The little cottage, it shines afar

O'er the lurid seas, like the polar star.
The mariner tossed in the jaws of death
Hurls at the storm a defiant breath;

Shouts to his mates through the writhing foam,
"Courage! please God, we shall yet win home!"
Frozen and haggard and wan and gray,
But resolute still; 'tis the sailor's way.

And perhaps at the fancy the stern eyes dim-
Somebody is praying to-night for him.

Ah, me, through the drench of the bitter rain,
How bright the picture that rises plain!
Sure he can see, with her merry look,
His little maid crooning her spelling-book;
The baby crows from the cradle fair;
The grandam nods in her easy-chair;
While hither and yon, with a quiet grace,
A woman flits, with an earnest face.

The kitten purrs, and the kettle sings,
And a nameless comfort the picture brings.
Rough weather outside, but the winds of balm
Forever float o'er that isle of calm.

Oh, friends who read over tea and toast

Of the wild night's work on the storm-swept coast,
Think, when the vessels are overdue,

Of the perilous voyage, the baffled crew,
Of stout hearts battling for love and home,
'Mid the cruel blasts and the curdling foam,
And breathe a prayer from your happy lips
For those who must go "to the sea in ships;
Ask that the sailor may stand once more
Where the sweet wife smiles in the cottage door.
MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

YOUNG GRIMES.

OLD GRIMES is dead; that good old man,

We ne'er shall see him more;

But he has left a son who bears
The name that old Grimes bore.

He wears a coat of latest cut,
His hat is new and gay;
He cannot bear to view distress,
So turns from it away.

His pants are gaiters - fitting snug
O'er patent leather shoes;
His hair is by a barber curled;
He smokes cigars, and chews,

A chain of massive gold is borne
Above his flashy vest;

His clothes are better every day
Than were old Grimes' best.

In Fashion's court he constant walks,
Where he delight doth shed;
His hands are white and very soft,
But softer is his head.

He's six feet tall - no post more straight;
His teeth are pearly white;

In habits he is sometimes loose,

And sometimes very tight.

His manners are of sweetest grace;
His voice of softest tone;

His diamond pin's the very one

That old Grimes used to own.

His dicky tall adorns his face;
His neck, a scarf of blue;

He sometimes goes to church, for change,
And sleeps in Grimes' pew.

He sports the fastest "cab" in town;
Is always quick to bet;

He never knows who's President,
But thinks "Old Tip's " in yet.

He has drunk wines of every kind,
And liquors cold and hot;

Young Grimes, in short, is just that sort
Of man Old Grimes was not.

B. P. SHILLABER.

AUTUMN LEAVES.

A COMEDIETTA IN ONE ACT.

CHARACTERS.

Mrs. MELICENT OGDEN, a widow.
Mr. SYDNEY MAURICE, a bachelor.

SCENE.-A wood, backed by an autumn landscape. Baskets and other paraphernalia of a picnic scattered carelessly about. Mrs. OGDEN discovered seated on a bank at the foot of a tree, L.C.; Mr. MAURICE standing beside her looking off R., his eyes shaded by his hand. Shouts and laughter heard off R. at rise of curtain.

Mr. M. (turning to his companion, still shading his eyes). One would imagine, judging from those happy youths and maidens, that the violets were here instead of the golden rod, and that the roses were coming, and not the snowflakes. They go as merrily to gather autumn leaves as they went to seek May's sweet blossoms. Life's spring makes all

seasons its own.

Mrs. O. (laughing). True. But that is no reason you should protect your sight any longer. You have turned your back upon the sun.

Mr. M. (dropping his hand). When we two were young, I thought your beauty much more dazzling than the sun. Mrs. O. (slowly). That was a great many years ago. Mr. M. Well, say fifteen.

Mrs. O. At least sixteen.

Mr. M. Is it possible? Looking at you, I can scarcely believe it to be half that number.

Mrs. O. You have not lost your talent for flattering.

