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She AHontiiomcf!) JKonitofc D. C. SUTTOX, Editor and Frop’r. Her Choice. "Draw closer Jennie, lor my voice is weak. Ami sair it warsles me th*‘ nooto speak, lint there is somethin? lyin’ on my hairt That I maun lichten, lass, afore we part, “Ye’ve been a ?uid wife, Jennie, and a true, And wae am I to leave you as I do— YVT iittle bainin o’ the warl’s weal Forby the hoosie and the souter’s stael. “Hut ye are young and tri?, and weel I see, YY ere nae a marrow for a carle like me; Ye’ll nae want wooers when my banes are laid Atnan? the mools—atweel a cauldife bed I “Tak hent, and dimm throw yersel awa’, A canna b dy i< yon Huirli McGraw, And ane mail ridant never ca’d a prod; Think weel o’ Hu?h when I’m aneath the so<l. “There’s Davie Stronacli, wha was here yes- 1 treen, 1 saw him watch ye wi’ his wanton een; 1 like na Davit*, tho* a strappin chiel, And as the wai l gang’s, forehanit weel: “He’s nae to lippen till; tak my advice And iet hint gang—for baith it will be wises 1 couidna rest ainang my decent km, It sic a wily tyke should tak ye in.’’ “Rest or nae rest. I tell you a nee for a*. I’m never sash mysel wi’ Hugh McGraw; Von wailydraigit*! In- can gang to pot! I’ll jist tak Davie and the acre loti” —M. A. Maitland. WHY I REPENTED. When I was a young man I fell in love. as young men generally ilo, with the girl who came handiest. This par ticular girl happened to be Belle Bur ton, and I devoted myself to her —rode with her, boated with her (it was a country place where we met), walked with her, talked with her, begged her for tiie roses she wore in her hair, and tried in vain (for I was no poet) to make sonnets not only to her “eye brows,” but to her hair, her cheeks, and her lily-white hands. In fact. I went through the pretty dream of first love as most young people do, and it ended, ns it generally does, in an unpleasant awakening. One day the stage arrived at the hotel with a dozen dashing New-Yorkers for passengers. The next, one of them ob tained an introduction to Belle Burton. There was no doubt whatever that he was handsomer than men usually are, or that his grace and accomplishments were equal to his personal charms. Handsome Arnold he was generally called, and girls went into raptures over his large, loug-lashed eyes anti blonde mustache, and men feared his broad shoulders, deep chest, and splendid proportions. For my part I hated him from the first, for no sooner had he ap peared upon the carpet than Beile seemed utterly to forget my very exist ence. I suppose she had never cared any thing about me, but she had flirted with me while there was no better fun to be had, and 1 was not old enough to know that the man she loves is the one no woman ever flirts with. With Arnold she was rather graver than with most men, but her eyes sparkled as he ap proached her. She blushed when his name was mentioned, and cared for jothing in which he had not some share. In fact, it was as plain that she was in love with him as that he was de voted to her; and there was no doubt in any one’s mind that all this would end in a wedding. It was a good thing, said the old people, for poor Belle Burton, for she “had nothing.” *or my part it seemed to me that all tho iuck was Arnold’s. I should have taken my departure and put myself out of tho way of hourly torture, but I did not do so wisely. I lingered about the place and did small things to spite the happy pair—intruded on the tete-a-tetes, managed to force tho rociety of some excellent and loquacious matron or some troublesome child upon them, looked daggers of contempt at him and forgot to pass the butter to her. At last a grand chance to annoy him occurred. He was a good rider ♦ml proud of his accomplishment, and «e had a restive, nervous animal which lie boasted no one could ride but him «elf. I had heard him declare himself n* perfect master of the creature, who iad never given him serious trouble «r.re once, when suddenly brought into the presence of an artist who was sketch ing under a white umbrella. “That,” said Handsome Arnold, “was something Prince could not under stand, and made him forget who held the bridle.” As he came prancing up to the sate or rode away with an air I used to wish for an artist with a white umbrella. I desired to see that fellow unseated and ingloriously turned into the mud. That would have made me happy; and once when he had offended me more than ever by his gallant style of riding I sauntered out into the fields—cursing him in my inmost soul —when what should I spy in the middle of the grass, intent upon a hunch of clover, but a fat pre-Raphaelite artist in*a white suit, a flapping hat, ami a white sketching umbrella that would have frightened the clergyman’s