she will now and then talk to her children of that which is good and pleasant, as a priestess should talk - and every mother has a priestly office she will hallow and lighten her own labor, and for her household a blessed reform will, in domestics, have commenced. Oh, for a power to hasten this period! Oh, that one might abide the dawning of that bright day when domestic love and family enjoyment crown the great social destiny of humanity! Then might one depart in peace, and the beams of the good time come be over us, and death be hallowed by the sanctification of life. Follow out God's laws, work in his holy order, do all things in season, leaving nought undone that should be done, and full surely this divine, this perfecting labor of human existence, will be consummated. A SONG, SENT WITH A ROSE. BY JOHN CUNNINGHAM. YES, every flower that blows Had fixed my wandering eye; It scented every breeze, That wantoned o'er the stream, To deck that beauteous maid, The gentle queen of Flowers. THE SCHOOL-FELLOWS. BY ARNHELDT WEAVER. It was a wild night. The wind went grumbling through wide streets, and played the very maniac in courts and alleys - shrieking-howling-shaking the insecure doors of the crazy tenements in many instances bursting them open, and taking forcible possession of the houses, which it did not quit till it had penetrated every hole and corner, - ransacked every recess, turned all movable articles topsy-turvy, and filled the wretched apartments with suffocating, blinding smoke, sending children into paroxysms of coughing and squalling, and making mothers as frantic as itself. This did the wind. But the snow led the van that night. People could have borne with the wind, but the snow was too much for them. It was a fine sight to witness in its driving, headlong career,in its infuriate, headstrong rage; but God help the wretch who, on such a night, can look on nothing else. The streets, of course, were deserted by everybody but the houseless and the police. The clock of St. Martin's church struck the three-quarters past eleven, as a man of middle age-if years be reckoned, but judging from his appearance, a man turned of sixty-issued suddenly from a dark archway in the Strand, one of those obscure passages that lead down to the river, and followed closely in the steps of one of his own sex, who had just passed hurriedly in the direction of Charing Cross. The cabs were withdrawn from most of the stands, the weather being too severe even for a cabman's defiance, and along the streets which the person thus followed had traversed not a vehicle had appeared within hail, save a solitary omnibus which was going in an opposite direction. Thus he was compelled to walk, or was more properly driven along by the wind. The man who issued from the low-browed archway had fought with the weather from his youth upward, and exposure to the elements in this our English climate makes a man prematurely old. He had been hungry too, lean and hungry, from his boyish days; and constant hunger is a great promoter of senile appearance. For many previous years he had slept in metropolitan and suburban churchyards, — an animate corpse, uncoffined amongst tombs. He stole when he could; but not being an expert thief, he ate but seldom, and the wolf gnawed his vitals at all hours and upon all days. He followed the individual we have alluded to, and overtook him in Parliament street. For some minutes they walked abreast, the almost nude beside the well-clad and warmly-wrapped man. Suddenly the former, falling two steps backward, aimed a savage blow, and a senseless body was stretched upon the snow that covered the pavement to the depth of several inches. The hungry man, having scanned the street with an eye quick to detect the advance of a passenger, knelt over the body and commenced to rifle it. He quickly possessed himself of a purse tolerably well-filled, a gold watch and a pocketbook; then secreting his booty as well as he was able about his person, he fled: almost equalling the wind in his speed. Some five or six minutes afterwards, the plundered man, recovering himself, got up and started off towards Westminster, crying "Thieves! thieves!" But the thief had gone in a contrary direction. Encountering only a policeman emerging from a tavern, and smelling powerfully of rum, who proposed to run and inquire at the station-house, and hearing no footsteps ahead, he gave up the supposed chase, and resigned himself to bear his loss. The thief, once secure from pursuit, took his way more leisurely towards St. Giles', where he procured a supper and a bed, and awaited the daylight that he might, unobserved, examine the |