spirit of the thing," so he is,”-stripping off his coat,-" and I'll settle the matter at once. You stand back, Fanny; I'll give him such a thrashing as he'll be likely to remember. Striking his wife with a poker, indeed! I'll rectify matters;" and Uncle John grasped the long-handled duster and flourished it threateningly around the head of his nephew. "There, sir, take that! and that! and that!" exclaimed he, bringing down the feathers on the shoulders of the amazed Phil. “Fanny, my dear, I'll not leave a bone of him whole." Fanny's round blue eyes had been growing larger and larger-and now her indignation broke.

"John Hayes!" she cried, "you're a heathen and an old, meddling vagabond! Let Phil alone! He's my dear, dear husband, and you've no right to touch him. He's an angel. He never intended to strike me. Be still striking him, or you'll be sorry!" and Fanny seized the broom from behind the door, and prepared to do battle.

"Stand back!" cried Uncle John, "he's a monster, and deserves death. The man who would threaten to strike a woman ought to be hung."

Fanny's eyes blazed. She flew at Uncle John with the spite of a tigress, and the way the trio went round the room was worth witnessing. Uncle John after Phil with the duster, and Fanny after Uncle John with the broom.

Phil made a spring for the window, but there was a whatnot in the way, and getting his leg entangled in that, he brought the whole concern to the floor. Ambrotypes, books, vases, rare china, and a hundred cherished curiosities, all were involved in a direct ruin.

Phil went down with the other things, Uncle John stumbled over him, and Fanny only saved herself by seizing the bell-rope, which brought her two servants to the spot.

Of course they took Phil and Uncle John for house-breakers, and if Fanny's explanation had not been enforced by sundry touches of her broomstick, the consequences might have been serious.

The first moment of calm was seized upon by the young couple to embrace each other.

And then followed an explanation like the bursting of beer bottles.

Uncle John left the house during this interesting performance, still firmly of the opinion that the surest way of reconciling a wife to her husband is to get a third person to help abuse him.

UNITED AT LAST.

"O mother! what do they mean by blue?
And what do they mean by gray?"
Was heard from the lips of a little child
As she bounded in from play.

The mother's eyes filled up with tears;
She turned to her darling fair,

And smoothed away from the sunny brow
Its treasure of golden hair.

"Why, mother's eyes are blue, my sweet,
And grandpa's hair is gray,

And the love we bear our darling child
Grows stronger every day."

"But what did they mean?" persisted the child;

"For I saw two cripples to-day,

And one of them said he fought for the blue,
The other, he fought for the gray.

"Now, he of the blue had lost a leg,
And the other had but one arm,
And both seemed worn and weary and sad,
Yet their greeting was kind and warm.
They told of the battles in days gone by,
Till it made my young blood thrill;
The leg was lost in the Wilderness fight,
And the arm on Malvern Hill.

"They sat on the stone by the farm-yard gate,

And talked for an hour or more,

Till their eyes grew bright and their hearts seemed warm With fighting their battles o'er;

And they parted at last with a friendly grasp,

In a kindly, brotherly way,

Each calling on God to speed the time

Uniting the blue and the gray."

Then the mother thought of other days,

Two stalwart boys from her riven;

How they knelt at her side and lispingly prayed,
"Our Father which art in heaven;"

How one wore the gray and the other the blue;
How they passed away from sight,

And had gone to the land where gray and blue
Are merged in colors of light.

And she answered her darling with golden hair,
While her heart was sadly wrung

With the thoughts awakened in that sad hour
By her innocent prattling tongue:

"The blue and the gray are the colors of God,
They are seen in the sky at even,

And many a noble, gallant soul

Has found them a passport to heaven."

ONLY A GLOVE.

It is only a glove, Ted, a lady's glove;

It has lain in the desk where I found it
For twenty long years, but the freshness of love
And the glory of youth cling around it.

Yes, there comes, Ted, whenever I see that glove
A vision of music and dancing;

And again, in my mind, the eyes of a dove
Into mine are tenderly glancing.

And I clasp once again in this hand of mine

That glove and the soft hand within it;

And I feel in the waltz through the glare and the shine
That it throbs like a new-caught linnet.