gray mare, who was nearly as old as himself, into being a runaway. I rushed toward this artist with en thusiasm. I took off my hat to him. I said: “Sir, I rejoice that one of your glori ous profession has at last visited us. You love the minute, I sec. Have you noticed the spider-webs on the black berry bushes at the turn of the lane, the dew sparkling on the silvery film, the delicious fruits growing beneath —have you seen that, sir?” The pre-Raphaelite artist scratched his head with his brush and said: “Well. no. I ain’t.” “Will vou come and see it, sir?” I said. “Will vou make it immortal on your canvas?” • The pre-Raphaelite artist replied: “Well, I wouldn't mind.” I did not care what he said so that ho came. My object was not art; it was the white umbrella. 1 desired to have him seated where the eye of liaudsomo Arnold’s restive Prince would fall upon him as he turned tire corner of tho garden walk, and to that very spot I beguiled my artist ami there stationed him, and, when he had settled with ; Chinese precision to his spider-web and blackberries, hid myself behind a tree to enjoy the comic scene I fully ex pected would follow. I heard handsome Arnold bid adieu to the ladies. 1 heard tho patter of his horse’s feet upon the road, and in a moment more 1 saw him come gayly on, a smile upon his handsome face, » rich color on his cheeks —youth, health, strength, happiness expressed in every curve and outline of his statuesque form. The next instant Prince had seen the white artist and the white um brella. And then—then. Heaven for give me, not the amusing spectacle of handsome Arnold’s discomfiture that I had hoped to see. He kept his seat, while Prince, rearing and plunging, dashed wildly away with him toward a precipitous path along the cliff side and vanished like a mad thing with his rider still upon his back, going straight toward a certain awful precipice which overhung the rocky river shore below. I cannot go on. They picked him up just alive, no more, at the foot of that precipice; and they carried him a mere mass of broken bones and bleed ing flesh back to the great hotel. Lato at "night 1 crept softly up-stairs on my way to bed. and, passing Belle Burton’s door, heard those slow, heavy sobs that tell of a breaking heart issuing thence. “He cannot live.” the messenger had said, and I was perhaps doubly a mur derer. I thought seriously of adding to niv crime by committing suicide that awful night. But poor Arnold did live. He had a wonderful constitution, unbroken, as all. the men who knew him knew, by dis sipation of any kind, and it is hard to kill such a man. He lived, and strength returned to him at last; but no one would call him handsome Arnold any more. He had fallen on his face on tiie horrible, jagged rocks, and during his illness all bis bonny brown hair had turned gray. No one would know him, they told me; and so powerfully had his beauty and his sweetness affected even men of coarse natures that they uttered these words for the most part with tears in their eyes. As for myself I would rather have seen a ghost. Yet the sight was forced on me. One day I received a note from him asking me to come to the hotel, and it was signed—Henry Arnold. I had no choice. I could not refuse. I went to him. As I saw him seated in a great arm chair in the room to which showed me—as lie arose and advanced toward me, and I saw that ho limped heavily —1 wonder that ho did not die. I felt the blood leaving my face, and I saw the hot. flush rise to his, as lie no ticed the shock it gave me. But he only said: “Sit down. It is kind of you to come.” 1 staggered to a chair, and I saw nothing for a while; yet through it all I wondered what lie thought of my strange conduct, and hated myself for my weakness. At last he spoke: “I see how I —how my appearance affects you,” he said, very sadly. “It is a horrible thing that 1 am trying to grow used to. I wish I had broken my | neck. Os course, any man would under the circumstances. But I did not ask ; you to come that I might say that to you. 1 want you to take a note from I me to a lady at your aunt’s house, if you will be so kind. I chose you be | cause you are, as it were, one of the family, and you will be very careful and I •—and kind, 1 know. It is to Miss i Belle Burton. I had hoped so marry 1 her one day. Os course, all that is over I now. No one would —no woman could I —overlook my hideous appearance.” His voice broke a little, but he went I on bravely. “So I have written to her. Ido not want her to see me, and I shall go abroad in a week or so, and —you’ll tell her you’ve seen me, you know. I have loved her very much. I always shall; and this is terribly hard.” He broke down entirely there, and took a letter from his bosom and put it