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THE rUMPKIN. Oh! greenly and fair iv the lands of the sun The vines of the «ourJ and the rich melon run. And the rock and the tree and the cottage en fold; ', , With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold. Like tha: o'er N'inevah's prophet once grew "While he waited to know that his warning was true. And longed for the storm cloud, and listened in vain For the rush of the whirlwind and red tire of rain. On the banks of the Xerid the dark Spanisl ni.iden Comer u;> with the fruit of the tan£;ledjvin< And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to beholc Through orange leaves shining the broac spheres of gold : Yet with dearer delight, from his home in tin North, On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks for:h; Where crooknecks are coiling and yellow fruit shines And the sun of September melts down on his vines. Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from cast anil from west, From north and from south, come the pilgrim and guest ; When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored; When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the gir smiled before; What moistens the lip aud what brightens tin eye. What calls back the past like rich pumpkin pie? Oh! fruit loved •>! boyhood! the old day recall ing, When the wood grapes -were purpliag, and brown nuts were falling; When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, Glaring out through the dark, with a candle within; When we laughed round the corn heap, with hearts all in tune, Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon. Telling tales of the fairy who traveled lik< steam la a pumpkin-shell coach, wilh two rats for a team Then thanks for thy present! None Bweetei or better E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter. Fair hands never wrought a pastry more fine, Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking than thine. And the prayer which my mouth is too full to express Swells my heart that thy shadow may never grow less ; That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below And the fame of thy worth like the pumpkin vine grow; And thy life be. as sweet and its last sunset sky Gold-timed and fair as thine own pumpkin pie! John G. Whittier. A TRUE GHOST STORY. The story I am about to relate is strict ly true. The adventure therein related happened to two of my nearest relatives — my father and uncle — both of whom are now living, and ready to bear witness to its truth. From my father's own lips I have received it, ana I will endeavor to give it as nearly as possible in his own words : Bfl "In my youthful days I was called to the bar, as was also your Uncle Paul. We entered the law for different reasons; I, from choice and inclination; he for con venience. However, we began our career at the time, and it so happened that, 1828, we were both engaged on the South Wales circuit. The assizes were held in a town where a irrcat friend of my brother's lived. He, therefore, proposed to make his house our headquarters, and wrote to aay that, if convenient, both he and my self would partake of his hospitality tor a few days. "A letter iv answer told us that Mr. Hawkins waa from home; but having left servants in the house, and a house keeper in charge, who would attend to all our wants, he begged that we would make ourselves at home there so long as might suit us. Accordingly, though Paul was disappointed at losing the pros pect of seeiDg his friend, we agreed to no there, having no better arrangement in view. '•On arriving, we lound a large, clieer ful-lookini; villa on the outskirts of the town, lacing a stream, backed by tower ing hills, and with a nice garden and pleasure-grounds surrounding it. Every thing, l>orh inside and outside the house, wore ?.n air of comfort and brightness not often to be met with in a bachelor's home. The household now consisted of three female servants — the housekeeper and two maids — the only man-servant having accompanied his master on Ins travels. "The housekeeper, a tidy, comfortable old lady, showed us round the house, and having taken us down a long corridor lined with doors, asked us take one of two or three bed rooms already prepared for the reception of visitors. Last of all, she took us into a large double-bedded room at the end of the passage before named, with two fine bay-windows com manding separate views of the grand Welsh hills which were all around. We both exclaimed with delight as she ush ered us into it. " 'This,' said the old lady, 'is where the master sleeps when his brother comes down here. They each have one bed. It is master's fancy, because they always slept in the same room as boys, and they like to Keep it up. Master said that eith er this room or any of the other three was to be tor you, sir, whichever you please to choose.' "'Wei!, Ned' cried my brother, who was stationed in one of the windows, *3uppose we follow Hawkin's example, and take up our abode here? Where could one find a more splendid view? I positively cannot tear myself away from this wiHdow !" and I followed his araze as he spoke, down a valley of exquisite beauty, indeed, bordered on one side by a long range of gorse-covered hills, with a rippling stream winding through its midst. "I agreed gladly; and, having told our decision to the housekeeper, she curtesied and withdrew. " I shall make a point of paying Haw kins a long visit next summer," exclaim ed Paul, when the door was closed. 