May God pity the girl who thus finds that her fate
Is to suffer in patience, and patiently wait!-
To whom womanhood brings only sorrows and cares,
Only longing, and hunger, and pleadings, and prayers!
"But we choose for ourselves," do you say? Yes, I know;
We must reap in our harvest as now we may sow;
If we run any risks, then the blame is our own
Do we bitterness gather with Jenny Malone.

It is better to journey alone through the years
Than to wed only bitterest grieving and tears;
So I say to young men who are fond of their wine
That the lips that taste liquor can never touch mine.

ECHO.-JOHN G. SAXE.

I asked of Echo, t'other day,

(Whose words are few and often funny,)
What to a novice she could say

Of courtship, love, and matrimony?
Quoth Echo, plainly,--" Matter-o'-money!"

Whom should I marry?—should it be
A dashing damsel, gay and pert,

A pattern of inconstancy;

Or selfish, mercenary flirt?

Quoth Echo, sharply, —“ Nary flirt!"

What if, aweary of the strife

That long has lured the dear deceiver,

She promise to amend her life,

And sin no more; can I believe her?
Quoth Echo, very promptly,-" Leave her!"

But if some maiden with a heart
On me should venture to bestow it,

Pray, should I act the wiser part

To take the treasure, or forego it?
Quoth Echo, with decision,-" Go it!”

But what if, seemingly afraid

To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,
She vow she means to die a maid,

In answer to my loving letter?

Quoth Echo, rather coolly,-" Let her!"

What if, in spite of her disdain,

I find my heart entwined about
With Cupid's dear delicions chain
So closely that I can't get out?
Quoth Echo, laughingly,—“ Get out!"
But if some maid with beauty blest,

As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,
Will share my labor and my rest

Till envious death shall overtake her?
Quoth Echo (sotto voce),—“ Take her!"

AWFULLY LOVELY PHILOSOPHY.

A few days ago a Boston girl, who had been attending the School of Philosophy at Concord, arrived in Brooklyn, on a visit to a seminary chum. After canvassing thoroughly the fun and gum-drops that made up their education in the seat of learning at which their early scholastic efforts were made, the Brooklyn girl began to inquire the nature of the Concord entertainment.

"And so you are taking lessons in philosophy! How do you like it?"

"Oh, it's perfectly lovely! It's about science, you know, and we all just dote on science."

"It must be nice. What is it about?"

"It's about molecules as much as anything else, and molecules are just too awfully nice for anything. If there's any. thing I really enjoy it's molecules."

"Tell me about them, my dear. What are molecules ?" “Oh, molecules! They are little wee things, and it takes ever so many of them. They are splendid things. Do you know, there ain't anything but what's got molecules in it. And Mr. Cook is just as sweet as he can be, and Mr. Emerson too. They explain everything so beautifully."

"How I'd like to go there!" said the Brooklyn girl, enviously.

"You'd enjoy it ever so much. They teach protoplasm, too, and if there is one thing perfectly heavenly it's protoplasm. I really don't know which I like best, protoplasm or molecules.".

"Tell me about protoplasm. I know I should adore it." “'Deed you would. It's just too sweet to live. You know it's about how things get started, or something of that kind. You ought to hear Mr. Emerson tell about it. It would stir your very soul. The first time he explained about protoplasm there wasn't a dry eye in the house. We named our hats after him. This is an Emerson hat. You see the ribbon is drawn over the crown and caught with a buckle and a bunch of flowers. Then you turn up the side with a spray of forget-me-nots. Ain't it just too sweet? All the girls in the school have them."

"How exquisitely lovely! Tell me some more science." "Oh, I almost forgot about differentiation. I am really and truly positively in love with differentiation. It's different from molecules and protoplasm, but it's every bit as nice. And Mr. Cook! You should hear him go on about it. I really believe he's perfectly bound up in it. This scarf is the Cook scarf. All the girls wear them, and we named them after him, just on account of the interest he takes in differentiation."

"What is it, anyway?"

"This is mull, trimmed with Languedoc lace-"

"I don't mean that,-that other."

"Oh, differentiation! Ain't it sweet? It's got something to do with species. It's the way you tell one hat from another, so you'll know which is becoming. And we learn all about ascidians too. They are the divinest things! I'm absolutely enraptured with ascidians. If I only had an ascidian of my own I wouldn't ask anything else in the world." "What do they look like, dear? Did you ever see one?" asked the Brooklyn girl, deeply interested.

"Oh, no; nobody ever saw one except Mr. Cook and Mr. Emerson; but they are something like an oyster with a reticule hung on its belt. I think they are just heavenly.” "Do you learn anything else besides ?"

"Oh, yes. We learn about common philosophy and logic, and those common things like metaphysics; but the girls don't care anything about those. We are just in ecstasies over differentiations and molecules, and Mr. Cook and protoplasms, and ascidians and Mr. Emerson, and I really don't

see why they put in those vulgar branches. If anybody beside Mr. Cook and Mr. Emerson had done it, we should have told him to his face that he was too terribly, awfully mean." And the Brooklyn girl went to bed that night in the dumps, because fortune had not vouchsafed her the advantages enjoyed by her friend.

PATIENCE WITH LOVE.-GEORGE Klingle.

They are such tiny feet:

They have gone such a little way to meet

The years which are required to break

Their steps to evenness, and make

Them go

More sure and slow.

They are such little hands:

Be kind. Things are so new, and life but stands
A step beyond the doorway. All around

New day has found

Such tempting things to shine upon, and so
The hands are tempted hard, you know.

They are such new, young lives:

Surely their newness shrives

Them well of many sins. They see so much

That, being mortal, they would touch,

That if they reach

We must not chide, but teach.

They are such fond, clear eyes

That open wide to surprise

At every turn; they are so often held
To suns or showers,-showers soon dispelled

By looking in our face.

Love asks, for such, much grace.

They are such fair, frail gifts;
Uncertain as the rifts

Of light that lie along the sky-
They may not be here by and by;
Give them not love, but more-above
And harder-patience with the love.

THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

I don't think I feel much older; I'm aware I'm rather gray, But so are many young folks; I meet 'em every day.

I confess I'm more particular in what I eat and drink, But one's taste improves with culture; that is all it means, I think.

"Can you read as once you used to?" Well, the printing is so bad,

No young folks' eyes can read it like the books that once we had.

"Are you quite as quick at hearing?" Please to say that once

again.

"Don't I use plain words, your Reverence?" Yes, I often use a cane,

But it's not because I need it,―no, I always liked a stick ; And as one might lean upon it, 'tis as well it should be thick; Oh, I'm smart, I'm spry, I'm lively,-I can walk, yes, that I

can,

On the days I feel like walking, just as well as you, young man!

"Don't you get a little sleepy after dinner every day?" Well, I doze, a little, sometimes, but that always was my way. "Don't you cry a little easier than some twenty years ago?" Well, my heart is very tender, but I think 'twas always so.

"Don't you find it sometimes happens that you can't recall

a name?"

Yes, I know such lots of people,-but my memory's not to blame.

What! you think my memory's failing! Why it's just as bright and clear

I remember my great-grandma! She's been dead these sixty year!

"Is your voice a little trembly?" Well, it may be, now and then,

But I write as well as ever with a good old-fashioned pen; It's the Gillotts make the trouble,-not at all my finger

ends,

That is why my hand looks shaky when I sign for dividends. "Don't you stoop a little, walking?" It's a way I always

had

I have always been round-shouldered ever since I was a lad.