into my hand. “Give it to her,” he said, and turned away. I "went’ straight to Belle Burton. I found her in the garden, and I told hor from whom I came and gave her the missive. She read it through gravely, but without tears. Then she looked at me with eyes that had such a solemn, holy look in them, as one would hope to see in an angel’s. “Edward,” she said, “he says he is frightfully altered; is it so?” “Yes,” I answered. “My poor boy!” said she. “As if anything could change me but a change I in his heart. Will you take me to him, Edward? I must go at once.” “Command me,” I said. She caught up the wide straw hat on the bencli beside her and drew on her gloves and took my arm. 1 never loved her so well as I did then, but, for once, it was with a perfectly unselfish love. I knew what she was about to do, and I blessed her for it. And so I took her to him; my hand opened the door of his room for her; my eyes saw—yes and gladly—that however that changed face might affect others it only made her love lor him \ more tender. 1 saw her rush into his I arms and hide her head on his shoulder; and then I went softly away rnd hid I myself where no one could see me, and : cried like a baby. Ah! well, that is a good while ago. j and they have been very happy. The | big fellow is always as graceful as ever, and as for his face—l do not think it JIT. VERNON. MONTGOMERY, CO., GA., ’l'll URSDAY, NOVEMBER 11. 1880. would matter much to me what my face was if any one loved it as well ns Belle does his. 1 go to see them sometimes, ami my man fancy of kneeling down and con fessing my share in the horrible affair of the past is quite abandoned. Be sides, Belle’s daughter is Hi now, and if an old fellow of 86 —ah! well, who knows what may happen in the future? Only that would be another story quite, and 1 need not tell it here, if it is written it is written. The Summer Care of Young Phfl* dren. It goes almost without saying that it is more difficult to guard the health of young children in warm weather than in cold. We have but to see that a child is thoroughly protected against winter cold, without much regard to the dif fering degrees of intensity, while in summer the varying heats and damp nesses often render our climate tropic one day, and cold the next. Such var iations are trying to the delicate organ izations of children, especially of babies, and the greatest care must be used to protect them and at the same time en able them to grow and gain strength. The food, tho clothing, and the air breathed, are our tools to work with and, in the wise management of them, are our safeguards. The most perfect food for a baby is its own mother’s milk, always provided the mother is healthy, not over-worked nor excessively nervous, and not. like Martha, troubled with much serving. The milk of such mothers is apt to make “colicky” babies and in that case Baby is far better with some preparation of milk or other food which can be relied upon to be always the same. Care and judgment alone will determine the par ticular form of food which will agree with each individual child. But once a food is found reliable, keep to it alone and do not allow yourself to change from one sort to another except under medical advice. A young mother’s heart is so full of love and anxiety for her babe that her judgment is often weakened and a reliable food abandon ed on account of some temporary ail ment. Let the most perfect accuracy and cleanliness be used in preparing the food, and lot nothing be too trilling for attention in a matter which so vitally concerns the dear one. By all means use a thermometer to test the heat of water or milk, and let there be no guess ing in measurement. For cleaning jars or bottles, in which milk has been kept, nothing is better than “bird gravel,” which is sold for the use of caged birds. A teaspoonful of it with hot water and soap, well shaken, will perfectly clean any bottle. If this is done once a day, the thorough rinsing of a nursing bottle after each use will keep that article per fectly sweet in any weather. A mother should attend to this personally, and it cannot be urged too strongly .that she take time to feed tho child herself. (Having the milk safely in the bottle is by no means an assurance that the child will be properly fed.) This need not be made unduly burdensome. Regularity should be the first rule of Baby’s life; regular feeding and regular sleeping. Regular feeding times in the day, and each day tho same time, will make the matter comparatively easy, and is the only healthy way.