"Cords!" said Mrs. Daffodil. "Well, Ninny talks about heart-strings, but I never heerd her say nothing about cords. Come, George, do ring the bell!''

"Mrs. Smith in?" said George to the little boy who opened the door.

"No, sir; gone out."

"How long has she been living in this house?"

"As long again as half."

"Don't be impertinent, sir. I am looking for a lady who has only been in the city a short time."

"Mrs. Smith 's been here ever since she left the country."

"Was her name Miss Brown?"

"Well it wasn't, old hoss. My ma's name was Peters."

"Your ma! pity she don't teach you better manners," said Mrs. Daffodil. ""Taint Lizzie, George; she ain't got no children. Oh, my! I'm tired.'

"Suppose we go home now, and try to find your cousin to-morrow," said George.

This proposition meeting with great approval, we went home, without finding Mrs. Smith.

P. This month I have made you a drawing of a book to copy. In the small book, the lines incline to two vanishing points, but in the larger one to the point of sight. When you have copied these, you may then draw this book in four different positions. I have drawn one standing upright, another lying open; let

the other one be half open, and another shutin such a position that the lines may incline to vanishing points instead of the point of sight. You may next take these four books in their different positions, and place them together in a group, and then draw the whole group.

L. And, papa, will you be kind enough to make a larger drawing for us to-day? A book is, I think, so very easy to copy.

P. Very well. You have learned to draw

chairs and stools; to-day you may come with me to my back office, and we will draw some of the plain furniture there. This will be a very easy picture for you to draw; because,

www

you see, that in all the objects (except one) the side lines incline to the point of sight. Which is that one?

W. This square box, or deed case, papa, in front (in the foreground, I should say). Ah, I think we shall all like to copy this!

FATHER AND MOTHER.-Some writer embalms these two holy names in the following beautiful thoughts: "Sweeter praise can never be than that of a dying parent, as he blesses the hand that led him from sorrow, and is even

now soothing the cold brow, damp with the spray of Jordan. And dear are the thoughts as your tears fall upon the sod that covers the gray-headed father, that you were very kind and loving to him; and you gave cheerfully of your abundance, and never caused him to feel that you were doing a charity.

"Never can we repay those ministering angels we call father and mother. Angels, though earthly, have they ever been from the time that Adam and Eve gazed upon their first born, as he slept amid roses, while the tiny fingers, the waxen lids, and the cherub form were all mysterious to them."

Ir was Christmas Eve, and the snow lay deep in the streets of Seeberg, a small mining town in Germany; but the neighboring peasants came down from their mountain homes, and sought to forget the rigor of the season in innocent festivity. Family groups assemble together, the voice of song and of childish merriment resounds from many an humble home, and preparations are being made for a general illumination.

Christmas Eve in Germany is welcomed as a season of rejoicing by the poorest peasant, as well as by the wealthiest noble of the land. But, amidst all these happy homes, there was one lowly dwelling at least where no feast had been prepared, where no sounds of merriment were heard.

Veronica Madel had, for some time past, supported her blind father and a little brother by lace-making. Once they had known better days. The father had been a slater, an industrious man, but had lost his eyesight from the effects of a conflagration which he had bravely helped to extinguish. His wife did not long survive this calamity, but died, partly of grief, partly of over-exertion, committing her blind husband and her infant boy to the care of her daughter Veronica, herself still a child.

Veronica's mind, however, had been prematurely ripened by the care and sorrow which had so early fallen to her lot; and she well fulfilled the charge committed to her by her dying parent.

On this Christmas Eve of which we speak, the young girl had been seated before her lace - pillow, working without intermission from early morning till night closed in; then, poor child, she was forced to pause in her labors, for she could not afford a light. She made, however, a good fire in the stove to warm her blind father; and, having placed him in his easy-chair close by its side, she yielded to her little brother's entreaties that she would take him out to see the illuminations.

The two children accordingly set forth together. Already the whole town was astir. Miners in their characteristic costume marched along in groups, with bands of music preceding them; and ever and anon they paused before the door of some wealthy citizen, and carolled

forth their Christmas greeting. Then the door of the house so honored might be seen to open, and the master himself would generally step forth and reward the leader of the serenade by presenting to him some small gratuity. Children, following the example of their elders, wandered also in little bands from door to door, singing their Christmas carols; and seldom were the young sinners dismissed without some trifling present, accompanied by a kindly word.

As Veronica passed on her way, holding her little brother by the hand, and gazing on these varied groups, a new thought suddenly suggested itself to her mind: "Why should she not seek to win some trifling Christmas gifts for her poor blind father?"