I feel her ambrosial breath on my cheek,
Like the scent of the linden blossom;

And I know that she loves, though she does not speak,
By the rise and fall of her bosom.

Well, I went to the Indies in '60, Ted,

And-and-tush! 'tis the brandy-and-water—
Why when I came back she was dead, she was dead;
And I married Robinson's daughter.

Just hand me a light and a fresh cigar,
It is foolish to keep such a token
When the girl who gave it is sleeping afar
In a land where the rest is unbroken.

TAMMY'S PRIZE.

"Awa' wi' ye, Tammy man, awa' wi' ye to the schule, aye standin' haverin'," and the old shoemaker looked up through his tear-dimmed spectacles at his son, who was standing with his cap on and his book in his hand.

Tammy made a move to the door. "An' is't the truth, Tammy? and does the maister say't himsel'? Say't ower again."

The boy turned back, and stood looking on the ground. "It wasna muckle he said, fayther. He just said, 'It'll be Tammy Rutherford that'll get the prize i' the coontin."

แ

'He said you, did he?" said the old man, as if he had heard it for the first time, and not for the hundredth.

Again Tammy made a move for the door; and again the fond father would have called him back, had not the schoolbell at that instant rung out loud and clear.

"Ay, ay!" said he to himself, after his son had gone, “a right likely lad, and a credit to his fayther;" and he bent again to the shoe he was working at, though he could scarcely see it for the tears that started in his eyes.

The satisfied smile had not worn off his face when the figure of a stout woman appeared at the door. The shoemaker took off his spectacles, and wiped them, and then turned to the new-comer.

"A bra' day till ye, Mistress Knicht. An' hoo'll ye be keepin'?"

"Oh! brawly, Maister Rutherford. It's the shoon I've come aboot for my guidman; the auld anes are sare crackit.”

"Aweel, mistress, the new anes'll be deen the morn. Set versel' doon;" and, complying with this invitation, she sat down. "An' hoo's yere Sandie gettin' on at the schule, Mistress Knicht?"

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"Deed, noo ye speak on't, he's a sare loon; he'll niver look at's lessons."

"He winna be ha'in' ony o' the prizes, I'm thinkin' at that gait."

66

Na, na; he'll niver bother his heed aboot them. But he's sayin' yer Tam'll ha'e the coontin' prize."

"Ye dinna say sae! Weel, that is news." And he looked

up with ill-concealed pride. "The lad was talkin' o't himsel'; but 'deed I niver thocht on't. But there's nae sayin'." "Aweel, guid-day to ye; and I'll look in the morn for the shoon."

"An' are they sayin' Tam'll ha'e a prize?" continued the old man.

"Ay, ay; the laddie was sayin' sae." And she went away. The shoemaker seemed to have fallen on a pleasant train of thought; for he smiled away to himself, and occasionally picked up a boot, which he as soon let drop. Visions of Tammy's future greatness rose before his mind. Perhaps of too slight a fabric were they built; but he saw Tammy a great and honored man, and Tammy's father leaning on his son's greatness. . .

...

"Presairve us a'! it's mair nor half-six!" (half-past five.) And he started up from his revery. "Schule'll hae been oot an 'oor, an' the laddie's no hame." And he got up, and moved towards the door. The sun was just sinking behind the horizon, and the light was dim in the village street. He put up his hand to his eyes, and peered down in the direction of the school.

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What in a' the world's airth's keepin' him?" he muttered; and then turning round he stumbled through the darkness of his workshop to the little room behind. He filled an antiquated kettle, and set it on the fire. Then he went to the cupboard, and brought out half a loaf, some cheese, a brown teapot, and a mysterious parcel. He placed these on the table, and then gravely and carefully unrolled the little parcel, which turned out to be tea.

“Presairve us, I can niver min' whaur ye put the tea, or hoo muckle. It's an awfu' waicht on the min' to make tea.” His wife had died two years before; and his little son, with the assistance of a kindly neighbor, had managed to cook their humble meals. Porridge was their chief fare; but a cup of tea was taken as a luxury every evening.

"I'm jist some fear't about it. I'll waicht till Tammas comes in ;" and he went out again to the door to see what news there was of his son.

The sun had completely disappeared now; and the village would have been quite dark had it not been for the light in the grocer's window, a few doors down.