'By Jove! what fishing there must be in that stream ! It is enough to make one crazy to have to pore over those everlast ing briefs this glorious weather! A waste of life, in fact, isn't it, Ned?' "I smiled at the enthusiasm of my younger brother. He was, as may be guessed from the above speech, not whol ly in love with Ins profession, and nature, as well as inclination, would seem to have designed him for a different calling. Strong, tall and athletic, high-spirited and daring, it seemed a sort of contradic tion in nature to see him poring over old, dusty books of the law. Far better could I picture him at the head of a regiment, or leading an exploring party through the wilds of Africa. Nevertheless, for tune and the necessity or earning his bread had placed him were he was, and, all things considered, he made a good fight ot it. '•We had soiue tough work to get through that eveniug preparatory to next day's business, before we could explore the lovely scene around us; and not until we had completed it and dined did we set forth upon our ramble. Then a bro ther barrister joined us, and we went out on an exploring expedition. "We followed for v mil* or two the windings ot the stream, and Paul observ ed with longing eye, the lazy trout that lay asleep in shoals iv its clear, deep pools. We watched the hawks and buz zards flying to their nests; and finally af ter a toilsome ascent of one of the high est mountain points, we sat down and watched the moon rise over as lovely a scene as ever delighted the eye of man. "It was late in the night, or, rather, early morning, wben we returned to Plas Mervyn, and the old housekeeper, who opened the door, looked as if she had been aroused from her first sleep ; but she most punctiliously did the honors of the place* and having partaken of a cosy supper which she provided, we retired to rest. "I was never more heartily tired in my life than when, having hastily thrown off my cWthes to lock the door — my invariable custom both at home and abroad), I threw myself on the luxu rious spring-bed which awaited me. The bed I had chosen lay| along the wall at right angles to th&t occupied by my brother whose feet, as he lay faced to the door. I have said that I was much fa tigued, and never did fall more quickly into a heavy and dreamless slumber. Heavily as I slept, however, I was awoke — suddenly and complely awoke -by the word 'Ned!' uttered in my brother's voice. The moon was full — the room al most as light as day, and, raising myself in bed, I beheld Paul also half raised and reclining on his elbow, and between his bed and mine, but nearer to and facing him, I most distinctly saw somebody — a figure — a tall, large figure, whether man or woman I could not distinguish, with some sort of loose drapery hanging round it. '"Hallo!' I called out, without a mo ment's reflection. 'Whafs the matter? Who is it'f' aud making a rush out of bed, I flung myself toward the unknown person with some vague intention ot col i taring h burglar. ' "T« my amazement I rushed past it ; through it, H3 it seemed, to my brother's bedside; and when I reached it there was nothing to be sees, no one but our twe selves visible in the room. I made a dash at the door; it was locked, as I had left it the night before; and that nc one had lately passed through it I had the evi dence ot' my senses to tell. For thi first time, an uncomfortable sort of chill came over me, for 1 had not only seen, but had felt— so to speak — the presence of a third person in the room, and I knew Paul had seen it as well. "'Paul, did you see him?' I asked. " 'Of cours^ I saw him,' ssud Paul, 'that was why I called you/ "'Who is it?' l exclaimed. 'What on earth does it mean? The door is locked, and no one came in that way. Are there any secret doors in this room I Do get up. anil let us look.' "Your uncle tiien got up, and we com menced a thorough examination of the whole place; moving the furniture, rap ping on the walls, and searching every crack and crevice, but without the slight est result. "It was a ghost, after all, old fellow !' said Paul , at length. 'Let us turn in again, and never minu it. They are very harmless creatures, and I am too tired to sit up, even for a ghost.' "So we did as he said ; and beiag very tired, were soon asleep again, and slept soundly till broad daylight streamed in to our room. "The assizes lasted a week ; ana we remained at our present quarters, en joying to the full the brief snatches of country life, which our few leisure hours enabled us to enjoy. It was a ireat after the stuffy air of London, and we were disturbed by no more ghostly visitations. We discussed the subject sometimes, and almost persuaded our selves that it was a delusion— the result of being over-tired in mind and body, and that it was caused by an excited im agination and overtaxed brain. It re quired an effort on my part to imagine your uncle in auy of the above conditions. He was about the last man that I should flunk likely to fall under an hallucina tion of any kind. " 'If it appears again, speak to it, Paul, 1 I said. 'It is perhaps some poor creature who cannot rest iv his grave because of an uuredressed wrong (the old tale, you know), and ghosts cannot speak until spoken to.' " 'I certainly will,' he replied, 'if it gives me the chance.' "This was on tne last day of our stay at Plas Mervyu. We were to start by coach early in the morning. I had a brief to attend to, and resolutely remained in doors that evening, while my brother took his ramble. I sat till very late in my room, writing busily. Paul had warned me not to wait up for him ; so, when I had finished my writing, and. found it was already twelve o'clock, ij shut up for the night, and went to bed. I must have slept very soundly, for I Irave no recollection of hearing my broth er coming to bed : but in my dreams (it must have been long after) I thought I heard his voice talking. I heard it again, more distinctly; and gradually arousing, I became conscious that there was talk ing in my room — my brother JmcL spoken. I rubbed my eyes, and looked about be