"I am Antonio Canova, the grandson of Pisano," answered the pale-faced little fellow. "And, pray, what can you do?" asked the

man.

"I can make you something that will do for the middle of the table," said the boy, "if you'll let me try."

The servant, not knowing what else to do, told Antonio that he might try.

Calling for a large quantity of butter, the boy quickly molded a great crouching lion, which everybody in the kitchen said was beautiful, and which the now rejoicing head-servant placed carefully upon the table.

At the dinner that day there were many of the most noted men of Venice,— merchants, princes, noblemen, and lovers of art, and among them were many skilled critics of artwork. When these people came to the table, their eyes fell upon the butter lion, and they forgot the purpose for which they had entered. the dining room. They saw there something of higher worth in their eyes than any dinner could be, namely, a work of genius.

They looked at the lion long and carefully, and then began praising it, and asking Faliero to tell them what great sculptor he had persuaded to waste his skill upon a work in butter, that must quickly melt away. But Signor

Faliero knew as little as they, and he had, in his turn, to ask the chief servant. When the company learned that the lion was the work of a scullion, Faliero called the boy into the dining room, and the dinner became a sort of feast in his honor.

But it was not enough to praise the lad. These were men who knew that such genius as his belonged to the world, not to a village, and nothing could please them more than to aid in giving him an education. Signor Faliero himself declared that he would pay the lad's expenses, and place him under the instruction of the best masters.

The boy, whose highest wish had been to become a village stonecutter, and whose home had been in his poor old grandfather's cottage, became at once a member of Signor Faliero's family, living in his palace, having at his command everything that money could buy, and being daily instructed by the best masters in Venice.

But he was not in the least spoiled by this change in his life. He was still the same simple, earnest, and faithful boy. He worked as hard to gain knowledge and skill in art as he had meant to work to become a good stonecutter. Antonio Canova's course from the day on which he molded butter into a lion was

steadily upward; and when he died, he was not only one of the greatest sculptors of his own time, but one of the greatest of all time.

- George Carey Eggleston.

FORTY YEARS AGO.

I've wandered to the village, Tom,
I've sat beneath the tree,
Upon the schoolhouse playground,
That sheltered you and me;

But none were left to greet me, Tom,
And few were left to know

Who played with us upon the green,
Just forty years ago.

The grass was just as green, Tom,
Barefooted boys at play

Were sporting, just as we did then,
With spirits just as gay.

But the master sleeps upon the hill,
Which, coated o'er with snow,

Afforded us a sliding place,

Some forty years ago.

The old schoolhouse is altered some;

The benches are replaced

By new ones very like the same
Our jackknives had defaced.

But the same old bricks are in the wall,
The bell swings to and fro;

Its music's just the same, dear Tom,
'Twas forty years ago.

The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill,
Close by the spreading beech,
Is very low; 't was once so high
That we could almost reach;

And kneeling down to take a drink,
Dear Tom, I started so

To think how very much I've changed
Since forty years ago.

Near by that spring, upon an elm,

You know, I cut your name,

Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom;

And you did mine the same.

Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark;

'Twas dying sure, but slow,

Just as that one whose name you cut,

Died forty years ago.

My lids have long been dry, Tom,
But tears came in my eyes;

I thought of her I loved so well,
Those early broken ties.

I visited the old churchyard,

And took some flowers to strew Upon the graves of those we loved Just forty years ago.

Some are in the churchyard laid,
Some sleep beneath the sea;
And none are left of our old class
Excepting you and me.

And when our time shall come, Tom,
And we are called to go,

I hope we 'll meet with those we loved Some forty years ago.