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ing to look for her. It must be either one or the other ; so, with hope in her heart, she ran down to the road. The chaise drew up just as she had expected, but, alas ! the gentleman who leanod out was no one she had ever seen before.

“What is it, little girl ? ” said he.
“ I want the minister," — and there was a tremble in her voice.

“What?" said the gentleman, in surprise. “Did your mother send you, dear?”

“No, but he asked me to come and see him, and I don't know where he lives"; and she looked up in his face piteously.

Then, of course, he asked her name, and on hearing it exclaimed, “Why, Littlefield's house is a mile and a half away! You must be pretty well tired, poor child"; and he jumped out of the chaise, put her in, got in again himself, and drove off in less time than it takes to tell of it.

“ We shall pass right by the minister's, and I 'll leave you there. I ’m going to the cars, or I would take you home,” said he.

“O, thank you, sir, I 'd rather you would n’t,” said Anna Maria.

They rode along very quickly for a little while, then the chaise stopped before the minister's house. The gentleman lifted her out, holding her a minute in his arms to give her a kiss and say good by, opened the gate, and then drove off faster than ever.

Anna Maria went up the steps and knocked by the side of the door, which stood wide open, – such a very little knock that she had to repeat it two or three times, and still nobody came. Then she thought it was time to go in. She looked into the nearest room ; there was no one there. She went along a little farther to a door that stood half open, stepped in, and there was the minister. He was writing just as hard as he could, and took no notice of his little visitor, who stood half concealed by the door, and overcome by an unusual fit of shyness. Suddenly he caught sight of her as he was dipping his pen in the ink, ready for a fresh start.

“Why, who is this?” said he ; then, as he stepped forward a little, “Ah, my little friend! Is your mother with you, dear ? ” — coming to meet her with a pleasant smile.

“ No sir, I came alone,” said Anna Maria, quite reassured by his voice, and ready to sit on his knee, tell him all her adventures, and answer as many questions as he had to ask.

Then he called Mrs. Green, and told her that she must make him something particularly nice for tea, because he had company. Mrs. Green kept house for the minister, and cooked his dinners for him.

“Well, I never !” she said, coming in to look at Anna Maria. “She certainly dooz beat all!”

When tea was ready, instead of something very nice, they found a great many nice things. Mrs. Green put a chair for Anna Maria close to the minister's, and after he had got two great books to put in it, so that her head might be a little above the table, they sat down, and had a delightfully social time. VOL. IV. — NO. IV.

15

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“Perhaps she ought not to eat this,” said the minister, stopping in the act of passing the plum-cake to Anna Maria, and looking up at Mrs. Green, who was standing behind her.

“O, she has pretty much what she likes at home, I guess," said Mrs. Green. “Seems as if Mrs. Littlefield could n't make enough of her; she 's lost five children, you know, sir.”

Anna Maria was well aware that she did n't have plum-cake every time she asked for it, but thought it best to let the first part of the remark go without comment. As Mrs. Green finished speaking, however, she looked up in surprise, saying, “Why, no, they're not lost. Mother knows where they are, and so do I. They 've got little white stones at the head of their beds, and they 're very happy down there,” she added, after a minute's pause.

The minister felt that, if she were somewhat wrong as to locality, the idea was quite correct; so he smiled kindly at her, patting the little hand that lay on the table, and making no attempt at corrections. As soon as tea was over, the chaise came to the door, because the minister said, “ Mother may be anxious"; and Mrs. Green helped Anna Maria to dress, laughing heartily to see how funny she looked in Mrs. Littlefield's mantilla. Anna Maria did not exactly understand the cause of her mirth, and, fixing her dark eyes upon her in disapproval, said at last, soberly, “Mother wears it to church Sun

days.”

“Why, bless you!” said Mrs. Green, “'t ain't the mantilla I 'm a laughing at, — it 's you, you funny little toad !”

Then they got into the chaise, and set out in fine spirits. The minister's horse seemed to feel that there was no need to be in a hurry such a fine summer night, so the stars were shining in the quiet sky before they arrived at home. Mrs. Littlefield was at the gate, of course, looking anxiously up and down the road; but Mr. Littlefield and the other inmates of the house had dispersed in various directions, to look for Anna Maria in all sorts of improbable places, as people are apt to do on such occasions. Mrs. Littlefield's exclamations of joy and thankfulness were too many to be repeated here; but she found time in the midst of them to hope that "the child” had n't given the minister much trouble.

" I don't know when I've been so much pleased, Mrs. Littlefield,” said he, - which was perfectly true ; and when the young folks who read this story are as old as the minister, they will understand why the visit of a little child gave him more pleasure than that of the wisest person in his parish could possibly have done.

G. Howard.

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That dealt the earliest blow.
He touched my forehead's longest curl,
And said, “Ha! John! my pretty girl!”
A jest or not, my blood was hot,
My cheek was all aglow;
Take that! Take that! Say, could a girl,
A girl, have struck you so ?

But Billy was as stout as I;
The scar upon my brow
The memory of his prowess keeps
Before me even now !
His furious blows fell thick and fast;
But just as I had thought, at last;
That yield I must, a skilful thrust
I
gave,

I know not how,
And, a triumphant conqueror,
I went on for my cow!

We never were firm friends again.
Before the spring-time air
Again the graveyard flowers made sweet,
Poor Billy rested there !
And I since then have wandered wide,
And seen the world on every side
By land and sea, and learned — ah me!
'That warm, true hearts are rare;
And he who is best loved on earth
Has not one friend to spare !

The grass is green on Billy's grave,
My brow is white with snow ;
I never can win back again
The love I used to know !
The past is past; but, though for me
Its joys are sweet in memory,
'T is only pain to call again
The feuds of long ago,
And worse to feel that in a fight
I dealt the earliest blow !

Marian Douglas. LESSONS IN MAGIC.

X.

THE
HE tricks described in my former lessons depended for their effect

more on the apparatus used than on any skill on the part of the performer. In stage tricks, this must always be the case, as sleight of hand shows to but little advantage in a large room ; there the most brilliant tricks, or at least those that are most applauded, are sứch as can be seen as well at a distance as near by; and, as conjurers are but human after all, they naturally choose what will bring them most praise. Even those who profess to accomplish everything by sleight of hand practise, in fact, but little of it, the only difference between their performance and that of others being that they bring their apparatus on the stage only at the moment they want to use it, instead of displaying it all at once, as has been the usual custom.

For a parlor, however, a proficiency in sleight-of-hand is absolutely necessary. My readers are, I presume, by this time, adepts at palming, in which I instructed them so long ago; therefore on that subject I need say nothing further, but will pass at once to

CARD MANIPULATIONS. The first thing necessary for the proper performance of card tricks is a facility in making what is known as the Pass; that is, the pack being divided into two parts, which are merely separated by placing one finger of either hand between them, to cause the lower pack to pass over the upper so that the top one becomes in turn the bottom; this, of course, any one could do, but to do it in such a way that it will not be perceived is altogether a different matter.

The easiest way of learning this is to get some one who knows how to teach you the movement, and then practise it; but as it is sometimes difficult to find such a person, or, having found, to persuade him to teach you, I will try to explain it. There are several ways of making the pass," and as some prefer one, and some another, I will content myself with describing the several methods, and leave my readers to choose that which they find the easiest to execute. Fig 2

To make the Pass with Two Hands. Having the pack, I will suppose, in the left hand, divide it into two parts by raising about one half of it with the right hand, and then place the third finger of the left hand between the parts; the first, second, and little fingers of that hand will then be on the top of the upper pack, which is held by these three fingers on top and the one at the bottom as if in a vise (as in Fig. 1).

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