wildered. "Between my brother's bed and mine, in exactly the same position, there stood again that same figure I had seen on a previous sight. As I gazed Paul sp6ke again. I believe he said, 'What do you want?' or something of the kind. There was no answer, but the phantom moved toward the door, and a great long arm was extended under the drapery, and seemed to beckon him to follow. Next minute Paul was out of bed, and both he and the figure disappeared through the door. All this happened in a second or two. I thought I was dreaming; jump ing out of bed to make sure of it, I saw my brother's bed empty. I was about to rush after him, when I bethought me of lighting a candle. It took but a min ute to effect this, and then, candle in hand, I entered the long passage which led to our room. At the far end of it, in his night shirt, ghastly pale, and leaning against the wall, I beheld Paul. He was alone, and staring straight before him like a man in a trance. It was sometime before I could rouse him sufficiently to get him back into the loom again. Even then he did not speak at first. " 'Paul, in Heaven's name, what is itf What have you seen:' I exclaimed, for he continued pale and trembling. " '0 ' good heavens, Ned !" was his first exclamation, as he sank into a chair: 'am I asleep or dreaming — could I have dreamed such a thing? and I vow I wasn't frightened. You saw that — that thing — whatever it was, Nei?' (I assur ed him that I had seen it.) Well. I fol lowed it to find out where it went, and I saw — ' " 'Saw what?' I asked eagerly. He did not speak lor a moment, and then he told me that the phantom had led him to ihe end of the corridor, where it paused, pointed with its ringer to the ground and disappeared. There, lying full in the rays of the moon, which shone through an oriel window overhead, he beheld a collin, and on it, in large white letters, the following inscription: "Paul Mer rell. Bora June 5, ISOO. Died October 10, 1^28.' (It was now June of the year 182 M "What lie told me made my blood run cold. In vain I told myself that it was a delusion — a dream, i myself had seen the apparition, and had seen it twice over. Determined, however, to rind out it any trick hud been played on us, I in stantly went down the conidor again — this time without a light — and examined particularly all round the spot where my brother had described the coffin to have been. Not a trace of anything unusual could I find. All wns still and peaceful, and so bright was the moon shining that I could perfectly distinguish the faces of the old portraits on the walls. "My brother was visibly changed after this. He did not speak much on the sub ject after this night, and I observed that he became graver, and more silent and thoughtful, and his old boisterous spirits quite forsook him. "Far myself, though I was not, I be lieve, naturally superstitious, and I felt persuaded that in the end I should un ravel the mystery and trace the strange apparition of that night to natural causes, still I feared for him, tor the occurence seemed to havo taken a hold upon his mind, and I had heard of cases wheie such warnings, merely through working strongly on the imagination, had brought about their own fulfilment. "I set myself in every way to divert his mind from the subject, and affected to laugh at the whole thing, and to make sure of being able to sift it out; but I wrote privately to our friend Hawkins (my brother particularly wished it kept a secret), and told him the state of the case, beseeching him if he could hint at any possible explanation of the mystery, to do so without delay. "His letter was most unsatisfactory. He had never heard of such an occurrence in his lite. There was no 'haunted cham ber' in his house, uor did it even boast an heriditary ghost of any sort: nor did he believe any of the servants (the old wo man before mentioned and her two nieces, all of whom had lived with him tor years) capable of playing a trick of any kind. "I was forced to drop my investiga tions, but I kept an anxious watch over Paul, and, as far as business permitted, was constantly with him. To my great alarm, I saw that, as the months rolled on, his depression 3eemed to increase. I privately consulted a physician on the case. His advice but seconded the promptings ot my own common-sense: 'Divert his mind in every possible way — change ol seene — variety — society — any thing to keep him from brooding over it.' "It was now the end of September, IS2B. The ill-omened day drew near. To my great vexation, I was summoned away r'rom home just at this time. It was a call that I could not well refuse to obey. I pondered long, devising every possible means of remaining near my brother till after the 10th. "Then, ali resources failing, I com mitted him to one or two trusty friends, to whom I told all the circumstances, binding them to solemn secrecy, and with an anxious heart, set forth on my journey. I had to pass not far from the scene of our summer visit. I made it ray busi ness to go to Plas Mervyn, and from thence (to give it more an air of truth) I wrote my brother the following letter, a fabrication from beginning to end — a falsehood, if you will — but surely a par donable falsehood, if ever there was one: " 'Dear Paul : — I have solved the mys tery ot Plas Mervyn. You will lau^h with me about/ it when I see you again (and so I hoped he would, dear boy). No time for particulars. Hawkins is well. We changed horses at 8., and so I came here for a sight of hi-ji. Will write again from S. In terrible haste, Yours, Ned.' "This, I hoped, would buoy him up till the dreaded day was passed: and, that over, the danger was averted. "My friend Hawkins sympathized kindiy in my anxiety. Not content with expressions of sympathy, he insisted on making business in town for the