At that moment the Irish girl came through the front door with an expression of solemn import in her face. She whispered in a flustered manner to her mistress, and the words spoilt entirely" reached Robert's ear.

66

Away went the aunt, all in a state of excitement, to the kitchen. Whatever mischief had happened in the kitchen, the dinner turned out magnificently. The turkey came upon the table a perfect miracle of cookery. The pig absolutely looked more beautiful than life, crouching in his bed of parsely, with his head up, and holding a lemon daintily between his jaws. The chicken pie, pinched around the edge into a perfect embroidery by the two plump thumbs of Mrs. Gray, and then finished off by an elaborate border done in key work, would have charmed the most fastidious artist.

You have no idea, reader mine, how beautiful colors may be blended on a dinner table, unless you have seen just the kind of feast to which Mrs. Gray invited her guests. The rich brown of the meats; the snow-white bread; the fresh, golden butter; the cranberry sauce, with its bright, ruby tinge, were daintily mingled with plates of pies, arranged after a most tempting fashion. Golden custard; the deep red tart; the brown mince and tawny orange color of the pumpkin, were placed in alternate wedges and radiating from the centre of each plate like a star, stood at equal distances round the table. Water sparkling from the well; currant wine brilliantly red-contrasted with the sheeted snow of the table-cloth; and the gleam of crystal; then that old arm-chair at the head of the table, with its soft crimson cushions. I tell you again, reader, it was a Thanksgiving dinner worthy to be remembered. That poor family from the miserable basement in New York, did remember it for many a weary day after. Mrs. Gray remembered it, for she had given delicious pleasure to those old people. She had, for that one day at least, lifted them from their toil and depression.

THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS.-REV. GEORGE CROLY.

It was the wild midnight,-a storm was in the sky,
The lightning gave its light, and the thunder echoed by;
The torrent swept the glen, the ocean lashed the shore,
Then rose the Spartan men, to make their bed in gore!

Swift from the deluged ground, three hundred took the shield;
Then, silent, gather'd round the leader of the field.

He spoke no warrior-word, he bade no trumpet blow;

But the signal thunder roar'd, and they rush'd upon the foe.

The fiery element, show'd, with one mighty gleam,
Rampart and flag, and tent, like the spectres of a dream.
All up the mountain side, all down the woody vale,
All by the rolling tide, waved the Persian banners pale.

And king Leonidas, among the slumbering band,

Sprang foremost from the pass, like the lightning's living brand;
Then double darkness fell, and the forest ceased to moan,
But there came a clash of steel, and a distant dying groan.

Anon, a trumpet blew, and a fiery sheet burst high,
That o'er the midnight threw, a blood-red canopy.
A host glared on the hill: a host glared by the bay;

But the Greeks rush'd onward still, like leopards in their play.

The air was all a yell, and the earth was all a flame,

Where the Spartan's bloody steel on the silken turbans came;
And still the Greek rushed on, beneath the fiery fold,
Till, like a rising sun, shone Xerxes' tent of gold.

They found a royal feast, his midnight banquet, there!
And the treasures of the East lay beneath the Doric spear.
Then sat to the repast, the bravest of the brave!
That feast must be their last, that spot must be their grave.

They pledged old Sparta's name in cups of Syrian wine,
And the warrior's deathless fame, was sung in strains divine.
They took the rose-wreath'd lyres from ev'ry cringing slave,
And taught the languid wires the sounds that freedom gave.

But now the morning star crown'd Eta's twilight brow,
And the Persian horn of war from the hill began to blow;
Up rose the glorious rank, to Greece one cup pour'd high,
Then, hand in hand, they drank-"To Immortality!"

Fear on King Xerxes fell, when, like spirits from the tomb,
With shout and trumpet knell, he saw the warriors come;
But down swept all his power, with chariot and with charge;
Down pour'd the arrowy shower, till sank the Dorian's targe.

They march'd within the tent, with all their strength unstrung: To Greece one look they sent, then on high their torches flung; To heaven the blaze uproll'd, like a mighty altar-fire;

And the Persians' gems and gold were the Grecians' funeral pyre.

Their king sat on the throne, his captains by his side,
While the flame rush'd roaring on, and their pæan loud replied!
Thus fought the Greek of old! Thus will he fight again!
Shall not the self-same mould bring forth the self-same men?