— Mrs Agnes B. Ormsbec, in Good housekeep ing. Ho Hadn’t any Situation. A day or two since a gentleman of good address called at Gov. Stoneman’s office, at the capitol, and walking up to ward him said, in a decidedly business way: “I want a situation.” '/'he governor was somewhat non plussed at so abrupt and unmistakable an application for appointment to some soft place of political favor, and after hesitating an instant replied: “Well, what place do you want?” The caller, with increased attention to business, replied: “I want a situa tion, sir!” The governor followed with two or three parrying remarks, such as an exe cutive can so skillfully do after practi cing in turning away offieeseekers by the hundred and making them all feel that they have their pockets full of “prospects,” but which always fail to materialize. To each of these the pres ent would-be officeholder responded with, “1 want a situation.” Finally the governor’s equilibrium got out of hinge and suddenly letting down two or three of the top bars of official dignity ho started to lire the intruder out, with emphatic words of refusal, saving, “I haven’t got any situation for you!” Without, waiting for words which were evidently to succeed these, the stranger quickly put out his hand for recognition, and with a hearty laugh said: “How arc you, old hoy? ’ The governor flushed witli embarrass ment for a moment, but after the ex change of a few words he recognized arid heartily greeted Gen. l)c Lancey FJoyd-Jonos, a fellow classmate at Wes Point when they were leaving their teens, and subsequently officers of the same regiment in the regular army prior to the war of the rebellion. They had not met for a long time, and during that period advancing years hud brought silvered hair and other changes, which covered the lima of former familiar faces. — S'.craminlo ltticord-I.' uioa. During a thunder-storm at New Rich mond two thunderbolts went through a pillow, one at each end. A young lady’s bead reposed on the pillow, and her hair was singed and ruined, and her face burned. Next time she will hang her hair on the back of a chair in a distant part of the room, where a thunderbolt can get at it without scorch ing her face.— N orris U/um herald. r . "SUB DEO FACIO FORTITER." To “Hide" or to "Drive.” A voting woman having appealed to tho > s 'mt for the correct tisago of tho vot’ds ride and drive, that authority in formed her that "if a young woman, i oes out on horseback with a young man she rides with hint; hut if she goes with o : nt in a carriage or a ’buggy’ sho nrives with him.” From this dictum tho Washington Post dissents, declaring that there is no foundation for it, either in grammar or in best current usage. ■As a matter of fact,” it says, "one does ride in a carriage, and usually does not dri.e. but hires a cheap man to drive for him. It will answer well nougli in England, whore equestrians are common, to make the d i sort mill a *ion wliieh the Sun explains, but it has o application to this country, where t.icrc are more who‘ride’on bicycles than on horseback.” The usage in this oart of the country among many culti vated people who are lint more “verbal dudes ami rhetorical exquisites” sanc tions the distinct ion made by the Sun. But there is no authority for it, in the best English dictionary. Stormouth gives the words ns synonymous. A ••ride "is “an excursion on horseback or in a vehicle,” ami to ride is to “bo borne or carried along, as in a carriage or on horseback.” A “drive” is, ac ording to same authority, “a ride or excursion in a carriage," while the verb signifies “to guide or regulate, as the horses in a carriage.” This would seem to limit the driving to the one who drives, all others in the carriage simply riding. The obvious and root meaning is commonly the best. One certainly rides, but does not drive on horseback; he rides, but may not drive, in a vehi cle. To say that vou have been out “driving” conveys plainly enough tho fact that you have been in a carriage. To say that you have been “riding” may require n descriptive word to tell the Whole story. It was this fact, prob ably, which led the country folks to say “buggy-riding” and “horseback-riu inn\” The latest, word, “horseback ing,” is dreadful. The sum of the mat ter is that it is correct to say either “to drive” or “to ride” to indicate an "ex cursion in a carriage;” and that to. in dicate an equestrian excursion plainly one must say “in the saddle ’ or “on horseback. Heston Herald. How Animals Practice Medicine. An mals get rid of I heir parasites by using lust, mud, clay, etc. Those suf fering from fever restrict, their diet, keep quiet, seek dark, airy places, ifrink wa ter and sometimes plunge into it. When dog has lost its appetite it eats that species of grass known as dog’s grass, which acts ns an emetic and a purga tive. Cats also cat grass. Sheep and cows, when ill, seek out certain herbs. An animal suffering from chronic rheu matism always