And every tail o'er his face was brushed,

Till all of a sudden his breathing was hushed.

IIe had fainted away, completely crushed

By the terror of this punishment that over him rushed.

'Twas day when he opened his eyes to the light,
And he thought it a miserable dream of the night,
Till turning, he gazed on a horrible sight
That gave him another and terrible fright.

For there by his side-just think of that !--
All furry and black, lay the tail of a cat.
Then up he sprang and in bed he sat,
While his heart went rapidly pit-a-pat.

He buried that tail ere the close of day
In a dismal swamp, in the mud and clay,
Thinking there out of sight it would always stay,
While he could forget and return to play.

But, alas! no play has he ever done yet
For lo! in spite of the mud and wet,
The stump of that tail was most solidly set,
And a large crop of cat-tails it did beget.

At last my tale is finished and done,
A tale of a tail when first begun ;
But now, instead of a tale of one,

There are cat-tails everywhere under the sun.

ANNIE WESTON WHITNEY.

GROWTH OF THE AMERICAN REPUBLIC.

IN

N the fullness of time a republic rose up in the wilderness of America. Thousands of years had passed away before this child of the ages could be born. From whatever there was of good in the systems of former centuries she drew her nourishment; the wrecks of the past were her warnings. With the deepest sentiment of faith fixed in her inmost nature, she disenthralled religion from bondage to temporal power, that her worship might be worship only in spirit and in truth. The wisdom which had passed from India through Greece, with what Greece had added of her own; the jurisprudence of Rome; the medieval municipalities; the Teutonic method of representation; the political experience of England; the benignant wisdom of the expositors of the law of nature and of nations in France and Holland, all shed on her their selectest influence. She washed the gold of political wisdom from the sands wherever it was found; she cleft it from the rocks; she gleaned it among ruins. Out of all the discoveries of statesmen and sages, out of all the experience of past human life, she compiled a perennial political philosophy, the primordial principles of national ethics. The wise men of Europe sought the best government in a mixture of monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy; and America went behind these names to extract from them the vital elements of social forms, and blend them harmoniously in the free Commonwealth, which comes nearest to the illustration of the natural equality of all men. She intrusted the guardianship of established rights to law; the movements of reform to the spirit of the people, and drew her force from the happy reconciliation of both. GEORGE BANCROFT.

1

THE PARTING LOVERS.

OOD-NIGHT, sweetheart! It can't be ten, I know;
That clock had better "go a little slow!"

I do not see how it can have the face

To take " new deals" at such a rapid pace.

Full well I know ten minutes have not flown Since it struck nine! Good-night, my love, my own! "Good-night, Charlie!"

Oh! yes; last night, while going down Broadway,
Whom do you think I met? Dick Gray!

Just home from Europe! You should hear him talk!
'Twould make a mummy laugh to see him walk!
He struts around with such a killing air.
Ha! ha! Good-night, my love, my jewel rare!
"Good-night, Charlie!"

O Katie! Wait, dear! I forgot to tell

You something. Let me think! That's funny!. Well, and in a moment so am I.

It's

gone, My darling, how I hate to say good-bye!

Some fellows would much later stay, I know;

But "Ten," your mother says; so I must go. "Good-night, Charlie!"

Some time, pewitching Kate-ah! some time, sweet—

Good-bye" shall we consider obsolete,

No more will clocks strike terror to my heart,

And in exultant tones bid me depart.

Ah! now, like Cinderella at the ball,

I fly from happiness! Good-night, my all!

"Good-night, Charlie!"

Oh! Katie dear, is't too much trouble, think,
To get a match? I could not sleep a wink
Without my smoke. It is a lovely night,
So clear and sweet, and it is just as bright
As day. Well, I must tear myself away.
Thanks, dear! Good-night, once more I'll say!
"Good-night, Charlie!"

There's my cane

Oh! dear! How stupid of me!
I must come back and get it! Should it rain
To-morrow eve, will come and let you know
About the party; if not, we'll go.

Hark!

Catch me ere I fall! Oh! what a shock!

It strikes again! Good-night! Confound that clock! "Good-night, Charlie!"

MARY E. DAY.

HOW PAUL WON HIS GOAT.

(Abridged from Harper's Young People.)

OATS have broken out in our street violently, va

G riously, and promiscuously, accompanied by carts

differing one from another in glory-some distinguished by reason of their real elegance and beauty, and others by the clever use of such unpromising materials as odds and ends of old lumber, and miscellaneous wheels most artfully adjusted. The epidemic has spread rapidly, and in spite of every precaution my own little man Paul has it thoroughly.

One evening in the early spring little Paul had been left at home to take care of his mother. His father had

gone with sister Alice to a gay dinner-party, and we two, close friends and good comrades, had planned a happy little tea-party beside our beloved log-fire.

Deep down in the warm heart of a bed of ashes lie three potatoes, buried there by Paul himself an hour ago. From the mantel-shelf dangle two monstrous winter apples, whose stems can be relied upon, suspended by strings, the loose ends of which are in custody of two Chinese idols, grim and rigid.

A tête-à-tête tea-service, in old blue-and-white willow pattern, is on a fan-shaped tray, behind which, in due time, Paul will preside.

We have put out the gas and lighted two candles, taking care to cover them with pink shades, that they shall not rob the firelight of its value. Paul is in his low arm-chair, and I am in mine. The biscuits have arrived.

The final touches have been given to our little banquet, and Paul stands off to view the effect. He seats himself again behind the tea-tray, and addresses himself to the cares of hospitality: "Two lumps for you, two for me; lots of milk in my cup, mighty little in yours. And don't let Mary wait; I want to take all the care of you myself. If Mary will put two logs on the fire for us, and some pine-cones under to hurry up the blaze, I'll do all the rest. And please don't you open your potato, mother. You'll be sure to burn your precious fingers."

All this my little man proceeds to do with anxious haste and a delicate touch all his own, infusing into the simple and homely dishes a flavor truly delicious. Not until I have been served with the hottest and brownest and best of everything can he be induced to eat a morsel.