second week iv October and assuring himself ot my brother's welfare, promising to let me know the 10th and the fol lowing day how he found him. Heaven only knows how, in a distant town in the north of England, I awaited those letters. They came surely enough, and poor Uncle Paul" (here my father would pause and shake his head sadly; while he pauses, I will take up the thread of his story and finish it for him) — "My poor Uncle Paul! what of him? Simply that he is alive and well at this moment — a hale old man of sixty five ! That am I engageo. dine at hit house at seven o'clock this e\ening(by the-by, it is now half-past five), and that on this day three weeks (the once dreaded 10th of October — now always kept as a day of jubilee in his family) I am to be married to jis youngest "daughter — the prettiest girl in England !" So much for ghostly predictions ! Why He Loved His Teacher- A schoolboy about ten years old was the other day halted by a benevolent minded citizen, and asked if he liked to go to school. "No, sir!" -was the prompt reply. "Then you don't love your teacher?" "N— yes, sir. That is, I didn' until yesterday, but now I do." "Why have you loved her since yester day?" "Well, you know Jack Cain? Well, he's the worst fightei in our room. He can lick me and two other boys with one hand tied behind him. Well, he was go ing to lick me last night, and he was shaking his fist at me in school, and showing his teeth and getting n:e all ex cited, when the teacher saw him.'' ''Did, ek?" "You bet she did ; and the way she took him out of that and walloped nim and humbled him down, made me feel as if she were a mother to me. When school was out. Jack dasn't touch nobody. He was wilted down. And when I hit him with a hunk of dirt he never even looked around. I guess I'm going to try and lick him in the morning, before he gets over feeling humble.'' Thoughts. "When you bury an old animosity, never mind putting up a tombstone. Worrying will wear the richest life to shreds. A sweet temper is to the household what sunshine is to trees and flowers. Everything we meet with here below is more or less infections. If we live habitually among good and pleasant people, we inevitably will imbibe some thing of their disposition. REFLECTED. Far on the hillside sonic resplendent blaze Fronts the low sun, and blinds me as I gaze. What sudden splendor all the cold air thrills? What dazzling flames adorn these lonely hills? Slow Binka the sun; I look, aud look again; 'Twas day's last dory lit some easement pane. A poor reflection, transient, but how bright, Only a broken ray of heavenly light. Father «f lights! O let thy radiance be. So mirrored in my snul that looks to Thee! So let my spirit with Thy brightness shine, That wondering man shall know the light di vine* Free me from stains of passion, grief and sin, To glow without for Thee, aud light my home within. Hose Terry Cooke, in Good Company. A STRANGE DREAM-STORY. There is an inexplicable story — which I believe, has never been published — among the traditions of the fat, fertle hill country of Western Fennsylvania,tie most unlikely quarter in the world to serve as a breeding-place of mystery. It was settled most wholly by well-to-io farmers from the north of Ireland, e© nomical, hard-working fols — God-feariig too, after the exact manner described iy John Knox, and having little patience with any other manuer. Not a likey people, assuredly, to give credence toanr fanciful superstitions, and still less t> originate tnem. This story, indeed hasi bold, matter-of-fact character in eveir detail which quite sets it apart from ri lations of the supernatural. I have nev er heard it explained, and it is the bes authentical mystery in my knowledge. Here it is in brief: Among the Scotch Irish settlers in Washington County it ISI2 was a family named Plymire, wh( occupied a comfortable farm and house Rachel, the daughter, was engaged to i young farmer in the neighborhood. Or a Saturday evening in July, having finish ed her week's work, she dressed herself tidily and started fo visit her married sis ter, who lived on a farm about five miles distant, intending to return on Monday morning. She tied up her Sunday gown and hat in a checkered handkerchief, and carried her slices and stockings in the other hand, meaning to walk in her bare feet ana to put them on when she came in sight of nerdestinntion, after the canny Scotch fashion. She left home abou\ seven o'clock, in order to have the cool evening for her walk. The road to the farm was lonely and unfrequented. The girl did not return home on Mon day but no alarm was lelt, as the family thought that her sister would probably wish to detain her for a few days; and it was not until the latter part of the week that it was found she had never been at her sister's. The country was scoured, but in vain; the alarm spread, and excit ed a degree of terror in the peaceable do mestic community which would seem in explicable to city people, to whom the newspaper has brought a budget of crime every morning since their childhood. To children raised in the lonely hamlets and hill-farms murder was a far-oil', unreal horror; usually ail they knew of it vas from the doings of C'air aud Jael, set off in the family Bible. The girls get home on Saturday at sev en o'clock. That night, long before t;n o'clock (farmers go to bed with tie ch.ckem), a woman living in Green Coun ty, about forty miles from the Plymire farm, awoke her husband in great terra, declaring that she hud just seen a murdtr done, and went on to describe a plate she had never seen before -a hill countiy with a wagon road running through an:l v girl with a bundle tied in a checkerel handkerchief, her shoe 3 and white stock ings in the other hand, walking briskh down the grassy side of the