keeps, as far as possible, in the sun. The warrior ants have regularly organized ambulances. Lat reille cut the antenme of the ant, and other ants came and covered the wound ed part with a transparent fluid secret ed from their mouths. If a chimpanzee is wounded, it, stops the bleeding by placing its hand on the wound or dress ing it with leaves and grass. When the animal has a wounded log or arm hang ing on, it completes the amputation by means of its teeth. A dog, on being stung in the muzzle by a viper, was ob served to plunge its head repeatedly for several days into running water. This animal eventually recovered. A sport ing dog was run over by a carriage. During three weeks in winter it,remain ed Iving in a brook, where its food was taken to it. This animal recovered. A terrier hurt its right eye. At remained under a counter, avoiding light and heat, although it habitually kept close to the fire, it adopted a general treat ment, rest and abstinence from food. The local treatment consisted in licking the upper surface of the paw, which it applied to the wounded eye; again lick ing the paw when it became dry. Ani mals suffering from traumatic fever treat themselves by the continued ap plication of cold water, which M. De lanney considers to be more certain than any of the other methods. Jri view of these interesting facts we are, he tiiinks, forced to admit that hygiene ami therapeutiecs as practiced by ani mals may, in the interest of psychology, be studied with advantage. Many physicians have been keen ob servers of animals, their diseases, and the methods adopted by them in their efforts to cure themselves, and have availed of the knowledge so brought under their observation in their practice, —New Orleans Picayune. Teaching Children, A glance backward at tho so-called ‘‘good old times” will soon convince* the veriest pessimist that in the matter of the treatment of children the world has advanced rapidly of late. There was a time in the history of European civilization when the father had tho power of life and death over his children, and there are still parts of tho world where this idea is not extinct. 'J here was a time, and it was not very long ago—scarcely a century—when i the only idea of the school was a place where a schoolmaster, armed with rod i or whip, forced unwilling youngsters I to devour the contents of books with their eyes and regurgitate them from ! their mouth in vain repetition of words, This idea is not dead yet, because tho ! old style of teacher is not dead yet; but it is dying, as dies the darkness of night, before the dawn of the idea that teaches that children must ho taught to think, and that their weakness gives no man or woman the right to ill-treat the in. — Philadelphia Record. ■ - ■■ - ■ ■ ■ Princess Mercedes, eldest child of the King of Spain, is said to he precocious 1 and pretty. KTOriNO. A Visit to the Studio of an Artist—The Tool* 110 Work* YVMh mill llio Effect* H«* I’roduc©*. On the top floor of n high brick build ing. which fronts one of the largest squares in this city, says the Now York Commercial Advertiser, is tiio studio of an etcher whose nnmo on an artist’s proof is a sure guarantee that tho sub ject is worthy a place in any salon. There is something characteristic in the homo of every artist something which enables even a casual observer to classify the occupant at once. So the lirst glance at the room in question leaves no doubt in Iho mind of a visitor that it is inhabited,bv a man devoted to art. The hardwood floor is covered with rugs; the walls are lined with un framed pictures and plaster ot Paris models; the panels of the door and the larger pieces of furniture are decorated to correspond, and in the center of all stands the easel. It is to bo observed*howwor, that the easel does not occupy the principal place in the room. Indeed, it may be said that this alone constitutes the chief difference, in the general appearance, between a painter’s and art etcher’s studio. The painter executes Ids work on a piece of canvas, stretched over n frame, and placed on an easel. The etcher does his work on a heavy copper plate, placed flat on tho top of a table. Near at hand are a set of sharp-pointed steel tools, etching ground, spirit lamp, a twisted lump of “wall-wax.” burnish er, and roller. On a certain rainy night the writer was scaled in a comfortable chair in this studio. OraekerS, elioese, and beer, unfailing accompaniments of an artist’s quarters,occupied a conspicuous place oil a heavy oak table. The air had begun to turn bine with smoke from the pipes, when the eteliur, to answer the innum erable questions wliieh iuid been asked, said: “Let me give you in a connected story the history of an etching from the time the copper plaU: is placed in posi tion for work until it leaves the hands of the printer. In the lirst place, the cop? per plate is thoroughly washed witii turpentine, or, better, with benzine, for the former is a lillie too thin. This is to remove any grease. The plate is then heated, commonly by burning under it heavy etching tiaper, or, if the plate is a lariro one, by a spirit lamp. It is heat ed to such a temperature that water will roll off in globules. When the plate is sufficiently heated a preparation known as ‘etching-ground’ is applied. This is a composition which comes prepared in the shape of a round hall, about the size of a black walnut, and is made of as phalt uni, beeswax, and oil of lavender. This composition is carefully tied up in silk, and through this silk the etching ground oozes on to the plate, where it is laid with a roller. After the ground is applied and Jins sufficiently cooled it is smoked, in order lo give the etcher a black surface on which to work. Tho smoking is done with a twisted wax taper, candies, or in fact with any sub stance which will produce the desired effect. When the plate is cold the ground is perfectly hard. So mnch for the lirst part, of the process; that of pre paring the plate. “The etcher is now ready for work in earnest. He takes a drawing, which, of course, may he original or a copy, and etches its fac-sinuie on the plate before him. If he wishes to take special pains with bis subject, which is usually the case, hr; does not copy the drawing directly on the plate, but takes an inter mediate step. Over Ids drawing lie fastens a perfectly hard transparent gelatine composition, and with his etch ing point etches the drawing on this, exactly on the principle of the transpar ent slate in our nursery days. The gela tine plate is removed, and presents a rough and scratched surface. It is lightly scraped, but so lightly that the indented lines are not disturbed or ef faced. 'These lines are tilled with red chalk. The gelatine plate is then re versed and placed on the etching ground »1 tho copper plate. A burnisher is ap plied, which transfers the chalk to the etcher's form or upon tho plate. Thus the etcher has a perfect outline of the drawing on the plate on which he is to work. Iri this way he is guided in his task, anil his work is expedited. “The etchc r now begins to use tiie tools of his trade, each of which is known as an ‘etching point.’ With these in struments the subject is again etched, this time on the etcher’s ground. Where the etcher wishes to obtain tho darkest effects fewer lines are etched and are made further apart to enable them to stand a longer ‘bite’ by ttio acid. Os course the acid bites into the copper plate onlv where the etching point has scratched through the etcher’s ground to the original copper plate. if tiie plate on which the artist is at work is a small one, it is placed in a pan and the acid is then poured on. If, however, it is a large one, there is put around the edge of the plate vvliat is known as a ‘frame of wall-wax,’ in one corner ot which is placed a spout for convenience in pouring off the acid. The first appli cation of the acid is weak. It bites clean and delicately. It leaves tho skv lines, the distance lines, and, in general, the lighter part of the picture. After these lines are bitten the acid is poured off, and the ground washed with water. 'J hen the parte which the artist does riot wish to have longer acted upon by the acid are covered with a ‘stopping-out’ varnish. The n«-xt application of the acid is stronger, in order to obtain the heavier effects. So the artist corrti nnes stopping-out one place after another un til the plate is stilli iently bitten, and until he has reached the foreground. When the entire plate has been suffi ciently bitten, or, in other words, when the picture has been etched into the copper plate bv moans of the acid, the VOL t NO 371 wax”wall is removed an<T~the plate thoroughly cleaned with benzine. Now he can go to the printer and see whafl lie has. If some of the lines prove too heavy, a little instrument known as tho burnisher will reduce them. The line* can even be run out entirely. If tho linos are not strong enough, a new re biting- ground can lie put on wherever desired and the changes made. “When tho last touches have been completed the plate js sent to the pub* lisliers. The publishers send it to an eleetrotyper to have a steel face put on. This is dono to protect the plate, whioh would otherwise soon be worn out on the press. The operation of electrotype ing the plate is so delicately done that when steeled the picture which it print* could not bo distinguished from the picture printed before tho operation by the original copper plate. The finest lines are coated; lines