MISS MINERVA'S DISAPPOINTMENT.

MRS. E. T. CORBETT.

Yes, Debby, 'twas a disapp'intment; and though, of course, I try

To look as ef I didn't mind it, I won't tell you a lie.

Ye see, he'd been a-comin' stiddy, and our folks sez, sez they, "It's you, Minervy, that he's arter; he's sure to pop some day."

He'd walk in with the evenin' shadders, set in that easychair,

And praise my doughnuts, kinder sighin' about a bachelor's fare.

And then his talk was so improvin', he made the doctrines plain,

And when he'd pint a moral, allers looked straight at Mary Jane.

She'd laugh, and give sech silly answers that no one could

approve;

But, law! the men can't fool me, Debby-it isn't sense they love.

It's rosy cheeks, and eyes a-sparklin'. Yes, yes, you may depend

That when a woman's smart and handy, knows how to bake and mend,

And keep her house and husband tidy, why, the fools will pass her by,

Bekase she's spent her youth a-learnin' their wants to satisfy.

Now Mr. Reed was allers talkin' of what a wife should be, So, Debby, was it any wonder I thought his hints meant me? And then when Mary Jane would giggle, and he would turn so red,

Could you have guessed that they was courtin', when not a word was said?

It all came out at last so sudden. 'Twas Wednesday of last week,

When Mr. Reed came in quite flustered. Thinks I, “He means to speak."

I'll own my heart beat quicker, Debby; for though, of course, it's bold

To like a man before he offers, I thought him good as gold.

Well, there we sot. I talked and waited; he hemmed and coughed awhile:

He seemed so most oncommon bashful I couldn't help but smile.

I thought about my pine-tar balsam that drives a cough

away,

And how when we was fairly married I'd dose him every day.

Just then he spoke: "Dear Miss Minervy, you must hev seen quite plain

That I'm in love-" "I hev," I answers.

Mary Jane."

Sez he, "with

"What did I do?" I nearly fainted, 'twas such a cruel shock, Yet there I had to set, as quiet as ef I was a rock,

And hear about her "girlish sweetness," and "buddin' beauty" too.

Don't talk to me of martyrs, Debby, I know what I've gone through.

Well, that's the end. The weddin's settled for June, he's in such haste.

I've given her the spreads I quilted, so they won't go to

waste.

I'd planned new curtains for his study, all trimmed with bands of blue.

I'm sure her cookin' never'll suit him-he's fond of eatin' too. Well, no, I wa'n't at meetin' Sunday. I don't find Mr. Reed Is quite as edifyin' lately; he can't move me, indeed.

And, Debby, when you see how foolish a man in love can act,

You can't hev sech a high opinion of him, and that's a fact. "I don't look well?" Spring weather, mebbe; it's gittin' warm, you know.

Good-by; I'm goin' to Uncle Jotham's, to stay a week or so.

TRUE TEACHING.

Thou must be true thyself,

If thou the truth wouldst teach;
Thy soul must overflow, if thou
Another soul wouldst reach,—
It needs the overflowing heart
To give the lips full speech.

Think truly, and thy thought

Shall the world's famine feed;
Speak truly, and each word of thine
Shall be a fruitful seed;

Live truly, and thy life shall be

A great and noble creed.

THE DAMSEL OF PERU.-W. C. BRYANT.

Where olive leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew, There sat, beneath the pleasant shade, a damsel of Peru. Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air, Came glimpses of her ivory neck, and of her glossy hair; And sweetly rang her silvery voice, within that shady nook, As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook.

'Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish tongue, That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was sung, When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below, Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe.

Awhile the melody is still, and then breaks forth anew
A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru.

For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side,
And sent him to the war, the day she should have been his
bride,

And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right, And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight. Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled, And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed.

A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, And bright, dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north;

Thou lookest in vain, sweet maiden; the sharpest sight would fail

To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale;
For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat,
And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling in the heat.
That white hand is withdrawn, that fair, sad face is gone;
But the music of that silvery voice is flowing sweetly on,—
Not, as of late, with cheerful tones, but mournfully and low,—
A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago,
Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave,
And her who died of sorrow upon his early grave.

But see, along that mountain slope, a fiery horseman ride;
Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at his side!
His spurs are buried rowel-deep, he rides with loosened rein,
There's blood upon his charger's flank, and foam upon his

mane;

He speeds toward that olive-grove, along that shaded hill: God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should mean her ill!

And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I hear
A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek-but not of fear;
For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak
The overflow of gladness when words are all too weak;
"I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free,
And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove with thee."

THE ORPHAN'S PRAYER.

Not many leagues from here, and e'en not many months ago, When all was bound in Winter's chains, and covered thick

with snow,

As night came down upon the plain dark clouds hung o'er the earth,

And chilling winds swept o'er the scene in wild and cruel mirth,

A fair young child with weary feet from wandering to and fro, At last o'ercome with weariness sank down upon the snow. His tender form was thinly clad, though rough, bleak winds swept by,

And froze upon his cheek the tears that flowed so mournfully; They tossed the curls from off his brow, back from the eyes

of blue,

That glanced such looks of suffering from out their azure hue, Though none but God was near to mark the tears that from

them rolled,

While from his lips oft came the moan, "I am so very cold!"

A drowsiness came o'er his frame and soon he ceased to weep, And on the chilling snow, he thought to lay him down to sleep;

But, true to holy teaching, first his evening hymn he said, And kneeling gently down, he clasped his stiffened hands and prayed

"My Heavenly Father," were the words that from his pale lips came,

And many dark and dismal nights his prayer had been the

same

"Please let me die, and take me to the gentle Shepherd's fold,

I want to go so very much, I am so very cold!

"When mother died and went to heaven to be an angel

bright,

She said I might come pretty soon; please let me go to-night.
I want to feel her dear warm arms again around me fold;
O Father! let me go to her, I am so very cold."

There was a time whene'er these same small hands were clasped in prayer,

At dusky hour of eventide, a mother's form was there;
And ere these curls were laid to rest upon their downy bed,
A father's hand in blessing lay upon that curly head.

There was a time when round this self-same childish form were thrown

The thousand comforts, dear delights, and guardian cares of home;

The budding happiness of life shone on his care-free brow, And love, and warmth, and light were there-where are those blessings now?

'Twas not the ocean's storm that sank the father 'neath its wave,

"Twas not a foul disease that laid the mother in her grave, 'Twas not the raging flame that swept the pleasant home

away,

And turned the patient toil of years to ashes in a day.

'Twas the demon of the wine cup set the father's brain on fire, And plunged him, soul and body, into ruin dark and dire! While drop by drop the life-blood oozed from out the broken heart

Of her who vowed to cling to him till life itself should part.

And when the weary life was o'er, she laid her in the ground, And left her child in this cold world to wander up and down; And now alone, with freezing form beneath the wintry sky, He kneeled upon the cold white snow, and wildly prayed to die.

When morning with her streaming light came o'er the eastern hill,

And flashed her beams athwart the plain, she saw him kneeling still,

But, from those cold and parted lips came not one trembling

word;

The blue eyes raised to heaven were glazed; the orphan's

prayer was heard.