nothing more strongly than in an inveterate dislike of interrup tion. The thing which we are doing, we wish to be permitted to do. We have neither much knowledge nor devices; but there are fewer in the place to which we hasten. We are not willingly put out of our way, even at a game of ninepins. 3. While youth was, we had vast reversions in time future; we are reduced to a present pittance, and obliged to economize in that article. We bleed away our moments now as hardly as our ducats. We can not bear to have our thin wardrobe eaten and fretted into by moths. We are willing to barter our good time with a friend, who gives us in exchange his own. Herein is the distinction between the genuine guest and the visitant. This latter takes your good time, and gives you his bad in exchange. The guest is domestic to you as your good cat, or household bird; the visitant is your fly, that flaps in at your window, and out again, leaving nothing but a sense of disturbance, and victuals spoiled. 4. The inferior functions of life begin to move heavily. We can not concoct our food with interruption. Our chief meal, to be nutritive, must be solitary. With difficulty we can eat before a guest; and never understood what the relish of public feasting meant. Meats have no savor, nor digestion fair play, in a crowd. The unexpected coming in of a visitant stops the machine. There is a punctual generation who time their calls to the precise commencement of your dinner-hour-not to eat-but to see you eat. Our knife and fork drop instinctively, and we feel that we have swallowed our latest morsel. 5. Others again show their genius, as we have said, in knocking the moment you have just sat down to a book. They have a peculiar compassionate sneer, with which they "hope that they do not interrupt your studies." Though they flutter off the next moment, to carry their impertinences to the nearest student that they can call their friend, the tone of the book is spoiled; we shut the leaves, and with Dante's lovers, read no more that day. It were well if the effect of the intrusion were simply coëxtensive with its presence, but it mars all the good hours afterwards. These scratches in. appearance leave an orifice that closes not hastily. "It is a prostitution of the bravery of friendship," says worthy Bishop Taylor, "to spend it upon impertinent people, who are, it may be, loads to their families, but can never ease my loads." This is the secret of their gaddings, their visits, and morning calls. They too have homes, which are-no homes. XII. THE RETURN OF THE DEAD. EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 1. Low hung the moon, the wind was still, 2. The bolt flew back with sudden clang: Down dropped the moon, and, clear and high, 3. And groping up the threshold stair, 4. Where were those rosy children three? 5. My hand was on the latch, when lo! I was not wild, and could I dream? 6. Oh, the long rapture, perfect rest, As close he clasped me to his breast! 7. Then by his side, his hand in mine, And saw my griefs unfolding fair 8. "O Death!" I cried, "if these be thine, 9. And still we talked. O'er cloudy bars Orion bore his pomp of stars; Within, the wood-fire fainter glowed; 10. Then nearer to his side I drew, 11. 'Tis true his rest this many a year 12. And oft, when other fires are low, XIII. THERE'S BUT ONE PAIR OF STOCKINGS TO MEND TO-NIGHT. ANONYMOUS. 1. An old wife sat by her bright fireside, In an ancient chair whose creaky frame While down by her side, on the kitchen floor, 2 The good man dozed o'er the latest news, Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair, 3. But anon a misty tear-drop came Then trickled down in a furrow deep, So deep was the channel-so silent the stream— 4. Yet he marveled much that the cheerful light And marveled he more at the tangled balls; "I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow, 5. Then she spoke of the time when the basket there Was filled to the very brim, And how there remained of the goodly pile But a single pair-for him. "Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light, There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night. 6. "I can not but think of the busy feet, In the basket, awaiting the needle's time,- How the sprightly steps, to a mother dear, 7. "For each empty nook in the basket old, 'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight 8. ""Twas said that far through the forest wild Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves Then my first-born turned from the oaken door, 9. Another went forth on the foaming waves But his feet grew cold-so weary and cold- And this nook, in its emptiness, seemeth to me |