Timidly, and with a beating heart, the poor child bent her steps towards a part of the town where she was but little known. The character she was about to play was very new to her; and her heart well nigh failed her when it came to the point; but love to her father nerved her to the task; and, drawing her hood closely around her, she stepped close under the window of a house of lowly aspect, and sang in clear, though subdued tones, the following verse :

"Cheer up, ye miners bold,

Nor let your courage flag!
For earth, her wealth untold,

Yields to your patient toil;
Then joyous dig beneath the soil,
And still be your gathering-cry,
Cheer up, brave hearts, cheer up!"

Veronica's voice was tremulous with fear when she began these simple lines; but she gained courage as she proceeded; and she repeated the burden of the song with spirit and energy. She then paused, and anxiously awaited the result of her efforts. Two or three minutes elapsed; the time seemed long to poor Veronica; she felt humiliated and confused, and was about to withdraw; but at last the door turned on its hinges, and a woman came out and placed in Veronica's trembling hands a small cake and a twopenny piece.

The poor child could scarcely contain herself for joy. "Oh, my dear little George !" she exclaimed,

see what a happy beginning

I have made! You shall have the sugarplum; but the cake and the money are for father, that he too may be able to keep his Christmas feast."

The night was now far advanced; and Veronica thought she would make but one trial more before she turned her steps homeward. This time, she determined on trying her chance at the door of a rich man, an inspector of some mines. Clear and firm her young voice now rose through the still midnight air; and, when her song ceased, the window on the first floor of the house opened, and an arm was stretched out, holding a slender pair of tongs, by means of which a piece of money was deposited in Veronica's open hand. But scarcely had she received this Christmas gift ere a cry of pain escaped her lips, a cry which was responded to by a laugh of insulting mockery from the heartless wretch who was still standing in the open window. The penny which he had handed to the poor child had been drawn red hot from the fire. Veronica hastily dropped the perfidious gift, and, with many a bitter tear, retraced her steps to her lonely home.

When Veronica returned to her father's side, and told him of the Christmas gifts she had brought, it cost the poor girl a severe struggle to conceal her sufferings and speak to the blind man in cheerful tones. He, unconscious of the pain she was enduring, asked her to sing for him once more before she retired to rest; and then he kissed his darling, and bestowed on her his Christmas blessing; but Veronica's hand pained her much, and she went to bed with a heavy heart.

In the mountain districts of Germany, the schools are very large, one master not unfrequently having charge of two hundred children. Under these circumstances, he can scarcely be expected to have any particular acquaintance with the disposition or tastes of each individual scholar, unless some casual occurrence chances to bring it to his notice.

"Is not your hand healed yet?" one day inquired M. Rossel, the parish schoolmaster, addressing his pupil Veronica Madel.

Veronica unfastened the bandage, which she daily tied on as well as she could with her left hand; and the worthy schoolmaster, seeing the inflamed state of the wound, became very indignant when he learned how it had been produced. "Shameful," he exclaimed, "thus to injure a child singing her Christmas carol! Will you let me hear your song, my VOL. LVII.-45

little maid? I love music well myself. You know I am the parish precentor, as well as the schoolmaster."

Veronica timidly obeyed. The schoolmaster was to her a formidable auditor; but the good man's kindness soon set her at ease; and she sang with so much expression that M. Rossel was not only surprised, but deeply moved. "Who taught you to sing thus, my child?" he inquired, when the young songstress paused.

"No one," she replied; "my father is blind; he often finds the day very long, and I sing to him to amuse him. It is almost the greatest pleasure he has, and I am so glad of that, for we are poor, and he cannot afford himself many other pleasures."

"But the melody itself, and the methodwhere did you learn all that?'' inquired the schoolmaster.

Veronica looked perplexed, but, after a moment's reflection, replied: "I have often heard our miners sing that air."

"My child," said M. Rossel to the little girl, "I see how God often overrules the wickedness of man for His own wise purposes. The burn you received on your hand has caused you much suffering, and has prevented your working at your lace to earn money for your father; but if it had not been for this accident, I should never have noticed your voice, which will, I hope, prove to you a mine of wealth, and enable you to procure more comforts for him than if you had been working night and day at your pillow."

Veronica did not very well understand the good man's meaning, but she felt gratified for his kindness, and anxious to do her best to please him. From that day forward, M. Rossel gave her regular instruction in the art of singing, whilst, at the same time, he contrived to interest several benevolent people in the fate of this deserving family; so that the blind man's wants were fully supplied, and his little daughter was thus enabled to pursue her studies with a cheerful heart.