road. Sht was met by a young man — the woman judged from their manuer the meeting was by appointment — they sat down on a log and talked for some time. The man at last rose, stepped behind her, and drawing out a hatchet, struck her twice on the head. She fell back ward on the wet, rotten leaves, dead. Presently the man was joined by another, also young, who asked, "Is it done?" He nodded, and together they lifted trie body and carried it away out of her sight. After a while they came back, found the bundle of Sunday finery, and the shoes and stockings, all ot which were stained with blood. There was a ruined old mill near the road; they went into it, lifted a loose board in the flooring, put the bun dle, shoes etc., with the hatchet, under neath, and replaced the board. Then they separated and went through the wood's in different directions. The farmer's wife told her dream to her husband that night; the next day (Sunday),going to a little country church she remained during the intermission be tweenjthe morning and afternoon services. The neighbors, who had come from a cir cuit of twenty miles to church, gathering aecordrng to their homely habit, in the cnurchyaid to eat their lunch and ex change the new 3. Our dreamer told her story again and again, for she was im pressed by it as if it had been reality. After the aftenoon service the congre gation separated, going to their widely scattered homes. There were thus many witnesses ready to certify to the fact that the woman had told her dream the morning after the murder was com mitted at a distance of forty miles, when it was absolutely impossible that the news should have reached her. There were no telegraphs, we must remember, and no railways, in t'aose days — not even mail-earners in those secluded districts. When the story of the girl's disappear ance was told over the country at the end of the next week, the people to whom the dream had been repeated recalled it. Now-a-days the matter would only serve as good material for the reporters, but the men of those days still believed that God took an oversight even of their dreams. Might not this be a hint from him? The Rev. Charles Wheeler, a Bap tist clergyman ot Washington, well known in Western Pennsylvania and Vir ginia a generation ago, and Ephraim Slaine, Esq., a magistrate, father of the present Senator from Maine, and as popu lar a man in his narrower circle, drove over to see the woman who had told the dream. Without stating their purpose, they took her and her husband, on pre tense of business, to the Plymire farm. It was the first time in her life that she had leit her own county, and she was greatly amused and interested. They drove over the whole of the road down which Rachael Plymire had gone. "Have you ever seen this neighbor hood?" one of them asked. "Never," was the reply. That ended the matter, and they turned back, taking a little-used cross-road to save time. Presently the woman started up in great agitation, crying, "This is the place I dreamed of !'* * They assured her that Rachel Plymire had not been upon that road at all." "I know nothing about her,"' she said, "but the girl I saw in my dream came along here ; there is the' path through which the man came, and beyond that turning you will find the log on which he killed her.' They did find the log, and on the ground the stains ot blood. The woman. walking swiftly, led them to the old mill and to the board under which lay the stained clothes and the hatchet. The girl's body was found afterward buried h a creek near at hand. Rachel's lover la^ already been arrested on suspicion It was hinted that he had grown t ¥eil ot the girl, and for many reasons f*und her hard to shake ofl. The womap** co K nlzut l him in a crowd of other ni' fl i au ' 1 6tar " tied her companion still i*ore by point ing out another younf lellow from the West as his companion in her dream. The young man was tried in the town of Washington for milder. The dreamer was brought iuta court, and an effort was actually made to put her on the witness stand ; but eren then men cannot be hung on the evidence of a dream. Without it, there was not enough proof for convic tion, and the jury, unwilling enough, we may be sure, allowed the prisoner to es cape. It was held as positive proof of his guilt that he immediately married the sister of the other accused man, and removed to Ohio, then the wilderness of the West. — R. 11. I), in Lippincotfs Mag. EDMUND KEAN. How the Great Tragedian Played "•Sliylock." [All the Year Round.] The theatre was in great straits ; the managers were as drowning men clutch ing at straws ; otherwise they would not have ventured upon the desperate ex pedient of suffering Mr. Kean to appear. For weeks he had hung about the thea tre, almost begging that he might have a trial. He was known to the scoffing stage-door keepers as the "man with the capes," because of the heavy coachman's cape he wore — it was bitter wintry weather, the snow two feet deep upon the ground. He was allowed his chance at last. But one rehearsal was thought necessary ; this was on the morning ot the memorable January 2(3, 1814, the day fixed for his first .erforniance. He re peated his speeches with some intima tion of the manner li i proposed to adopt in delivering them before the footlignts. His play-fellows predicted failure; the stage manager boldly denounced the in novations of the provincial actor. "If I am wroag, the public will see me right,'' said the tragedian of the Theatre Royal Exeter. The stage manager shrugged his shoulders. The actor dineel liberally, for the first time in many days, upon steak -and porter; than walked through the snow from his lodging in Cecil stieet to the theatre, carrying his properties, an old pair of black silk stockings, a collar, and a black wig, — for