which are hardly risible to the naked eye, and which originally havo tho appearance of a* hair. “The beauties of etching are explain* id in many ways. I think, however, that, its special adaptation in the hand* of an artist is to enable him to give to the public, not to one person, something of his individual work, something whicn lias the charm of a sketch, yet which* can be produced to any extent For instance, an artist sketches a landscape. It is impossible for more than one per son to own lhat piece of work —that is, there is but one copy. There can pos sibly bo but one. Now the etching enables the artist to giyo his sketch to the public In just the mood in which it! was marie. For, instead of marking if on paper or canvas, lie lias made it on 1 a copper plate, from which it can be indefinitely multiplied. , .:■(» Tl«e Golden Rose. i The receipt bv the queen regent of Spain of the. pope's golden rose has led some curious writer to put together the I following particulars concerning thej flower: The first of these roses were ( simply flowers of red enamel, represent ing the natural color of the rose. lister tlie color of the rose was left white, and a largo ruby was put into tho center, the reflection from which gave the petals a red tint. Innocent XI. had a golden rose made which weighed over eight pounds, was ornamented with several sapphires, and represented a value of over 10,000 francs. Alexander VII. ordered one rose at, (i,OOO francs and an other at 4.000 francs. Lately the golden rose has been worth over 10,000 francs, and has taken the form of a branch with several flowers, a natural rose, which lias been blessed by the pope, forming the center. Os this kind is the rose which tho queen regent of .Spain has just received. It is planted in a magnificent silver gilded vase, which is a splonded example of Roman work manship. Tho rose itself is said to be a syinbo’ of the Creator; the splendor and richness of the metal represents the eter nal light which surrounds tho divine, and the perfumes and spices, which are placed in the vase by the pope, symbol ize the glory arm resurrection of Christ The benediction of the rose is a solemn ceremony. The holy father, in his sacred robes, reads tho formula of the benedic tion from a book which is held by a bish op. '’ ho other bishops, holding light ed candles, stand by his side. The high dignitaries of the pupal court surround tlie pontiff, holding the incense the holy water, the spices, and other perfumes. Another dignitary, kneeling, presents the rose, to the pope, who reads the pray ers, blesses the incense, the spices, and the perfumes, which am ill turn present ed to him by a cardinal. After putting them into the vase which holds tlie rose, tlie golden rose is blessed, and the cere mony ends, German Girls. W There is less difficulty in German girls of the middle class finding suitable partners for life than is the case in the same class in England, says a writer in the National INview. German girls,' as a matter of course, take their share jn household work. This does not pre vent their being frequently very accom plished, often excellent musicians, but it does prevent a great deal of restless ness and vague discontent A young man who marries in that class knowsi that he may reasonably expect his bride to be a good housewife. If he is in the upper middle class —for in.xffehce a shop-j keeper—his wife often keeps’ the ac counts of tlie shop. 1 havo wondered! at the close attention to business detail* shown by women who might have ex pected to be spared such exertions. But 1 was assured they preferred to be thus occupied; partly in order to save their children, it seemed to me that the master and mistress in most shops were' on friendly terms with their assistants, who were permitted to rest at intervals during tlie day in a room behind tho •hop. ‘ A Wild Stallion of the Plain*. The sunlight came playing through the trees, and burned on his sorrel coat like molton goid. The graceful body, round audsmootL, expanded where tho vast haunches and sloping shoulders set into It in welded masses of binding muscle that stretched to the deer-like limbs, with t heir clean knees and hocks, each leg strung like a harp, with cord* of stci 1 to Lhe ivory bone. His flowing mane and tail seemed impatient to be waving backward in the strong wind of his racing galop. Though he stood like a bronze, with only the trumpet nostrils working to eatch the air, tho small head, white even to the eyes, turned over his shoulder to survey the intruders who had disturbed his water ing [ilace. • * • There stood the horse, keenly alive to bis danger, nay, even challenging it, for the ears laid themselves slowly back —tho eyes be gan so slime. Capt. Kemeys in Outinft