Twelve years passed away. It was a fine autumn evening, and the wealthier inhabitants of Seeberg might be seen in full toilet, flocking to the town-hall. An event, rare in this somewhat secluded region, has set the whole town astir. The first cantatrice of the capital, one who enjoys a European celebrity, is about to give a concert, in conjunction with her brother, for the benefit of the poor of Seeberg.

At the entrance of the hall might be seen the old schoolmaster and precentor, M. Rossel,

who was filling the office of cashier on the occasion. His eyes beamed with delight as the money accumulated on his desk; and when he recognized an acquaintance amongst the numerous arrivals, it was with no small pride that the good man produced a golden snuff-box, and, offering his friend a pinch of true Virginian, at the same time whispered in his ear: "This is a gift from a grateful pupil. See! it is engraved upon the lid; and when it was given to me, it was full of gold pieces. And look at this, too," he added, drawing a handsome repeater from his fob; "this, too, is the gift of my former pupil."

"You are celebrating your triumph to-night, M. Rossel," observed one of the new-comers.

"Yes, it is a day of triumph for me, and for the town of Seeberg, too," rejoined the schoolmaster, "for she was born amongst us here, and I was her first teacher."

At last, all the company had arrived, the hall was thronged to the very door, and, at the appointed hour, Veronica Madel appeared upon the platform, accompanied by her youthful brother, and with her blind father leaning on her arm. A burst of enthusiastic plaudits greeted the young cantatrice as she gracefully courtesied to the assemblage. A band of mountain musicians supported their parts admirably, and exerted themselves to the utmost to do honor to their countrywoman. George Madel accompanied his sister on the violin, to the admiration of all present, and Veronica herself sang as she had seldom been heard to sing before; her voice reached every heart, and charmed every ear.

All the pieces named in the programme had been performed, a moment's pause ensued, and, after repeated acclamations, the assemblage were about to disperse, when, suddenly, young Madel touched his violin. A familiar air arrested every ear, and Veronica, with a voice as pure and clear as in her childish days, commenced the verse so well known to all the miners of Seeberg-the same she had sung on that eventful Christmas Eve. At this moment the whole of the assemblage present started to their feet as one man, the band of musicians laid down their instruments, and every voice joined in the chorus

"Cheer up, brave hearts, cheer up!" The celebrated cantatrice was, for the moment, forgotten; and Veronica Madel was only remembered as the young mountain peasant, the dutiful daughter, the loving sister, the obedient pupil. The good old schoolmaster, oblivious of his dignity, rushed to the plat

form, and, with tears in his eyes, folded to his heart the pupil who had so far surpassed his utmost expectations. Veronica, turning towards the assemblage, with a simple grace and humility of manner which touched every heart, owned that to this good old man, under God, she owed all her success.

The worthy citizens of Seeberg had prepared a banquet in honor of the young cantatrice, but, during the interval which elapsed between the concert and the banquet, M. Rossel drew his former pupil aside, and speaking to her in the familiar tone of earlier days, he said: "Will you come with me, my good Veronica, for one half hour? This money you have intrusted to my care is weighing down my pocket. I should like to distribute some of it this evening, and to deposit the remainder of the sum in safety at my own house."

Veronica, though somewhat wearied after the exertion and excitement of the day, could not bear to refuse her old master's request, and, committing her father to George's care, she set forth, under the escort of the kindhearted schoolmaster. The darkening shades of evening prevented the young singer from distinguishing surrounding objects; and she allowed Rossel to guide her as he pleased, unconscious whither he was leading her.

"I should like you," observed the old man, "to see some, at least, of those on whom your bounty is to be bestowed. On the ground-floor of the house we have now reached, we shall find a family in deep distress."

Entering a dark passage, the precentor, followed by Veronica, lifted a latch, and passed into a spacious, but gloomy, apartment, lighted by a single candle, and offering a striking contrast to the brilliant concert-hall they had just quitted. A pale, careworn woman, miserably clad, was pacing the room, vainly striving to lull her infant to rest. Two other children, about three and four years of age, lay sleeping on a tattered mattress, in one corner of the room; whilst on a pallet, near the stove, lay a sick man, supported by straw pillows. two strangers were received by this unhappy wife and mother with that cold indifference which is so frequently the companion of despair.

The

"Is your husband asleep?" inquired M. Rossel.

"Asleep! oh no!" replied the woman. "I know not what will become of us!"

The schoolmaster then approached the sick man's bed, and, addressing him kindly, said: "How are you to-day, Kunkel?"