contrary to all precedent, his Shylock wore a black wig — tied up in a handkerchief, and thrust into the pocket of the great coat with the capes. The house was only a quarter full. The play began drearily enough. Yet Shylock's early speeches — as Kean rendered them they were "like a chapter of Genesis,"' Douglas Jerrold was wont to say — greatly impressed the audience, stirred to extraordinary en thusiasm afterward when the time came for the actor's superb outbursts of pas sion. Oxberry was surprised that so small an audience could "kick up so great a row!" The success of Edmund Kean's Shylock could no longer be ques tioned. The triumphant actor hurried home, crying exultingly to his wife; "Mary, you shall ride in your carriage, and Charley, my boy,'" and he lifted the three-year-old baby from his cot, "you shall go to Eton!' On the actor's sec ond night the receipts were just double those of the first — that is to say,the house was half full. The committee of man agement began to doubt whether a gen uine success had been achieved; they had suffered so much from quasi-successes; they even contemplated the removal of Kean's name from the bills, and the trial of another candidate. Lord Byron sensi bly expostulated: "You have got a great genius among you and you don't know it. But he will fall througk like many others unless we lift him, and force the town to come and see him. There is enough in Kean to bear out auy extent of panegyric, and it will not do to trust an opporaunity like this to the mere rou tine of ordinary chances. We must go in a body, call upon the proprietors and editors of the leading papers, and ask mem to attend in person, and write the articles themselves. This advice was followed with the happiest results for Keane's fame and fortune. He appeared in Shylock fifteen times during hi* first s'ason at Drury Lane, an--l the part re mained to the last one of the most ad mired in his repertory. A Light in the Window- Off the coast of one of the Orkney Is lands, and right opposite the harbor stood a lone rock, against which, in stormy nights, the boats of returning fishermen struck and were lost. Fifty years ago there lived on this is land a young girl in a cottage with her father; and they loved each other very tenderly. One stormy night, the father was away on the sea in his fisherman's boat, and though his daughter watched for him in much fear and trouble he did not come home. Sad to tell, in the morn ing his dead body was found washed upon the beach. His boat, as he sought the harbor, had struck against the "Lone ly Rock" and gone down. In her deep sorrow, this fisherman's orphan did not think of herself alone. She was scarcely more than a child, hum ble, poor, and weak: yet she said in her heart that while she lived, no more boats should be lost on the "Lonely Rock," if a light shining through the window would guide them safely into the harbor And so, after watching by the body of her fa ther, according to the custom of her peo ple, until it was buried, she lay down and slept during the day; and when night fell she arose, and lighting a candle, placed it in the window of her cottage, so that it might be seen by any fisherman coming in from the sea, and guide him safely in harbor, she sat by the candle all night and trimmed it and spun ; but when the day dawned she went to bed early and slept. As many hanks as sh» spun before ior her daily bread, she spun still, and one over, to "buy her nightly candle ; and from that time to this, for fifty years, through youth, maturity, old age, she has turned night into day : and in the snow storms of Winter, through driving mists, decep live moonlight, and solemn darkness, that northern harbor has never been with out the light ot her candle. How many lives, she has saved by the light of her candle, and how many meals she won for the starving families of the boatmen, it is impossible to say. How many dark nights the fishermen, depend ed on it, have gone forth, can not be told. There it stood, regular as a lighthouse, steadily as constant care could make it Always brighter when daylight waned, the fisherman Lad only to keep it con stantly in view, and they were safe ; there was one thing to intercept it, and that was the rock. However far they' might have gone out to sea. they had only to bear down for that lighted window, and they were sure of safe entrance to the harbor . — Jean Ingeloir. | THE PAST. if (ling my past behind me, like a robe I Worn threadbare in the seams and out of date. I have outgrown it. Wherefore should 1 wee]) And dwell upon its beauty, and its dye? Of Oriental splendor, or complain That I must needs discard it? 1 can weave Upon the shuttles of the future years A fabric more durable. Subdued It may be in the blending of its hues, When sombre shades cominjrk', yet the gleam Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through, While over all a faded lustre lies, And starred with gems made out of crystal tears. My new robe 9hall be richer than the old. Ei.i.a Wheelek. A PLUCKY GIRL. "So you won't go to church this even ing, Malchen?" said Otto Yon Poiheini to his eldest daughter one Sunday in De cember, as he and the rest of the family were setting out for the market town to hear Parson Knoppt preach an advent sermon. v "No, father, Dorothea can go in my stead, and I will keep the house." "Keep the house alone? No, I will leave Hans to protect thee and the manse, too.' 1 "I would rather not have Hans,"' said Milchen.with alittle pout, as she glanced at an ugly gawk who was her father's head servant. "Then thou shalt not have Karl," grum bled old Polheim, speaking rather to himself than to the girl; and, wrapping his ancient blue cloak tightly around him he struck his iron-tipped staff two or three times on the flags of the hall to in