The Friend in Need.

His house consumed by fire one night,

Aret was broken hearted;

For cousin, friend and parasite,
His very dog departed.

One faithful still remained: the cat,
With melancholy mewing;

Increased his sorrow as he sat

Beside the smoking ruin.

"Art thou!" he sighed, "my friend in need?

By others now forsaken ;

Then eat with me, though poor indeed,

Of this half-roasted bacon.

"Come, share the treasure," Aret cried; ""Tis moist with tears I shed ;

"That's what I smelled," the cat replied, And snapped it up and fled.

PFEFFELL.

THE SAME.

11. THE HAMMOCK.-An eastern mother reposing with her child in her arms, in a hammock swinging under the trees.

THE SAME.

12. THE BIRD'S NEST.-A young peasant girl, with her lover at her side, is seated with a bird's nest she has just found, in her lap; the parent bird is flying anxiously above.

PLUMOT.

13. CHILD PLAYING WITH A DOG.-A rich saloon, in the style of Rubens, with a mother seated on a couch and her child playing with a dog on the floor; in the back ground is a vestibule with statuary, opening into a garden; the silk curtains, Turkish carpets, massive furniture and elegant costumes are characteristic of the 15th Century.

The Child's Last Wish.

"Oh! sing me a song as I fall asleep," Said a little one with a lustrous eye,

"Or tell me a tale of the flowers that peep

In the bright green woods that reach the skyThat peep in the spring when the birdies sing, And the heavens are blue as our Nelly's eyes;

Or tell of the child with the angel wing,
Who walks in the garden of paradise !"

I sung him a song-I told him a tale,

And watched by his couch till we thought he slept, For his cheek was white as the moonbeams pale, That stealthy and bright near his pillow crept; Then my words grew faint and my voice sang low, And I said, in my dream let the seraphs sing, But he whispered soft as I rose to go

"Oh! tell of the child of the angel wing."

Then I sang again—but he restless grew,

And tossed his young arms as he wildly spoke, And a burning red on his forehead flew,

As the moon went down and the morning broke. But he spoke no more of the spring bright flowers, And he thought no more of his sister's eyes; One name alone in his feverish hours,

Was breathed in a whisper that pierced the skies.

"My mother," he said, and his eyes grew dim,
For the sense with her waving lustre fled,
And he never knew that she knelt by him
Whose sun went down at his dying bed!
He has gone where the Seraphs sweetly sing—
His story was brief as the sunset dyes-
He walks with the child of the angel wing,
In the flowery gardens of Paradise!

FANNY FERN.

JOSEPH LIES.

Pupil of N. DE KEYSER.

14. AN IDEAL PORTRAIT GROUP.-Three female heads, in which the hair is effectively contrastedblack brown and flaxen.

Blonde, Brune et Noire.

(FANTAISIE.)

Qui n'a rêvé souvent, aux jours où la jeunesse
Répand sa sève ardente au plus profond du cœur,—
Rêve que deux beaux yeux, humides de tendresse,
D'un regard l'enivraient d'extase et de bonheur ?

O fantômes charmants, dont la forme divine
Puise au sein du rèveur l'idéal enchanté !
-Brune au piquant sourire, à l'œillade mutine,
Capricieuse, aimant surtout ta liberté !

-Enfant à tête blonde, en tes songes ravie,
Qui livre ta jeune âme à de vagnes espoirs;
-Et toi, dont l'œil ardent interroge la vie,
Fière et le front pensif sou tes longs cheveux noirs!

Vous toutes, frêle essaim, qu'un léger souffle enlève,
Balancé mollement dans un ciel embrâsé,
Qu'avez-vous fait des cœurs où naquit ce doux rêve ?
Beaux anges, pour combien s'est-il réalisé ?

The Sex.

THE sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth's wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea :

I am where I would ever be,

With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go :

If a storm should come, and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

moon,

I love, oh! how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the sou'west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backward flew to his billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she was, and is to me;
For I was born on the open sea!

BARRY CORNWALL.