-

Mr. M. I could not lose what I never possessed. I abhor flattery. Time must have fallen in love with you when you entered upon the summer of your life, I don't wonder at it, and the old gray-beard ever after, as he made his yearly rounds, only gazed upon you smilingly, and passed on. No hand of his has been laid upon your dark tresses. He has never touched your broad, smooth brow. Your wide brown eyes have the same sparkle, and your pretty mouth the same smile as of old. Only your form is more matronly, and your chin not quite so round; and I should suspect (glancing at her hand), that you now wear six and a half instead of six. The first philopena I

ever gave you - I let you catch me, by-the-by- was a pair of gloves. As for me, the footprints of the crow are plainly visible around my eyes; my hair and my moustache are turning gray, and the button-holes of the brown coat in which you first beheld me wouldn't meet at the present moment by a foot or so. Time has smitten me with both hands.

Mrs. O. 'Tis false! He has only touched you with one finger. You look your age, I will confess - nine-and-thirty but not a day more. And you are entirely mistaken about the crow's feet, and I see no silver threads among the gold." So, Mr. Maurice, you get no sympathy from me on that score.

66

Mr. M. (suddenly, after a moment's thought). Ah! Melicent, what happy, happy days those were when you, seventeen, and I, two-and-twenty, were so wildly in love with each other. That is, when I was wildly in love with you, and you were very much in love with me. Do you remember the morning in early April when the bluebird flew in at the open window, and perching above your picture, sang its few sweet notes over and over again? And you declared it was an enchanted prince, like the one in the fairy tale, who had flown thither for love of you! And you made kisses at it, and called it such pretty pet names that I actually grew jealous of the bird.

Mrs. O. Yes, I remember it well. And the day we went for water-lilies, and came near being drowned.

Mr. M. And I said: "In what more beautiful shape could death come to us?" The smiling sky above, the smiling waters beneath, and the fragrant flowers around us.

Mrs. O. You were awfully poetical. But in spite of the poetry, I caught a severe cold, and looked like a fright for a week. And can you recall the terrible thunderstorm that overtook us as we were sauntering through the woods one August day, and the fearful clap that shattered the mapletree beneath which we sought shelter?

Mr. M. Can I recall it? Can I ever forget it, you mean. For that same clap which you call fearful, but which I thought Heaven sent, threw you into my arms, and—I— kissed you.

Mrs. O. (blushing). And the day we went for wild flowers, and gathered such a quantity, and stopped to rest on the porch of the widow Marshall's cottage when half way home,

forgot them, and left them all there; and mamma, who was waiting with pitchers and things to fill, scolded us for nearly an hour? Dear mamma! she always liked you, and never forgot you.

Mr. M. (with emphasis). In which respect her daughter did not resemble her.

Mrs. O. (ignoring the interruption). And the day I stole the jar of peaches from the storeroom, when we contemplated a lunch among the hens and chickens in the barn, and it exploded ere it reached its destination - having been quietly fermenting for a year or so for the purpose of, at the proper time, stopping a thief- and brought all the household about me? And Aunt Mira held up her hands in horror-poor, dear Aunt Mira! and made us go to the dining-room and take lunch, as she said, “like Christians."

Mr. M. And the day I started for Japan, and you promised to remain true to me forever. Do you remember that?

Mrs. O. (leaning forward to look down the path). Indistinetly.

Mr. M. (impulsively). Melicent, why weren't you true to me?

Mrs. O. I was; though appearances, I must confess, were against me.

Mr, M. You were true to me? Why, I hadn't been gone three months when I heard of your flirting desperately with Jack Hall!

Mrs. O. Poor Jack! He was so entertaining, and used to say such funny things. I nearly died a-laughing at them many a time. But as for flirting with him- you accused me of it in your second letter- and I was so indignant that I did not answer it.

Mr. M. (sarcastically). Ah! it was indignation, then, that kept you from replying.

Mrs. O. I never flirted with him. He got into the habit of strolling over to our house from the hotel, and spending an hour or two every day or evening, and we played cards and jested, and laughed together and that's all.

Mr. M. And Will Brown?

-

Mrs. O. Poor, dear Will! His brains were all in his feet, What a capital dancer he was! No one could step with me as he did. And it's so refreshing to find a partner who don't tread on your train, or jerk you awfully about, or stop before