THE PILGRIM'S VISION.-OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

I saw in the naked forest

Our scattered remnant cast-
A screen of shivering branches
Between them and the blast;
The snow was falling round them,
The dying fell as fast;
I looked to see them perish,
When lo! the vision passed.

Again mine eyes were opened—
The feeble had waxed strong;
The babes had grown to sturdy men,
The remnant was a throng.
By shadowed lake and winding stream,
And all the shores along,

The howling demons quaked to hear
The Christian's godly song.

They slept the village fathers-
By river, lake, and shore,

When far adown the steep of Time

The vision rose once more:

I saw along the winter snow
A spectral column pour;
And high above their broken ranks
A tattered flag they bore.

Their Leader rode before them,
Of bearing calm and high,
The light of Heaven's own kindling
Throned in his awful eye:
These were a Nation's champions
Her dread appeal to try;
"God for the right!" I faltered,
And lo! the train passed by.

Once more; the strife was ended,
The solemn issue tried;
The Lord of Hosts, his mighty arm
Had helped our Israel's side:
Gray stone and grassy hillock,
Told where her martyrs died;
And peace was in the borders
Of victory's chosen bride.

A crash..as when some swollen cloud
Cracks o'er the tangled trees!
With side to side, and spar to spar,

Whose smoking decks are these?

I know Saint George's blood-red cross,
Thou Mistress of the Seas:

But what is she, whose streaming bars
Roll out before the breeze?

Ah! well her iron ribs are knit,
Whose thunders strive to quell
The bellowing throats, the blazing lips
That pealed the Armada's knell!
The mist was cleared, a wreath of stars
Rose o'er the crimsoned swell,
And wavering from its haughty peak,
The cross of England fell!

O, trembling Faith! though dark the morn
A heavenly torch is thine;
While feebler races melt away,

And paler orbs decline,

Still shall the fiery pillar's ray
Along thy pathway shine,
To light the chosen tribe that sought
This Western Palestine!

I see the living tide roll on,
It crowns with flaming towers
The icy capes of Labrador,

The Spaniard's "land of flowers;"
It streams beyond the splintered ridge
That parts the Northern showers-
From eastern rock to sunset wave
The Continent is ours!

The weary pilgrim slumbers,

His resting-place unknown;

His hands were crossed, his lids were cod

The dust was o'er him strown:

The drifting soil, the mouldering leaf,

Along the sod were blown;

His mound has melted into earth-
His memory lives alone.

THE HUNTER-A LEGEND.-J. G. WHITTIER.

The hunter went forth with his dog and gun,
In the earliest glow of the golden sun;
The trees of the forest bent over his way,
In the changeful colors of autumn gay;
For a frost had fallen, the night before,
On the quiet greenness which nature wore:

A bitter frost!-for the night was chill,
And starry and dark, and the wind was still;
And so, when the sun looked out on the hills,
On the stricken woods and the frosted rills,
The unvaried green of the landscape fled,
And a wild, rich robe was given instead.

We know not whither the hunter went,
Or how the last of his days was spent;
For the noon drew nigh-but he came not back,
Weary and faint, from his forest track;
And the wife sat down to her frugal board,
Beside the empty seat of her lord.

And the day passed on, and the sun came down
To the hills of the west like an angel's crown;
The shadows lengthened from wood and hill,
The mist crept up from the meadow-rill,

Till the broad sun sank, and the red light rolled
All over the west like a wave of gold.

Yet he came not back-though the stars gave forth Their wizard light to the silent earth;

And his wife looked out from the lattice dim

In the earnest manner of fear for him;

And his fair-haired child on the door-stone stood
To welcome his father back from the wood!

He came not back-yet they found him soon
In the burning light of the morrow's noon,
In the fixed and visionless sleep of death,
Where the red leaves fall at the soft wind's breath;
And the dog, whose step in the chase was fleet,
Crouched silent and sad at the hunter's feet.

He slept in death;-but his sleep was one
Which his neighbors shuddered to look upon:
For his brow was black, and his open eye

Was red with the sign of agony ;

And they thought, as they gazed on his features grim That an evil deed had been done on him.