closed, stretching forth their hands to grope blindly in their own created darkness, and yet cry out to their fellow-creatures for light. Yes, wilfully blotted out, because, "having eyes, they see not." And with the ever-welling fountain of joy at their feet, they never stoop to taste its sweet waters, though their souls bẹ famishing with thirst; for the great Creator gave man a soul, not only capable of appreciating joy, but so constituted him that he cannot live without it, more than the flowers can live without the grateful showers and refreshing dews; and those who refuse to slake their thirst at the rippling rill because they cannot reach the broad and flowing streams, or muddy the water to others by discontent, are well worthy of the name of “grumblers." They wander in the orange-groves and citron-bowers, where loveliness finds ever a dwelling-place- where nature loves to sit a flower-crowned queen - where and the Sunny South, that wooed pure souls and large hearts with her ever varying scenes of beauty, and enticed them by her charms to linger long and break forth in glad songs of joyful harmony, comes to them only as a hot clime. Amid the sublimity of mountain scenery, and the gorgeous grandeur of snow-clad peaks, where the ice-king waves his frozen sceptre, evoking from discriminating souls the grand poems that will ever echo through the long corridors of futurity, where great minds and noble intellects have bowed in admiration, they turn shivering away. And so with everything in life, they, . by gathering up the rills Of lesser griefs spread real ills, And with their gloomy shades conceal The land-marks Hope would else reveal.' The rippling rills and running brooks make no music to their ears; the sweet sound of falling waters and the louder roar of cataracts is to them but noise! The feathered songsters, with their varied notes and hymns of warbled thanksgiving — ever singing sweet accompaniments to "The grand old harper, Wind, wake no sweet melodies for them. Every note of joy, every tuneful harmony they shut out by grumbling, and discontent closes their minds to the beautiful in creation, the loveliness of nature. The works of man cannot please, nor the creations of God satisfy them. Clinging to the black clouds which cast dark shadows over and all around them, they go forth, unhappy themselves, and dissatisfying all with whom they associate, a race of grumblers. MARY WALSINGHAM CREAN, ELL known to the Southern muses by the simple nom de plume of “May Rie,” was born in Charleston, S. C., but has been from infancy a resident of the Crescent City. Her career as a writer commenced as a school-girl, and opened with a series of lively, dashing, and piquant articles, prose and verse, communicated to the "Sunday Delta" when under the control of the gifted Joseph Brenan. Much interest prevailed for a time over the gay and graceful incognita, and the gifted authoress continued for several years a frequent contributor to the same paper, winning a local popularity seldom attained at the first steps of a literary career. Late political troubles came, the writers of the "Delta" were scattered, and "May Rie's" harp remained long silent, or was only struck in secret, to sing of sorrow or of patriotic devotion. The cloud of national strife swept past. The subject of this sketch, like many others, was reduced to a position of need, and again “our blue-eyed wonder of a poetess" resumed her pen, but no longer as a pastime. She entered promptly upon her career as a paid writer for the New Orleans "Sunday Times," and for two years has been a regular weekly contributor to its pages, also appearing occasionally in other journals and magazines. Of mingled English and Irish extraction, Mary Walsingham combines in her rare poet-nature the best characteristics of the two nations of Albion and Erin, tempered by a high degree of American sentiment. In her, a strong though golden chain of solid English sense ever gracefully reins in those coursers of the sun, Irish wit and passion; and the real and ideal, whether they ascend alternately, like the celestial twins, or rule together, like Jove and Juno, reign in harmonious duality, each retaining its proper limits, and one ever preserving the other from deficiency or excess. No collection of her writings has yet been made in book-form; a delay rather to be approved than regretted, as, year by year, we have watched the girl merging into the maturer woman, and have observed a progressive unfolding of taste and judg ment- the imagination curbed, though not fettered, and exuberant fancy pruned with an artist's hand. In person, Mary Walsingham is tall and slender, with a form of graceful symmetry, of fair complexion, blue or gray eyes, and brown hair. Her manners are peculiarly attractive, and strongly represent the mingled brilliancy and softness, wit, passion, gayety, tenderness, and general versatility which mark her writings. Miss Walsingham is writing a novel of "Life in the Old Third.” Years ago, the lower and oldest part of the city of New Orleans was called the "Third Municipality." It is entirely French-unique and old-fashioned both in build and the manners and customs of its inhabitants and furnishes as good a scene and material for romance as any of the cities of the Old World. Miss Walsingham resided in the “Old Third" in her childhood, and an original and highly entertaining book must be her effort. SANTA CLAUS. O Santa Claus! dear Santa Claus ! Long years have waned and things have changed With dancing heart my glances ranged, And strained to view thy silver wheel, Or hear thy tiny frosted heel Along the roof-tree's fringing floss, Thou elfin friend, of fame benign, And ruddy glow and genial glee! That found their central sun in thee! Along the roof-tree's glittering floss, How dear the smoke-wreath's misty blue, Which bore thy cherished form to earth! From off the roof-tree's fringing floss, And hark! I hear the merry horn The merry, clattering, jingling chime The jovial hours of that sweet time; I see the forms at rest for years- To light our mourning hopes again; Beneath the roof-tree's fringing floss, But, no! our dearest hopes and forms Thou sweetest charm of childhood's charms, They beat no more in music-bars, The jocund minstrelsy of earth, But softly beam like happy stars |