And all thought this king was most thoroughly blest, Till sadly he sigh'd forth his secret unrest:

"How much more delight to my bosom 'twould bring, To feel myself happy, than know myself king!"

"Ah what! while such power and such treasure possessing,"

(A courtier, astonish'd, stept forward and cried), "Could fortune bestow in exchange for the blessing?"

And thus to the courtier the king straight replied: "Health, a cottage, few friends, and a heart all my own Were Heav'n in exchange for the cares of a throne !" "Then live if no longer to empire you cling, Seek these, and be happy, and let me be king!"

The king gave the courtier his throne and descended;
The longed for delights of retirement to prove,
And now for the first time around him there blended
The smiles of contentment, and friendship and love;
But the courtier soon came to the king in his cot;
"Oh no!" said the king, "I'll no more change my
lot!
Think not, that once freed from the diadem's sting,
I'll give up my cottage and stoop to be king!"
JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

THE VALUE OF PUNCTUALITY.

As an example of overwhelming disaster resultant from lack of punctuality, the battle of Waterloo furnishes, perhaps, the most notable case in the history of man. The fate of civilized Europe, and possibly the entire globe, hung upon the action of one individual.

Napoleon, having returned from Elba and gathered the reins of power, was sweeping Europe again, bound to stop at nothing short of universal conquest. As a last resort the allies (England, Prussia, the German and Austrian States, together with Russia) were resolved to

mass troops enough to overwhelm him. Napoleon, foreseeing their design and remembering their successful concert of action in 1812, determined to crush first the Prussians and then the English in detail. Like a hawk he swooped across the Belgian frontier, struck Blucher and drove him like chaff before the wind; though the wily Prussian, instead of retreating to the east, as Napoleon had anticipated, took a northerly course.

Turning upon the English, the little Corporal ordered Grouchy to march at once with his corps of 30,000 men to Quatre Bras, seize the cross roads and not only prevent Blucher from joining Wellington, but to be in readiness as a reserve to fall on Wellington's flank when the decisive moment arrived. Grouchy marched to within six miles of Quatre Bras at midnight, and then halted and bivouaced his troops, thinking he would have time to occupy the vital cross roads in the morning. Fatal halt. Wellington, informed of Grouchy's movement and divining its purport, threw forward a body of picked troops and seized the strategic position. The next day Napoleon began his onslaught. Ney was ordered to break the centre. Twenty thousand infantry, the bravest veterans of La Belle France, were flung like a mighty billow, wave after wave, upon the rock-like, stubborn English centre. Ney, losing one horse, mounted another, then he fought on foot, and, as if bearing a charmed life, though his uniform was in tatters from the leaden hail, led his soldiers to the muzzles of the English guns. After the infantry came eighteen thousand of the finest cavalry that ever drew sabre, not excepting the famous Mamelukes or Bedouins. They too were flung back, all but annihilated. Where was Grouchy ?

But Grouchy came not. At last from the expectant direction Napoleon saw troops advancing. "Vive la France! Grouchy comes. Now for one more grand effort." Vain hope! Delusive expectancy! Instead of Grouchy it is Blucher! Blucher with twenty thousand fresh Prussians. "Sauve qui peut !" is the cry, and even Napoleon is forced to fly. Then Cambronne rallies the Old Guard to cover the Emperor's escape. Gallantly the square is formed, and as quickly surrounded. Cam

bronne is hailed, summoned to surrender. Then back into the life, into the sunlight, into the hope of parole and return to their homes-from the black shadow of death, from the certainty of mortal destruction, rang the proud defiance of men who were faithful to the last breath, "The Old Guard never surrenders!" Then the black pail of battle fell upon those indomitable souls. They could die, but could not be dishonored.

Grouchy's failure is a never-to-be-forgotten lesson in punctuality. The Old Guard's indomitable spirit had made them all but invincible, and even in their last moment of annihilation-they never were defeatedthey secured their purpose, the escape and safety of their beloved Little Corporal.

THE TWO VILLAGES.

OVER the river, on the hill,
Lieth a village white and still;
All around it the forest trees
Shiver and whisper in the breeze;
Over it sailing shadows go

Of soaring hawk and screaming crow,
And mountain grasses, low and sweet,
Grow in the middle of every street.

Over the river, under the hill,
Another village lieth still;
There I see in the cloudy night
Twinkling stars of household light,

Fires that gleam from the smithy's door,
Mists that curl on the river shore;

And in the road no grasses grow,
For the wheels that hasten to and fro.

In that village on the hill

Never is sound of smithy or mill:

The houses are thatched with grass and flowers,
Never a clock to toll the hours;

The marble doors are always shut,
You cannot enter in hall or hut;
All the villagers lie asleep;
Never a grain to sow or reap;
Never in dreams to moan or sigh,
Silent and idle and low they lie.

In that village under the hill,
When the night is starry and still,
Many a weary soul in prayer
Looks to the other village there,
And weeping and sighing, longs te go
Up to that home from this below;
Longs to sleep in the forest wild,
Whither have vanished wife and child,
And heareth, praying, this answer fall:
"Patience! that village shall hold ye all !"

ROSE TERRY COOKE

MARY'S NIGHT RIDE.

MARY RICHLING, the heroine of the story, was the wife of John Richling, a resident of New Orleans. At the breaking out of the Civil War she went to visit her parents in Milwaukee. About the time of the bombardment of New Orleans, she received news of the dangerous illness of her husband, and she decided at once to reach his bedside, if possible. Taking with her her baby daughter, a child of three years, she proceeded southward, where, after several unsuccessful attempts to secure a pass, she finally determined to break through the lines.

About the middle of the night Mary Richling was sitting very still and upright on a large, dark horse that stood champing his Mexican bit in the black shadow of a great oak. Alice rested before her, fast asleep against her bosom. Mary held by the bridle another horse, whose naked saddle-tree was empty. A few steps in

front of her the light of the full moon shone almost straight down upon a narrow road that just there emerged from the shadow of woods on either side and divided into a main right fork and a much smaller one that curved around to Mary's left. Off in the direction of the main fork the sky was all aglow with camp-fires. Only just here on the left there was a cool and grateful darkness.

She lifted her head alertly. A twig crackled under a tread, and the next moment a man came out of the bushes at the left and without a word took the bridle of the led-horse from her fingers and vaulted into the saddle. The hand that rested for a moment on the cantle as he rose grasped a "navy six." He was dressed in plain "homespun," but he was the same who had been dressed in blue. He turned his horse and led the way down the lesser road.

"If we'd of gone three hundred yards further, we'd a run into the pickets. I went nigh enough to see the videttes settin' on their hosses in the main road. This here ain't no road; it just goes up to a nigger quarters. I've got one o' the niggers to show us the way.'

"Where is he?" whispered Mary, but, before her companion could answer, a tattered form moved from behind a bush a little in advance and started ahead in the path, walking and beckoning. Presently they turned into a clear, open forest and followed the long, rapid, swinging strides of the negro for nearly an hour. Then they halted on the bank of a deep, narrow stream. The negro made a motion for them to keep well to the right when they should enter the water. The white man softly lifted Alice to his arms, directed and assisted Mary to kneel in her saddle with her skirts gathered carefully under her; and so they went down into the cold stream, the negro first with arms outstretched above the flood, then Mary, and then the white man, or let us say plainly the spy, with the unawakened child on his breast And so they rose out of it on the farther side without a shoe or garment wet, save the rags of their dark guide.

Again they followed him along a line of stake-andrider fence, with the woods on one side and the bright moonlight flooding a field of voung cotton on the other.