timate to the members of his household that it wa3 time to be off. They came clattering down-stairs and trudged out of different doors — a large and rather noisy troop. Otto Yon Pol heim was a landowner on a small seale — what would be called in England a gen tleman farmer— rand he had a family of ten sons and daughters, without counting two servaat wenches and a couple of la borers whom he treated as his children. The eldest of these two laborers, a tall, rosy-cheeked, fair-haired, blue-eyed fel low, named Karl, had shown signs of late of being "a bit soft" about Freulein Malchen, and this displeased her father, for though he was a kind master he had a 'Squire's pride, and wijuld have kicked Karl straightway out of bis house if he had suspected Malcheu of cherishing any regard tor him. At least this is what he had once said to Kail with more blunt ness than prudence, for worldly wisdom would perhaps, have suggested that he should begin by turning off Karl before Malchen's sentiments toward him had n pened into affection "Now, come, come, let's be off," re peated old Polheim, impatiently; "come wife, and you Bertha, Frida and Gretch en; you Hans, take one of the lanterns, and you, Karl, lead the way with the other." Karl slunk out, looking very sheepish, but scarcely had he got into the open air before the candle in his lantern was blown out, and he ran back to get anoth er. Malchen was standing in the hail and struck a match for him. She struck a second and third, for somehow the phos phorous would not act, and the operation of lighting was delayed a little. When Karl took the lantern his hand touched Malchen 's hand and the girl blushed. "It's a cruelly cold night to go in,'' fal tered she. "And I don't like leaving you alone," whispered Karl. -'I think I shall steal out of church and come back to see if you are safe." "Oh, no, the door will be barred," ex claimed Malchen, in a flutter. "Then I'll climb the orchaid wall," au swerd Kail, nothing daunted, and he ex ecuted a wink as he went forth into the cold. "How very audacious he is becoming," muttered Malchen to herself; but she ap parently thought that it was of no use to bar the door if Karl meant to get over the garden wall, so she simply shut it, and turned back to spend her evening in the kitchen. Herr Yon Polheinrs farm stood in a lonely part of the country, about two miles from 1£ , in Bavaria. It had once been a castle, and all the rooms on the ground floor were laige, windy apartments, with wainscoted walls, and old oaken furniture. The kitchen whicn served as the ordinary sitting-room to the family of an evening, was made com fortable by some screens which shut out the drafts, and by the large fires which roared in the immense chimneys all day long. There were two arm-chairs under the bulging mantel of the chimney on either side of the andirons, and in one of these Malchen took her seat. She began to knit ; but soon her work snbsided into her lap, and she begrn to stare at the fire in a scft reverie. There were faces, of course, in the red embers ot the crumbling pine-legs, and Karl's wa3 chief amoM^ them. Malchen, who was a pretty, sentimental young lady of eighteen, but somewhat cautious, as becomes the daughter of a gentleman who can prefix a Yon to his name, asked herself it she liked Karl. Did she truly feel for him more than she did tor any other man* Would she grieve for him if he met with an accident? If he left her father's service? It he were taken away for military service, and forced to risk his life in the wars? After fenc ing a little witli her conscience, the dam sel decided that she did not quite know what ahe ought to think about Karl; but that he was a very bold, and not-te-be easily-put-down young man, she admit ted to herself frankly enough in her quaint German phraseelog. Malchen, from being romantic, was a bold girl and felt no fear at being alone in the big house on a winter's evening. The soughing of the wind through the bare trees eutside ; the noise of draughts shaking doors that was loose on their hinges ; the monotonous tick-tack of the kitchen clock, did not disturb her com posure. She sat listening for footsteps, and conned over in her mind what sharp thing she should say to dismiss Karl if he had the impertinence to present himself before her. The worst of it was that Karl was just such a young man as might be indifferent to sharp things. His boldness really exceeded his belief. Why,*' that very evening in touching her fingers he had actually squeezed— but here Malchen gave a slight start, for she heard footsteps, and fancied that it was never-to-be- sufS ciently-blamed Karl, who had played truant from church, faithful to his impu dent promise. She rose and stood coyiy in the mid dle of the kitchen, her cheeks pink and her bosom heaving. She thought she would take to flight as soon as Karl's heavy tread was heard in the passage ; but she waited two or three minutes with out hearrng the door open, yet there were steps outside, and, now that her ears weie strained, she heard voices. Her relatives had not gone an hour, so it was not like ly they could have returned co soon. Whose,then. could these steps and voices be? The kitchen had a high window seven feet above the floor, and it was closed with shutters. But in the shutters loz enge apertures were cut. Ma'.chen climbed on to the dresser, under the window, and looked out: what she saw would have made most timid girls jump down,squeal ing. and run away, halt dead with terror. Nine men- not one lesi— with black masks on their faces and house-breaking implements in hand, had entered the farm-yard, and were evidently holding a council as how they should commence their attack on the house. They stood in a group, and>some of them pointed to the apertures in the kitchen