is, and the young America yet soar to be what Athens was! Who shall say, when the European column shall have moldered, and the night of barbarism obscured its very ruins, that that mighty continent may not emerge from the horizon, to rule, for its time, sovereign of the ascendant!

CHARLES PHILLIPS.

BALLAD OF THE WICKED NEPHEW.

T was a wicked Nephew bold

IT

Who uprose in the night,

And ground upon a huge grindstone
His penknife, sharp and bright.

And, while the sparks were flying wild
The cellar floor upon,
Quoth he unto himself, "I will
Dispatch my Uncle John!

"His property is large, and if
He dies and leaves a will,
His loving Nephew (that's myself)
Won't get a dollar-bill.

"I'll hie unto my Uncle's bed,

His chamber well I know,

And there I'll find his pocket-book
Safe under his pillow.

"With this bright steel I'll slay him first,
Because that is the way

They do such things, I understand,

In Boucicault's new play."

By this the anxious moon retired (For all the stars were in)— ""Tis very dark," the Nephew cried, "But I can find my kin!

"Come forth, my trusty weapon, now !" (Or words to that effect,)

He shouted to his little blade,
Whose power he did suspect.

Then out he starts. His Uncle's door Is thirteen doors from his :

:

He gains the latch, which upward flies, And straight inside he is!

One pause upon the entry stair,

And one upon the mat,—

How still the house at such an hour! How mewless lies the cat!

"O Nephew! Nephew! be not rash; Turn back, and then 'turn in :' Your Uncle still is sound asleep, you devoid of sin!

And

"The gallows-tree was never built
For handsome lads like you-
Get thee to bed! (as kind Macbeth
Wished his young man to do)."

He will not be advised,—he stands
Beside the sleeping form,-
The hail begins to beat outside
A tattoo for the storm.

""Tis not too late-repent, repent!
And all may yet be well!"

"Repent yourself!" the Nephew sneers,―
And at it goes pell-mell!

To right and left he carves his way,—
At least thus did it seem;

And, after he had done the deed,—
Woke up from his bad dream,

And swift to Uncle John he ran
When daylight climbed the hill,
And told him all-and Uncle John
Put Nephew in his will.

JAMES T. FIELDS.

THE STORY KATHIE TOLD.

Youth's Companion.

NOW,

OW, stay right still and listen, kitty-cat, and I'll tell you a story.

Once there was a little girl.

She was a pretty good little girl, and minded her papa 'n' mamma everything they said, only sometimes she didn't, and then she was naughty; but she was always sorry, and said she wouldn't do so any more, and her mamma'd forgive her.

So she was going to hang up her stocking.

"You'll have to be pretty good, 'lest 'twon't be filled," said her mamma.

"'Less maybe there'll be a big bunch of sticks in it,” said her papa.

Do you think that's a nice way to talk, kitty-cat? I don't.

So the little girl was good as she could be, 'less she was bigger, and didn't cry and slap her little sister hardly any be tall, and always minded her mamma when she came where the chimney was, 'specially much. So she hung up her stocking.

And in the night she got awake, and wanted it to come morning; but in the morning she didn't get awake till 'twas all sunshiny out doors.

Then she ran quick as she could to look at her stocking where she'd hung it; and true's you live, kitty-cat, there wasn't the leastest thing in it—not the leastest little mite of a scrimp!

Oh, the little girl felt dreadfully! How'd you feel, s'pose it had been you, kitty-cat?

She 'menced to cry, the little girl did, and she kept going harder 'n' harder, till by'mby she screeched orfly, and her mamma came running to see what the matter

was.

"Mercy me!" said her mamma. "Look over by the window 'fore you do that any more, Kathie."

That little girl's name was Kathie too, kitty-cat, just the same's mine.

So she looked over by the window, the way her mamma said, and-oh! there was the loveliest dolly's house you ever saw in all your born life.

It had curtains to pull to the sides when you wanted to play, and pull in front when you didn't.

There was a bedroom, kitty-cat, and a diner-room, and a kitchen, and a parlor, and they all had carpets on.

And there was the sweetest dolly in the parlor, all dressed up in blue silk! Oh, dear! And a penano, to play real little tunes on, and a rocking-chair, and—O kitty-cat! I can't begin to tell you half about it.

I can't about the bedroom, either, nor the diner

room.

But the kitchen was the very bestest of all. There was a stove-a teenty tonty mite of a one, kitty-cat,—with dishes just 'zactly like mamma's, only littler, of course, and fry-pans and everything; and spoons to stir with, and a rolling-pin, and two little cutters-out, and the darlingest baker-sheet ever you saw!

And the first thing that little girl did was to make some teenty mites of cookies, 'cause her mamma let her; and if you'll come right down stairs, kitty-cat, I'll give you one.

'Cause I was that little girl, kitty-cat, all the time. A. C. H. S.

THE NIGHT-WATCH.

MOON as her lover to the war had gone,

Without or tears or commonplace despair,

Irene de Grandfief reassumed the garb

That at the convent she had worn-black dress
With narrow pelerine-and the small cross
In silver at her breast. Her piano closed,
Her jewels put away-all save one ring,
Gift of the Viscount Roger on that eve
In the past spring-time when they had parted
Bidding farewell, and from Irene's brow
Culling one silken tress, that he might wear it
In gold medallion close upon his heart.