else. He follows me everywhere I go. ! I have a kitten, too. My kitten’s name is Tab. ! Caesar is fond of Tab, and Tab is fond of Ctesar. He will let her lie down on the rug by him, and sometimes they will eat together. Now, don’t you think, Cousin Annie, it is mighty nice for a cat and dog to get on so well together ? I would like to tell you something about my home, but I am afraid I would make my letter so long you wouldn’t want to publish it. I live in Florida, the land of magnolia trees and orange groves, where the flowers bloom and the birds sing long before they do in places where many of your little readers live. Well, I will stop now. I am willing to walk my 100 steps on the great day. As the direction taken must be due east in a straight line, the liquor-shops throughout the land should be closed from midnight of the 3d to midnight of the 4th, and this would be a great blessing in many, many ways. Set the ball in motion; do not falter; stmd firm; move forward, onward and upward iu the glorious cause. J. H Ackebson. must excuse all mistakes. I am so glad Mr. Seals has given us such a nice corner in his pa per, and I only wish it was more. Write us lots of pretty stories, Cousin Annie, and accept heaps of love from your little Florida cousin, Joe. A witty boy asked one of his playmates why a hardware dealer was like a boot-maler. The litter, somewhat puzzled, gave it up. “Why,” said the other, “because one sold the nils and the other nailed the soles.” A little boy of four years, standing in the moonlight by his sister, aged six, said to her: “Isn't God a good man, Nelly, to give us such a beautiful moon?” “Oh, Freddy,” said the sister in earnest remonstrance, “ don’t call God a man; for if ever there was a gentleman, I’m sure God is that one.” “Mother, f ither won’t be in heaven with us, will he?" “Why, my child?” “Because can’t leave the store ” EXTINCT print