shutters, where light was visible, as if they were taking note of the fact that the farm was not 'juite abandoned Malcben remembered having heard that brigands had been infesting some of the districts in an adjoining Province, and she saw that if she hesitated to act she would be lost There hung over the mantleshelf two-double-barreled fowling pieces and a horse pistol, which weie al ways Kept a protection of the farm against wolves in winter, and for the intimida tion of poachers and tramps at other sea sons ot the year. Malchen hud the same horror of fire-arms as most other girls: but at this moment her blood vo! ted at the idea of leaving the farm to be plun dered without striking a blow for it. Herr Yon Polheim owned a good deal of silver plate and was accustomed to keep pretty large sums of money within the oaken chest in his bedroom. Among other reflections which rushed through Malchea'd mind was this, that if her fa ther were robbed oi all his cash he would get into a vile humor, which would make its effects felt at the farm for weeks, and render the place uninhabitable. Now Malchen stood in great terror ot her fa ther when lie whs angry. She ran to the chimney and unhooked the arms, then swiftly climbed on the ta ble again. The little lattices outside the apertures in the shutters were open, so Malchen could thrust out t.i? barrels of her weapons and tire at tie malefactors. Before doing so, however, she put a coin into her mouth to alter tin; ring of her voice, and making a horn of imth hands, shouted in a tone which sounded like a man's "'Who goes there?" No answer. The burglars stared at each ether in astonishment, and were fair ly dismayed when they heard the nest exclamation, which conveyed the idea that the person who had first spoken was not alone, but had several men under his orders, "Now, then, when I give the word, lire sharp, and aim straight. Fire!" Two reports instantly followed this command, and then came two others. When the report cleared away, Malchen, who looked oat with haggard eves, her heart thumping awfully the while, saw four men stretched out on the snow, and saw nothing else. The other five mem bers of the band had taken flight. "The guns were loaded with slugs; perhaps I have killed them all "' ejaculated Mal chen, in terror, for her combative ardor abated ot a sudden, now that so easy a victory had been won. "Oh, dear, what shall I do?" She had taken up the horse-pistol an^ glanced out to see if there was another shot to be fired. There was a choking sensation at her throat, and she began to whimper. It nas all t;>o dreadful. She could not bear the sight of those dead men, all killed by her hand. But one oi them suddenly moved, and tried to rise to his knees. Immediately the sentimen tal Malchen aimed her pistol to give him hi 3 quietus; but luckily for himself, the man roared out : "Oh, Malchen ! Mal chen ! help ! 'Tis I— Karl !" "Karl!" exclaimed the girl, as her voice seemed to expire in her throat, while her heart turned to ice. "Karl, is it thou? "Yes, and I am wounded ; lam (Ijing," sobbed the luckless fellow; "and it's ail for thee." Malchen tottered and might have fal len off the table had tiieie been any one present to catch her in his arms. As it was, she scrambled down somehow ami made for the door, stil! holding her pis tol. One moment's hesitation as she touched the doer-handler] but she sur mounted it und ".vent out. In another moment she could judge with her own eyes of the murderous effects ot her vol ley. Three men lay on the snow stone dead: as lor Karl, a slug had clean sliced offa part of his right ear and cheek, so that he bled like a pig, but he was other wi-e unhurt. '■Oh, Karl, Karl, how earnest thou hither in such company!" exclaimed Malchen, as she tore off her apron to staunch his wound. "Mem Gott, it was for thee!" sniveled the unhappy Karl. "These men are my lriends; we had all come for a lark, and meant to carry thee off; for I hoped that thy too-obstinate father would consent of neccessity to our marriage. Oh, oh, my ear!" "Peace, Karl; but oh, how foolish or thee!" sighed llalchen. "How could'st thou think that nine men were required to carry me oft?" "Mem Gott. I thought thou wast romantic, was all that Karl could say be tween two squeaks caused by the anguish in his ear. One is sorry to say that the tribunals of Bavaria took a one-eyed view of the affair and wanted to sentence Karl for burglary, but the attitude of poor Mal chen had been so heroical that King Lou is 1 1. sent for her to Munich, and having decoratedjher with the cross ot Civil Mer it, asked her what he could do to please her. "Pardon my Karl, and give him a dower to marry me," prayed the faithful maiden, sobbing. His Majesty pulled a slightly wry face at mention of dower, but courtiers were present, so he gave his royal promise, "Thou wouldst marry a man with one ear, then?" added he, laughing. "Sire, he lost his other for me,' 1 re sponded Malchen, drying her eyes. "Wgll this is a queer story." said the King, amused. "We will have it made into a libretto, and my friend Wagner here shall set it to music." The composor of the future bent his head, as if the happy thought had already occuired to him.— Btx York Stir. ~~ Her False Teeth. Terrible vengeance of a husband whose wife has gone off with a hand somer man: "Dear bit," ho writes, "please hand the inclosed set of false teeth to my late wife, and ask her to be so good as to return my father's, which in the harry of the moment she took by mistake." t "Mt darling," wrote a husband to his wife, "I shall not be home till very late this evening. Do not wait for me. It's for thy sake I work by the light of the pale, effulgent moon, as if it were the bright, dazzling sunshine." She didn't wait; ahe went and got a detective and hunted him up.