When she came home

would soon pass away. from school that afternoon, with a whole trcop of little girls, we thought it had already passed away. As they ran down the area-steps, we wondered what amusement they were planning now. Presently, Joanna came up-stairs, her eyes looking very bright, and said, "Please give me the inkstand." We asked, "What now, child?"

"O, do just give me the inkstand!" said she, impatiently. "We are not in any mischief; we are attending to business"; and off she ran.

Before very long she appeared again with a paper, her black eyes burning like stars. "There, mother, — and all of you,—you must sign this letter, as quick as ever you can. I have made a statement of Aunty's case; all the children have signed their names; and now we are going to every house in the Square, till we have a good long list."

"And what then?"

"I shall ask father to take it to the Mayor. He wont be so unreasonable as to refuse us; no one could."

Joanna had written out Aunty's story, in her own simple, direct way. She told how this nice, neat, pleasant old person had been turned out of the Park; how the children all had liked her, and found it convenient to buy at her table; and how she never scolded if they dropped papers and nutshells about, but took her own little pan and brush

and swept them away; she was so orderly. Sh ended her letter with a petition that the Mayor would be so good to the children, and this excellent old grandmother, as to let her go back to her old seat.

If the Mayor could refuse, we could not; so our names went down on the paper; and before the ink was dry, off ran Joanna. The hall-door slammed, and we saw her with all her friends run up the steps of the neighboring houses, full of excitement and hope.

Nearly all the families that lived in the great houses of Washington Square were rich; and some of them proud and selfish, perhaps; for money sometimes does sad mischief to the hearts of people. We asked ourselves, "What will they care for old Aunty?"

Whatever their tempers might be, however, when the lady or gentleman came and saw the bright, eager faces, and the young eyes glistening with sympathy, and the little hands pointing out there at the aged woman on the sidewalk, — while they were in their gilded and cushioned houses, they could not refuse a name, and the list swelled fast.

At one house lived three Jewesses, who were so pleased with the children's scheme, that they not only gave their own names, but obtained many more. "They are Jews, ma'am, but they 're Christians!" said Aunty afterwards; by which

she meant, it is not names, but actions, that prove us followers of the loving, compassionate Christ.

So large was the Square, so many houses to visit, that the ladies' help was very welcome. They could state Aunty's case with propriety; and what with their words and the children's eloquent faces, all went well.

So the paper was filled with signatures, and Joanna's father took it to the Mayor. He smiled, and signed his name, in big letters, to an order that Aunty should return at once to her old seat, and have all the privileges she had ever enjoy ed in the Park; and the next morning there she was, in her own old corner!

As soon as she came, the children ran out to welcome her. As she shook hands with them, and looked up in their pleased faces, we saw her again and again wipe the tears from her old eyes.

Everybody that spoke to Aunty that day, congratulated her; and when the schools in the neighborhood were dismissed, the scholars and teachers went together, in procession, and bought everything Aunty had to sell; till the poor old woman could only cover her face and cry, to think that she had so many friends. If ever you go to the Parade Ground, in New York, you may talk with old Aunty, and ask her if this story is not true.

B.

11*

RICHARD AND KATE.

A SUFFOLK BALLAD.

The following verses were written by Robert Bloomfield, an English shoemaker, more than sixty years ago, when the working-classes of England had far more limited opportunities for obtaining education than they now have. Criticism could easily point out imperfections in the style of this simple story, but the consolations of age among the poor are presented in such a touching manner that it is worthy of preservation.

66

OME, Goody! stop your humdrum wheel!

Sweep up your orts, and get your hat!

Old joys revived once more I feel,

'Tis Fair-day! Ay, and more than that!

"Have you forgot, Kate, prithee say,

How many seasons here we 've tarried?

'Tis forty years, this very day,

Since you and I, old girl, were married.

"Look out! The sun shines warm and bright;
The stiles are low, the paths all dry:
I know you cut your corns last night;
Come! be as free from care as I.

"For I'm resolved once more to see
That place where we so often met;
Though few have had more cares than we,
We've none just now to make us fret."

Kate scorned to damp the generous flame,
That warmed her aged partner's breast;
Yet, ere determination came,

She thus some trifling doubts expressed :—

"Night will come on, when seated snug, And you've perhaps begun some tale;

"Ay, Kate, I wool; because I know,

Though time has been we both could run,

Such days are gone and over now.
I only mean to see the fun."

His mattock he behind the door,

And hedging gloves, again replaced;

And looked across the yellow moor,

And urged his tottering spouse to haste.

The day was up, the air serene,

The firmament without a cloud;

The bees hummed o'er the level green,

Where knots of trembling cowslips bowed.

And Richard thus, with heart elate,

As past things rushed across his mind, Over his shoulder talked to Kate,

Who, snug tucked up, walked slow behind: