INSTANTANEOUS FLOWERING OF PLANTS.

"In the gardenHanging out the clothes."

"In the garden

Hanging out the clothes."

Aunt Lovey, looking thoughtfully over her spectacles, thought her nephew's description of his wife not so far out of the way after all, as she hemmed away industriously at a pile of new towels, the most fascinating work next to crochet one can undertake; it slips by so fast and evenly, and there seems to be so much accomplished.

"But, Aunt Lovey," said Mrs. Bunker, looking up suddenly, and finding those penetrating gray eyes fixed on her, "what did you mean by 'mustard to mix?'"

"Oh, I did not explain, did I? Well, when I was first married and moved out west—Utica was out west then, from Connecticut—I knew no more about managing for myself than you do now. I used to find my work accumulate, and I would get discouraged and go about a whole week, feeling as if the world rested upon my shoulders; and that made me mope, and your uncle John got discouraged, because I did, and there was no end of the snarl things would get into. Our only near neighbor was a nice tidy body, who always looked like wax-work."

"Something such a person as you," interrupted Mrs. Bunker, playfully.

"Well, perhaps so; but you never saw my house; her house was like a pin from one end to the other. One day I just ran in to borrow a little meal—ours had given out unexpectedly—and I found my good neighbor in a flurry, acting just as I used to feel sometimes."

"'Oh, she hadeverythingto do,' she said, 'and company coming to dinner.'

"'Everything? Well, what? As far as I could see, everything was done.'

"'Oh, the table's to set;' and up and around the room she went again.

"'But it was two hours to dinner—what else?'

"'Why!—well, then,mustard to mix!'

"That was every earthly thing, come to think of it; but she had been flurried by the sudden arrival, and did not stop to see that it could not possibly disturb any of her arrangements. So I went home, and found I generally hadmustard to mix, when my flurries came on; that is, if I set myself right to work to clear up the snarl, it wasn't half so bad as I felt it was. Setting down to fret over matters only snarled things the more, and then poor John was troubled to see me worried, and things would go from bad to worse."

"But, aunty," said the young wife, with a half sigh, ending in a smile, "do you think I shallevermake a housekeeper? I know Joshua is disappointed."

"Yes, yes, my dear; why not? Only you will have to learn how tomix mustardto begin with."

M. Herbert, a gentleman who has recently arrived from France, on Saturday exhibited to a few ladies and gentlemen his method of causing plants to blow almost instantaneously. The plants selected—a group of geraniums and a rose-tree—were planted in two rather deep boxes of garden mould, previously prepared with some chemical manure, and were then covered with glass shades. M. Herbert next proceeded to pour over the roots, from a small watering-pot, a chemical mixture, which, uniting with the ingredients already in the earth, caused a great heat, as was shown by an intense steam or vapor, which was evolved within the shades, and allowed to some extent to escape through a small hole in the top, which at first was kept closed. The effect upon the geraniums was certainly almost instantaneous, the buds beginning to burst in about five or six minutes, and the plants being in full bloom within ten minutes, when the blossoms were gathered by M. Herbert and distributed amongst the ladies present. With the rose-tree the exhibitor was less fortunate, M. Herbert explaining that it had only been in his possession about half or three-quarters of an hour, and he had therefore not had sufficient time to prepare for the experiment, thereby evincing that it occupies more time than would appear to the casual observer to be the case. The invention may prove useful where ladies require to decorate their drawing-rooms or boudoirs with the beauties of Flora somewhat earlier in the seasons than can otherwise be obtained. The experiments took place at the residence of M. Laurent, Onslow-house, Brompton. [How far does this account for the Chinese "magical" method?]

THE EVENING WALK.

BY RICHARD COE.

(See Plate.)

Upon her head she gently threwA veil of fabric light,To shield her from the pearly dewThat mingled with the night:Then with a motion light and free—No proud and stately stalk—The lady of the mansion roseTo take her evening walk.Thou placid moon, and you, ye stars,That nightly deck the sky,Ye must not look in envy onThe brightness of her eye;And you, ye babbling waters near,That make my soul rejoice,Ye must be silent when ye hearThe music of her voice!Ye moon and stars and babbling fount,Your choicest blessings throwAcross the pathway of my fair,Wherever she may go!And if I soothe her cares the while,With fine poetic talk,Perhaps on me she'll deign to smile,In some sweet evening walk!

Upon her head she gently threw

A veil of fabric light,

To shield her from the pearly dew

That mingled with the night:

Then with a motion light and free—

No proud and stately stalk—

The lady of the mansion rose

To take her evening walk.

Thou placid moon, and you, ye stars,That nightly deck the sky,Ye must not look in envy onThe brightness of her eye;And you, ye babbling waters near,That make my soul rejoice,Ye must be silent when ye hearThe music of her voice!

Thou placid moon, and you, ye stars,

That nightly deck the sky,

Ye must not look in envy on

The brightness of her eye;

And you, ye babbling waters near,

That make my soul rejoice,

Ye must be silent when ye hear

The music of her voice!

Ye moon and stars and babbling fount,Your choicest blessings throwAcross the pathway of my fair,Wherever she may go!And if I soothe her cares the while,With fine poetic talk,Perhaps on me she'll deign to smile,In some sweet evening walk!

Ye moon and stars and babbling fount,

Your choicest blessings throw

Across the pathway of my fair,

Wherever she may go!

And if I soothe her cares the while,

With fine poetic talk,

Perhaps on me she'll deign to smile,

In some sweet evening walk!

THE CHILDREN-ANGELS.

BY JAMES A. BARTLEY.

Seven bright ones in the angel-land,With stars to crown each brow;The mother spied them hand in hand,Around the Saviour bow;And oh! that whiteness, heavenly bland,That clothed their bodies now!Seven bright ones in that sunny clime,Hope would her tears condemn,She blessed the eagle wings of TimeWhich bore her nearer them,Where she would join the seraph chime,And wear a diadem.Seven dear ones born of her heart's love,Now safely housed in heaven,She humbly sought that test to prove,To every mortal given,To labor for her King above,Who keepeth these her seven.And ofttimes, at her daily toil,Seven bright ones would alight,And each with sweet and holy smile,Fill her with deep delight,Until the very earthly wild,To her, looked strangely bright.And oft, when stars gleamed forth on high,And silence reigned around,She heard their pinions sweeping by,A far, unearthly sound;And then her spirit reached the sky,At one ecstatic bound.Seven bright ones in the land called Light,And oft with her below!Far fled the frighted shades of NightFrom Faith's celestial glow,Wherein she walked with humble might,Till she lay humbly low.Then her free spirit walked in Light,And smiled, but wept no more,And with her, seven, all dazzling bright,Beheld all perils o'er;The goal of which mysterious flight,None living may explore.

Seven bright ones in the angel-land,With stars to crown each brow;The mother spied them hand in hand,Around the Saviour bow;And oh! that whiteness, heavenly bland,That clothed their bodies now!

Seven bright ones in the angel-land,

With stars to crown each brow;

The mother spied them hand in hand,

Around the Saviour bow;

And oh! that whiteness, heavenly bland,

That clothed their bodies now!

Seven bright ones in that sunny clime,Hope would her tears condemn,She blessed the eagle wings of TimeWhich bore her nearer them,Where she would join the seraph chime,And wear a diadem.

Seven bright ones in that sunny clime,

Hope would her tears condemn,

She blessed the eagle wings of Time

Which bore her nearer them,

Where she would join the seraph chime,

And wear a diadem.

Seven dear ones born of her heart's love,Now safely housed in heaven,She humbly sought that test to prove,To every mortal given,To labor for her King above,Who keepeth these her seven.

Seven dear ones born of her heart's love,

Now safely housed in heaven,

She humbly sought that test to prove,

To every mortal given,

To labor for her King above,

Who keepeth these her seven.

And ofttimes, at her daily toil,Seven bright ones would alight,And each with sweet and holy smile,Fill her with deep delight,Until the very earthly wild,To her, looked strangely bright.

And ofttimes, at her daily toil,

Seven bright ones would alight,

And each with sweet and holy smile,

Fill her with deep delight,

Until the very earthly wild,

To her, looked strangely bright.

And oft, when stars gleamed forth on high,And silence reigned around,She heard their pinions sweeping by,A far, unearthly sound;And then her spirit reached the sky,At one ecstatic bound.

And oft, when stars gleamed forth on high,

And silence reigned around,

She heard their pinions sweeping by,

A far, unearthly sound;

And then her spirit reached the sky,

At one ecstatic bound.

Seven bright ones in the land called Light,And oft with her below!Far fled the frighted shades of NightFrom Faith's celestial glow,Wherein she walked with humble might,Till she lay humbly low.

Seven bright ones in the land called Light,

And oft with her below!

Far fled the frighted shades of Night

From Faith's celestial glow,

Wherein she walked with humble might,

Till she lay humbly low.

Then her free spirit walked in Light,And smiled, but wept no more,And with her, seven, all dazzling bright,Beheld all perils o'er;The goal of which mysterious flight,None living may explore.

Then her free spirit walked in Light,

And smiled, but wept no more,

And with her, seven, all dazzling bright,

Beheld all perils o'er;

The goal of which mysterious flight,

None living may explore.

WORKING AND DREAMING.

BY MRS. A. L. LAWRIE.

All the while my needle tracesStitches in a prosy seam,Flit before me little faces,And for them the while I dream.Building castle, light and airy,For my merry little Kate,Wond'ring if the wayward fairyWill unlock its golden gate.Scaling Fame's proud height for Willie,Just as all fond mothers do,And for her, my thoughtful Lily,Twining laurel leaflets too.In the far-off future roving,Where the skies are bright and fair;Hearing voices charmed and loving,Calling all my darlings there.Through the distant years I'm tracingDewy pathways bright with flowers,And along their borders placingHere and there these pets of ours.And the while my fancy lingersIn that hope-born summer clime,Pretty garments prove my fingersHave been busy all the time.And I care not, though around meRomp the little merry band;Never could the spell that bound meBreak at touch of softer handThan the little hand of Nora,Soiled in search of blossoms rare;For she says they're gifts that FloraBade her bring to deck my hair.So my summer days are flyingOn their swift oblivious track;But while love meets fond replying,I would never wish them back.But their precious fragrant rosesI would gather and entwineIn a wreath, ere summer closesFor the autumn's pale decline.

All the while my needle tracesStitches in a prosy seam,Flit before me little faces,And for them the while I dream.

All the while my needle traces

Stitches in a prosy seam,

Flit before me little faces,

And for them the while I dream.

Building castle, light and airy,For my merry little Kate,Wond'ring if the wayward fairyWill unlock its golden gate.

Building castle, light and airy,

For my merry little Kate,

Wond'ring if the wayward fairy

Will unlock its golden gate.

Scaling Fame's proud height for Willie,Just as all fond mothers do,And for her, my thoughtful Lily,Twining laurel leaflets too.

Scaling Fame's proud height for Willie,

Just as all fond mothers do,

And for her, my thoughtful Lily,

Twining laurel leaflets too.

In the far-off future roving,Where the skies are bright and fair;Hearing voices charmed and loving,Calling all my darlings there.

In the far-off future roving,

Where the skies are bright and fair;

Hearing voices charmed and loving,

Calling all my darlings there.

Through the distant years I'm tracingDewy pathways bright with flowers,And along their borders placingHere and there these pets of ours.

Through the distant years I'm tracing

Dewy pathways bright with flowers,

And along their borders placing

Here and there these pets of ours.

And the while my fancy lingersIn that hope-born summer clime,Pretty garments prove my fingersHave been busy all the time.

And the while my fancy lingers

In that hope-born summer clime,

Pretty garments prove my fingers

Have been busy all the time.

And I care not, though around meRomp the little merry band;Never could the spell that bound meBreak at touch of softer hand

And I care not, though around me

Romp the little merry band;

Never could the spell that bound me

Break at touch of softer hand

Than the little hand of Nora,Soiled in search of blossoms rare;For she says they're gifts that FloraBade her bring to deck my hair.

Than the little hand of Nora,

Soiled in search of blossoms rare;

For she says they're gifts that Flora

Bade her bring to deck my hair.

So my summer days are flyingOn their swift oblivious track;But while love meets fond replying,I would never wish them back.

So my summer days are flying

On their swift oblivious track;

But while love meets fond replying,

I would never wish them back.

But their precious fragrant rosesI would gather and entwineIn a wreath, ere summer closesFor the autumn's pale decline.

But their precious fragrant roses

I would gather and entwine

In a wreath, ere summer closes

For the autumn's pale decline.

THE MISER.

BY CHARLES LELAND PORTER.

Away from the gladsome and life-giving breeze,In his damp and mouldering cell,Away from the rustle of waving trees,Alone did the miser dwell;Around his wrinkled and careworn browHung wild his hoary hair,And the spectre look of death e'en now,And the furrows deep of the Ruler's plow,Sat grim on his temples there.He grasps the gold with his fingers cold,And counts it o'er again,And he envies the snuggling beam of lightThat creeps through the broken pane;And he starts at every passing sound,And hastily turns the key,And casts a hurried glance around,And, hugging his chest, on the cold, damp groundTo his god he bows the knee.The owl on the roof-tree flaps his wings,And moans a plaintive strain,And grimly peers with his glassy eyeOver the golden gain;And the pallid smoke from the chimney crawlsAway from its mean abode;It cannot rise to heaven, but fallsAdown the damp and mouldering walls,And hurries beneath the sod.Oh, I have thought that a mother's loveWas the fondest passion yet,As she breathes the breath of her infant babe—Still, a mother may forget;But the miser's throne is his gold alone,His passion is centred there;His life, his love, his dearest one,The joy of his breast is the tinkling tone,Gold, gold is his fondest fair.The midnight moon looks lovingly downOn the sleeping laborer's head;Hushed and still is the busy mill,And the infant's cradle bed;But the miser springs, if a footstep rings,Like a wild beast from his lair;He feels the poison of conscience stings,He fears the robber a bandit brings,And he creeps to his golden care.The beggar stopped at the rich man's door,And paused at the miser's stone,Yet stayed he not there, for he did not dareTo cross the word "begone!"The wretch felt not for others' woes,No soul in his body dwelt;The trembling sprite took a final flight—Though he seemed to live—on the dismal nightWhen he first to the gold-god knelt.In a village near, his sister layAt the door of the demon death;Starvingwas written on her brow,And hot was her fevered breath:"Oh, give me bread!" in accents low,Was the burden of her prayer—"I'm dying, brother!" 'twas even so;While her eye was glazing, the miser's "No!"Startled the chilly air.Cheerily rang the Sabbath bells,And from each hush'd abodeThe aged sire, and the cheerful childMoved on to the house of God;While prayer was ascending towards the Throne,The miser also prayed;To his golden altar he bowed, alone,And prayed from out his heart of stoneThat his god would lend him aid.He lieth upon the bed of death,And alone he pines away;As dieth the fool, so passeth his breath,And clay is mingled with clay;No marble is there to mark the spot,No flowret weeps o'er his tomb;Unwept, unhonored, and forgot,Ay, none can weep that he there doth rot—The miser has gone to his doom!Oh, ye who roll in splendor and wealthGo to the poor man's home;Comfort the sick—employ your goldAs gain for the world to come;And the widow's heart shall leap for joy,And the orphan upon your bier,When the summons bears you from earth awayTo dwell in the mansions of endless day,Shall pour the sorrowing tear.

Away from the gladsome and life-giving breeze,

In his damp and mouldering cell,

Away from the rustle of waving trees,

Alone did the miser dwell;

Around his wrinkled and careworn brow

Hung wild his hoary hair,

And the spectre look of death e'en now,

And the furrows deep of the Ruler's plow,

Sat grim on his temples there.

He grasps the gold with his fingers cold,And counts it o'er again,And he envies the snuggling beam of lightThat creeps through the broken pane;And he starts at every passing sound,And hastily turns the key,And casts a hurried glance around,And, hugging his chest, on the cold, damp groundTo his god he bows the knee.

He grasps the gold with his fingers cold,

And counts it o'er again,

And he envies the snuggling beam of light

That creeps through the broken pane;

And he starts at every passing sound,

And hastily turns the key,

And casts a hurried glance around,

And, hugging his chest, on the cold, damp ground

To his god he bows the knee.

The owl on the roof-tree flaps his wings,And moans a plaintive strain,And grimly peers with his glassy eyeOver the golden gain;And the pallid smoke from the chimney crawlsAway from its mean abode;It cannot rise to heaven, but fallsAdown the damp and mouldering walls,And hurries beneath the sod.

The owl on the roof-tree flaps his wings,

And moans a plaintive strain,

And grimly peers with his glassy eye

Over the golden gain;

And the pallid smoke from the chimney crawls

Away from its mean abode;

It cannot rise to heaven, but falls

Adown the damp and mouldering walls,

And hurries beneath the sod.

Oh, I have thought that a mother's loveWas the fondest passion yet,As she breathes the breath of her infant babe—Still, a mother may forget;But the miser's throne is his gold alone,His passion is centred there;His life, his love, his dearest one,The joy of his breast is the tinkling tone,Gold, gold is his fondest fair.

Oh, I have thought that a mother's love

Was the fondest passion yet,

As she breathes the breath of her infant babe—

Still, a mother may forget;

But the miser's throne is his gold alone,

His passion is centred there;

His life, his love, his dearest one,

The joy of his breast is the tinkling tone,

Gold, gold is his fondest fair.

The midnight moon looks lovingly downOn the sleeping laborer's head;Hushed and still is the busy mill,And the infant's cradle bed;But the miser springs, if a footstep rings,Like a wild beast from his lair;He feels the poison of conscience stings,He fears the robber a bandit brings,And he creeps to his golden care.

The midnight moon looks lovingly down

On the sleeping laborer's head;

Hushed and still is the busy mill,

And the infant's cradle bed;

But the miser springs, if a footstep rings,

Like a wild beast from his lair;

He feels the poison of conscience stings,

He fears the robber a bandit brings,

And he creeps to his golden care.

The beggar stopped at the rich man's door,And paused at the miser's stone,Yet stayed he not there, for he did not dareTo cross the word "begone!"The wretch felt not for others' woes,No soul in his body dwelt;The trembling sprite took a final flight—Though he seemed to live—on the dismal nightWhen he first to the gold-god knelt.

The beggar stopped at the rich man's door,

And paused at the miser's stone,

Yet stayed he not there, for he did not dare

To cross the word "begone!"

The wretch felt not for others' woes,

No soul in his body dwelt;

The trembling sprite took a final flight—

Though he seemed to live—on the dismal night

When he first to the gold-god knelt.

In a village near, his sister layAt the door of the demon death;Starvingwas written on her brow,And hot was her fevered breath:"Oh, give me bread!" in accents low,Was the burden of her prayer—"I'm dying, brother!" 'twas even so;While her eye was glazing, the miser's "No!"Startled the chilly air.

In a village near, his sister lay

At the door of the demon death;

Starvingwas written on her brow,

And hot was her fevered breath:

"Oh, give me bread!" in accents low,

Was the burden of her prayer—

"I'm dying, brother!" 'twas even so;

While her eye was glazing, the miser's "No!"

Startled the chilly air.

Cheerily rang the Sabbath bells,And from each hush'd abodeThe aged sire, and the cheerful childMoved on to the house of God;While prayer was ascending towards the Throne,The miser also prayed;To his golden altar he bowed, alone,And prayed from out his heart of stoneThat his god would lend him aid.

Cheerily rang the Sabbath bells,

And from each hush'd abode

The aged sire, and the cheerful child

Moved on to the house of God;

While prayer was ascending towards the Throne,

The miser also prayed;

To his golden altar he bowed, alone,

And prayed from out his heart of stone

That his god would lend him aid.

He lieth upon the bed of death,And alone he pines away;As dieth the fool, so passeth his breath,And clay is mingled with clay;No marble is there to mark the spot,No flowret weeps o'er his tomb;Unwept, unhonored, and forgot,Ay, none can weep that he there doth rot—The miser has gone to his doom!

He lieth upon the bed of death,

And alone he pines away;

As dieth the fool, so passeth his breath,

And clay is mingled with clay;

No marble is there to mark the spot,

No flowret weeps o'er his tomb;

Unwept, unhonored, and forgot,

Ay, none can weep that he there doth rot—

The miser has gone to his doom!

Oh, ye who roll in splendor and wealthGo to the poor man's home;Comfort the sick—employ your goldAs gain for the world to come;And the widow's heart shall leap for joy,And the orphan upon your bier,When the summons bears you from earth awayTo dwell in the mansions of endless day,Shall pour the sorrowing tear.

Oh, ye who roll in splendor and wealth

Go to the poor man's home;

Comfort the sick—employ your gold

As gain for the world to come;

And the widow's heart shall leap for joy,

And the orphan upon your bier,

When the summons bears you from earth away

To dwell in the mansions of endless day,

Shall pour the sorrowing tear.

SONNET.—WASHINGTON

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

A sculptured cenotaph thy sons will raise,That they eternize may thy honored name;Nor this, nor Story's scroll can tell thy praise,So blended with thy glorious country's fame.Lo! in a corner of Mount Vernon's field,Past which Potomac's peaceful waters flow,Reclined hast thou upon thy sacred shield,To sleep till the archangel's trumpet blow.Around thy lone and ever-honored grave,The Muses of thy noble country sing,While the tall corn in plenty still shall wave,To speak of Peace thy valiant sword did bring.Rest peacefully, then, Patriot, Hero, Sage,Best, brightest name to grace fair Clio's sacred page.

A sculptured cenotaph thy sons will raise,

That they eternize may thy honored name;

Nor this, nor Story's scroll can tell thy praise,

So blended with thy glorious country's fame.

Lo! in a corner of Mount Vernon's field,

Past which Potomac's peaceful waters flow,

Reclined hast thou upon thy sacred shield,

To sleep till the archangel's trumpet blow.

Around thy lone and ever-honored grave,

The Muses of thy noble country sing,

While the tall corn in plenty still shall wave,

To speak of Peace thy valiant sword did bring.

Rest peacefully, then, Patriot, Hero, Sage,

Best, brightest name to grace fair Clio's sacred page.

THE ORPHAN BOY.

I saw a smiling little boy,Not to childish pastime given;His countenance radiant with joy,He seemed just ripe for Heaven.I asked, "Where are thy parents dear?Hast thou from them been riven?"He said, "My parents are not here,They have gone home to heaven."A year had sped—I passed that wayOn the eve of a balmy autumn day;I asked, "Where is the charming orphan boy,With face so radiant with joy?Is he to the cold world driven?"The answer was, "He had gone home to Heaven."

I saw a smiling little boy,

Not to childish pastime given;

His countenance radiant with joy,

He seemed just ripe for Heaven.

I asked, "Where are thy parents dear?

Hast thou from them been riven?"

He said, "My parents are not here,

They have gone home to heaven."

A year had sped—I passed that way

On the eve of a balmy autumn day;

I asked, "Where is the charming orphan boy,

With face so radiant with joy?

Is he to the cold world driven?"

The answer was, "He had gone home to Heaven."

EDNA.

BY ELLEN ALICE MORIARTY.

Hear you not the night-wind moaning,Sadly moaning all the time,Like a spirit doomed to wanderO'er the earth for some dark crime?Round the door it ever lingers,Calling mortal aid in vain,And with gaunt and spectral fingers,Feebly knocks upon the pane.Love I well to hear it wailing,And I listen, pensively;Strange sad thoughts, unearthly dreamings,Mournfully it wakes in me.Such a night did Edna leave us,When she with Lord Ronald fled;Better, ere she thus had grieved us,She was numbered with the dead.Yet my mother, we'd forgive herDid she seek her home at last,Kindly in our arms receive her,Bidding her forget the past.Ah! she loved Lord Ronald truly;She was young and sweetly fair;Loved—and we were all forgotten—When Lord Ronald tarried here.Dost remember, mother dearest,The sad day before she went,How the fleetly passing momentsBy thy side she fondly spent?And I marked her, mother dearest,When was said the soft "good-night,"How her cheek so sadly faded—Faded to a marble white.To her door I followed gently,Raised the latch, and in I went,And the thoughts that so oppressed meFound in gushing tears a vent."Jessie, Jessie," murmured Edna,"Weeping sister! Why is this?"And she pressed with gentle fondnessOn my brow a soothing kiss.Spoke I not. My heart was breaking'Neath some vague, uncertain woe;Wept I, on her breast reclining,Mother—and I slumbered so.When from out that sleep, awaking,I upon her pillow lay,Through the half-divided curtainFaintly streamed the dawning day.Then we missed her. Oh, my mother,Who our woe's excess can speak!Not a father, not a brother—Who the loved and lost could seek.Mother dearest, you are weeping!Why did I remembrance wake?I should bear my grief in silence,Oh, my mother, for thy sake.Listen listen! on the night-blastHeard you not a well-known tone?Oh, it seemed so much, my mother,Like my sister Edna's own!There are feet upon the threshold!And a hand is on the door—Mother! mother!—it is Edna,Coming back to us once more!"Oh, forgive me! Oh, forgive me!"Thus my sister Edna prayed—"Oh, forgive me!" "Edna! Edna!"That was all my mother said.But she oped her arms unto her,Drew her upward to her breast,And in fair and tearful beautyBowed that gentle head to rest."Well I loved Lord Ronald, mother,Ay, far better than my life;Home I come to thee," said Edna,"Proudly his acknowledgedwife."Cared he not for rank or station,But a loving heart sought he;Mother, sister, love my husband—See, he claims it now of ye."Turned we then. He stood beside us,Bending low with manly grace,With his soul's true love for EdnaLighting up his noble face.We are happy, I and mother,Now that all our care has gone;Ever seems it like a shadowScarcely cast ere it had flown.

Hear you not the night-wind moaning,Sadly moaning all the time,Like a spirit doomed to wanderO'er the earth for some dark crime?

Hear you not the night-wind moaning,

Sadly moaning all the time,

Like a spirit doomed to wander

O'er the earth for some dark crime?

Round the door it ever lingers,Calling mortal aid in vain,And with gaunt and spectral fingers,Feebly knocks upon the pane.

Round the door it ever lingers,

Calling mortal aid in vain,

And with gaunt and spectral fingers,

Feebly knocks upon the pane.

Love I well to hear it wailing,And I listen, pensively;Strange sad thoughts, unearthly dreamings,Mournfully it wakes in me.

Love I well to hear it wailing,

And I listen, pensively;

Strange sad thoughts, unearthly dreamings,

Mournfully it wakes in me.

Such a night did Edna leave us,When she with Lord Ronald fled;Better, ere she thus had grieved us,She was numbered with the dead.

Such a night did Edna leave us,

When she with Lord Ronald fled;

Better, ere she thus had grieved us,

She was numbered with the dead.

Yet my mother, we'd forgive herDid she seek her home at last,Kindly in our arms receive her,Bidding her forget the past.

Yet my mother, we'd forgive her

Did she seek her home at last,

Kindly in our arms receive her,

Bidding her forget the past.

Ah! she loved Lord Ronald truly;She was young and sweetly fair;Loved—and we were all forgotten—When Lord Ronald tarried here.

Ah! she loved Lord Ronald truly;

She was young and sweetly fair;

Loved—and we were all forgotten—

When Lord Ronald tarried here.

Dost remember, mother dearest,The sad day before she went,How the fleetly passing momentsBy thy side she fondly spent?

Dost remember, mother dearest,

The sad day before she went,

How the fleetly passing moments

By thy side she fondly spent?

And I marked her, mother dearest,When was said the soft "good-night,"How her cheek so sadly faded—Faded to a marble white.

And I marked her, mother dearest,

When was said the soft "good-night,"

How her cheek so sadly faded—

Faded to a marble white.

To her door I followed gently,Raised the latch, and in I went,And the thoughts that so oppressed meFound in gushing tears a vent.

To her door I followed gently,

Raised the latch, and in I went,

And the thoughts that so oppressed me

Found in gushing tears a vent.

"Jessie, Jessie," murmured Edna,"Weeping sister! Why is this?"And she pressed with gentle fondnessOn my brow a soothing kiss.

"Jessie, Jessie," murmured Edna,

"Weeping sister! Why is this?"

And she pressed with gentle fondness

On my brow a soothing kiss.

Spoke I not. My heart was breaking'Neath some vague, uncertain woe;Wept I, on her breast reclining,Mother—and I slumbered so.

Spoke I not. My heart was breaking

'Neath some vague, uncertain woe;

Wept I, on her breast reclining,

Mother—and I slumbered so.

When from out that sleep, awaking,I upon her pillow lay,Through the half-divided curtainFaintly streamed the dawning day.

When from out that sleep, awaking,

I upon her pillow lay,

Through the half-divided curtain

Faintly streamed the dawning day.

Then we missed her. Oh, my mother,Who our woe's excess can speak!Not a father, not a brother—Who the loved and lost could seek.

Then we missed her. Oh, my mother,

Who our woe's excess can speak!

Not a father, not a brother—

Who the loved and lost could seek.

Mother dearest, you are weeping!Why did I remembrance wake?I should bear my grief in silence,Oh, my mother, for thy sake.

Mother dearest, you are weeping!

Why did I remembrance wake?

I should bear my grief in silence,

Oh, my mother, for thy sake.

Listen listen! on the night-blastHeard you not a well-known tone?Oh, it seemed so much, my mother,Like my sister Edna's own!

Listen listen! on the night-blast

Heard you not a well-known tone?

Oh, it seemed so much, my mother,

Like my sister Edna's own!

There are feet upon the threshold!And a hand is on the door—Mother! mother!—it is Edna,Coming back to us once more!

There are feet upon the threshold!

And a hand is on the door—

Mother! mother!—it is Edna,

Coming back to us once more!

"Oh, forgive me! Oh, forgive me!"Thus my sister Edna prayed—"Oh, forgive me!" "Edna! Edna!"That was all my mother said.

"Oh, forgive me! Oh, forgive me!"

Thus my sister Edna prayed—

"Oh, forgive me!" "Edna! Edna!"

That was all my mother said.

But she oped her arms unto her,Drew her upward to her breast,And in fair and tearful beautyBowed that gentle head to rest.

But she oped her arms unto her,

Drew her upward to her breast,

And in fair and tearful beauty

Bowed that gentle head to rest.

"Well I loved Lord Ronald, mother,Ay, far better than my life;Home I come to thee," said Edna,"Proudly his acknowledgedwife.

"Well I loved Lord Ronald, mother,

Ay, far better than my life;

Home I come to thee," said Edna,

"Proudly his acknowledgedwife.

"Cared he not for rank or station,But a loving heart sought he;Mother, sister, love my husband—See, he claims it now of ye."

"Cared he not for rank or station,

But a loving heart sought he;

Mother, sister, love my husband—

See, he claims it now of ye."

Turned we then. He stood beside us,Bending low with manly grace,With his soul's true love for EdnaLighting up his noble face.

Turned we then. He stood beside us,

Bending low with manly grace,

With his soul's true love for Edna

Lighting up his noble face.

We are happy, I and mother,Now that all our care has gone;Ever seems it like a shadowScarcely cast ere it had flown.

We are happy, I and mother,

Now that all our care has gone;

Ever seems it like a shadow

Scarcely cast ere it had flown.

VETERAN SAILOR'S SONG.

BY "CARYL."

The flag that floats above us, boys,So proudly in the gale,Old Neptune never yet had seen,When first I clewed a sail;St. George's cross flamed o'er the seasWith undisputed sway,With English oak, and British tars,Beneath it, in that day.The Stars and Stripes above us, boys,Since then have been unfurled;In tempest tried, baptized in blood;'Tis the pride of Ocean-world!And freer, nobler hearts sustainYour banner floating proud;Than e'er before Atlantic bore,Or wrapped in seaman's shroud.The glorious flag above us, boys,Was ne'er disgraced in fight;No foeman ever saw it struck,But dearly bought the sight;Wherever prow has cleft the waves,In every zone and sea,'Tis known and honored as the flagOf a nation brave and free.

The flag that floats above us, boys,

So proudly in the gale,

Old Neptune never yet had seen,

When first I clewed a sail;

St. George's cross flamed o'er the seas

With undisputed sway,

With English oak, and British tars,

Beneath it, in that day.

The Stars and Stripes above us, boys,Since then have been unfurled;In tempest tried, baptized in blood;'Tis the pride of Ocean-world!And freer, nobler hearts sustainYour banner floating proud;Than e'er before Atlantic bore,Or wrapped in seaman's shroud.

The Stars and Stripes above us, boys,

Since then have been unfurled;

In tempest tried, baptized in blood;

'Tis the pride of Ocean-world!

And freer, nobler hearts sustain

Your banner floating proud;

Than e'er before Atlantic bore,

Or wrapped in seaman's shroud.

The glorious flag above us, boys,Was ne'er disgraced in fight;No foeman ever saw it struck,But dearly bought the sight;Wherever prow has cleft the waves,In every zone and sea,'Tis known and honored as the flagOf a nation brave and free.

The glorious flag above us, boys,

Was ne'er disgraced in fight;

No foeman ever saw it struck,

But dearly bought the sight;

Wherever prow has cleft the waves,

In every zone and sea,

'Tis known and honored as the flag

Of a nation brave and free.

REMEMBER THE POOR.

BY MRS. C. H. ESLING.

Oh! remember the poor, said a sad little voice,As the shadow of evening grew dim,And the thick, heavy snow-flakes fell silently down,Benumbing each half-covered limb;Oh! remember the poor, and the face of the childWas as white as the thick-falling snow,And my heart, how it readily aided my hand,In the little I had to bestow!A smile checked the tear in her dim, sunken eye,As she clasped the small alms in her hand,And I thought what a joy in this bright world of ours,The wealthy might have at command;To purchase a smile from a grief-stricken heart,To chase back the tear ere 'tis shed,To call a glad look to a wan, saddened face,With a pittance that scarce would buy bread.Oh think, ye glad children of affluence, think,As ye sit by the firelight's glow,Yes, think, as it gleams on your carpeted floor,Of the poor little feet in the snow.Yes, think, as those gems glitter bright on thy hand,With a light from the diamond's mine,Of the little blue fingers benumbed with the cold,That else were as dainty as thine.God fashioned thee both—the poor, shivering child,Alone in the cold winter night,Who begs for its bread, and the pampered, who baskForever in luxury's light.Then "remember the poor," for their wants are but few;Let thymuchbut alittleinsureTo the needy; the world will be better, by far,When the rich shall remember the poor.

Oh! remember the poor, said a sad little voice,As the shadow of evening grew dim,And the thick, heavy snow-flakes fell silently down,Benumbing each half-covered limb;

Oh! remember the poor, said a sad little voice,

As the shadow of evening grew dim,

And the thick, heavy snow-flakes fell silently down,

Benumbing each half-covered limb;

Oh! remember the poor, and the face of the childWas as white as the thick-falling snow,And my heart, how it readily aided my hand,In the little I had to bestow!

Oh! remember the poor, and the face of the child

Was as white as the thick-falling snow,

And my heart, how it readily aided my hand,

In the little I had to bestow!

A smile checked the tear in her dim, sunken eye,As she clasped the small alms in her hand,And I thought what a joy in this bright world of ours,The wealthy might have at command;

A smile checked the tear in her dim, sunken eye,

As she clasped the small alms in her hand,

And I thought what a joy in this bright world of ours,

The wealthy might have at command;

To purchase a smile from a grief-stricken heart,To chase back the tear ere 'tis shed,To call a glad look to a wan, saddened face,With a pittance that scarce would buy bread.

To purchase a smile from a grief-stricken heart,

To chase back the tear ere 'tis shed,

To call a glad look to a wan, saddened face,

With a pittance that scarce would buy bread.

Oh think, ye glad children of affluence, think,As ye sit by the firelight's glow,Yes, think, as it gleams on your carpeted floor,Of the poor little feet in the snow.

Oh think, ye glad children of affluence, think,

As ye sit by the firelight's glow,

Yes, think, as it gleams on your carpeted floor,

Of the poor little feet in the snow.

Yes, think, as those gems glitter bright on thy hand,With a light from the diamond's mine,Of the little blue fingers benumbed with the cold,That else were as dainty as thine.

Yes, think, as those gems glitter bright on thy hand,

With a light from the diamond's mine,

Of the little blue fingers benumbed with the cold,

That else were as dainty as thine.

God fashioned thee both—the poor, shivering child,Alone in the cold winter night,Who begs for its bread, and the pampered, who baskForever in luxury's light.

God fashioned thee both—the poor, shivering child,

Alone in the cold winter night,

Who begs for its bread, and the pampered, who bask

Forever in luxury's light.

Then "remember the poor," for their wants are but few;Let thymuchbut alittleinsureTo the needy; the world will be better, by far,When the rich shall remember the poor.

Then "remember the poor," for their wants are but few;

Let thymuchbut alittleinsure

To the needy; the world will be better, by far,

When the rich shall remember the poor.

A VALENTINE.

BY CLARA MORETON.

Fair as Lucrece, and as serenely cold,Art thou, sweet maiden, with thine eyes of blue;Thy tresses long, in bands of burnished gold,Cast shadows o'er a cheek of rose-leaf hue.The silken lashes of those violet eyesDroop with a sunny curve from snowy lid,Half shading all the purity that liesWithin their quiet depths so sweetly hid.The matchless arching of thy coral lip,The glittering pearl thy smile discloses,Thy mouth, fresh as the dew the flowers sip,And redolent of sweets as budding roses.Too fair for my unskilful hand to trace!Never a poet could thy charms combine,Nor artist draw thee in thy winning graceUnless a monarch of his art divine.For such a boon, how dare my heart aspire?Trembling, I bring its wealth of love to thee,No Persian worshipper of flaming fireE'er bent his god a more devoted knee.

Fair as Lucrece, and as serenely cold,Art thou, sweet maiden, with thine eyes of blue;Thy tresses long, in bands of burnished gold,Cast shadows o'er a cheek of rose-leaf hue.

Fair as Lucrece, and as serenely cold,

Art thou, sweet maiden, with thine eyes of blue;

Thy tresses long, in bands of burnished gold,

Cast shadows o'er a cheek of rose-leaf hue.

The silken lashes of those violet eyesDroop with a sunny curve from snowy lid,Half shading all the purity that liesWithin their quiet depths so sweetly hid.

The silken lashes of those violet eyes

Droop with a sunny curve from snowy lid,

Half shading all the purity that lies

Within their quiet depths so sweetly hid.

The matchless arching of thy coral lip,The glittering pearl thy smile discloses,Thy mouth, fresh as the dew the flowers sip,And redolent of sweets as budding roses.

The matchless arching of thy coral lip,

The glittering pearl thy smile discloses,

Thy mouth, fresh as the dew the flowers sip,

And redolent of sweets as budding roses.

Too fair for my unskilful hand to trace!Never a poet could thy charms combine,Nor artist draw thee in thy winning graceUnless a monarch of his art divine.

Too fair for my unskilful hand to trace!

Never a poet could thy charms combine,

Nor artist draw thee in thy winning grace

Unless a monarch of his art divine.

For such a boon, how dare my heart aspire?Trembling, I bring its wealth of love to thee,No Persian worshipper of flaming fireE'er bent his god a more devoted knee.

For such a boon, how dare my heart aspire?

Trembling, I bring its wealth of love to thee,

No Persian worshipper of flaming fire

E'er bent his god a more devoted knee.

DYING

BY BELL.

Is this dying? round me gathersSuch a silent, countless throng,Beaming on me smiles that beckon,As if I with them belong.This is dying! raise my pillow;Come and kiss me, mother dear;When I'm gone away you'll miss me,But for me weep not a tear.Is this dying? waters rollingBear me on to yonder shore,Love to Christ my bark has freighted,Not a billow surges o'er.This is dying! pain, returning,Shows how nature clings to earth,While the prisoned soul is pantingFor the clime that gave it birth.Is this dying? strains of musicSeem upon the air to float,Such could only come from angels,And I almost catch the note.Now my crown and harp are coming,Borne by seraphs' hands along,And a robe of whitest linenClothes me like the angel throng.Is this dying? pain may writhe me,But has Death not lost his sting?And since Christ has gone to glory,Death is but a conquered king!

Is this dying? round me gathersSuch a silent, countless throng,Beaming on me smiles that beckon,As if I with them belong.

Is this dying? round me gathers

Such a silent, countless throng,

Beaming on me smiles that beckon,

As if I with them belong.

This is dying! raise my pillow;Come and kiss me, mother dear;When I'm gone away you'll miss me,But for me weep not a tear.

This is dying! raise my pillow;

Come and kiss me, mother dear;

When I'm gone away you'll miss me,

But for me weep not a tear.

Is this dying? waters rollingBear me on to yonder shore,Love to Christ my bark has freighted,Not a billow surges o'er.

Is this dying? waters rolling

Bear me on to yonder shore,

Love to Christ my bark has freighted,

Not a billow surges o'er.

This is dying! pain, returning,Shows how nature clings to earth,While the prisoned soul is pantingFor the clime that gave it birth.

This is dying! pain, returning,

Shows how nature clings to earth,

While the prisoned soul is panting

For the clime that gave it birth.

Is this dying? strains of musicSeem upon the air to float,Such could only come from angels,And I almost catch the note.

Is this dying? strains of music

Seem upon the air to float,

Such could only come from angels,

And I almost catch the note.

Now my crown and harp are coming,Borne by seraphs' hands along,And a robe of whitest linenClothes me like the angel throng.

Now my crown and harp are coming,

Borne by seraphs' hands along,

And a robe of whitest linen

Clothes me like the angel throng.

Is this dying? pain may writhe me,But has Death not lost his sting?And since Christ has gone to glory,Death is but a conquered king!

Is this dying? pain may writhe me,

But has Death not lost his sting?

And since Christ has gone to glory,

Death is but a conquered king!

TO THE GAND'HRAJ.[A]

WRITTEN IN INDIA, BY MRS. E. LOCK.

Oh! beautiful Gánd'hraj! sweet is thy breath;Thou art pale, too, as bearing the impress of Death,Like the velvety touch of the Kokila's[B]wing,Or the flakes that the snow-spirits playfully fling,Are thy robings unstained by a glance from the sun;To me thou art welcome, my beautiful one!Like a penitent nun at the hour of prayer,Thou inclinest to earth, though no shrive-priest be there,Pale, innocent darling! would we were as pure,Then ours the blessings that ever endure.Gaze not downward so sadly, still bloom on thy stem,Thou Nature's adornment! sweet, pearly-hued gem!The fibre that links thee to life, ah! how slight!The dealings of Death with the flowers are light;The delicate tintings that vein thy arrayMust be changed ere the scene dons its mantle of gray,And heavenly ones thy aroma will bearAway to the gardens more pure and more fair.As the moon-ray dissolves on the lake's tranquil breast,Or the morn-mists float off to their home in the west;Like the iris that gladdens a moment our eyes,With its colors prismatic, then blends with the skies,Such peaceful and holy departure is thine;Euthanasia like this, sweetest flow'ret, be mine!

Oh! beautiful Gánd'hraj! sweet is thy breath;

Thou art pale, too, as bearing the impress of Death,

Like the velvety touch of the Kokila's[B]wing,

Or the flakes that the snow-spirits playfully fling,

Are thy robings unstained by a glance from the sun;

To me thou art welcome, my beautiful one!

Like a penitent nun at the hour of prayer,Thou inclinest to earth, though no shrive-priest be there,Pale, innocent darling! would we were as pure,Then ours the blessings that ever endure.Gaze not downward so sadly, still bloom on thy stem,Thou Nature's adornment! sweet, pearly-hued gem!

Like a penitent nun at the hour of prayer,

Thou inclinest to earth, though no shrive-priest be there,

Pale, innocent darling! would we were as pure,

Then ours the blessings that ever endure.

Gaze not downward so sadly, still bloom on thy stem,

Thou Nature's adornment! sweet, pearly-hued gem!

The fibre that links thee to life, ah! how slight!The dealings of Death with the flowers are light;The delicate tintings that vein thy arrayMust be changed ere the scene dons its mantle of gray,And heavenly ones thy aroma will bearAway to the gardens more pure and more fair.

The fibre that links thee to life, ah! how slight!

The dealings of Death with the flowers are light;

The delicate tintings that vein thy array

Must be changed ere the scene dons its mantle of gray,

And heavenly ones thy aroma will bear

Away to the gardens more pure and more fair.

As the moon-ray dissolves on the lake's tranquil breast,Or the morn-mists float off to their home in the west;Like the iris that gladdens a moment our eyes,With its colors prismatic, then blends with the skies,Such peaceful and holy departure is thine;Euthanasia like this, sweetest flow'ret, be mine!

As the moon-ray dissolves on the lake's tranquil breast,

Or the morn-mists float off to their home in the west;

Like the iris that gladdens a moment our eyes,

With its colors prismatic, then blends with the skies,

Such peaceful and holy departure is thine;

Euthanasia like this, sweetest flow'ret, be mine!

(See Plate.)

Our readers will notice that the models for parlor window drapery are, as usual, furnished by Mr. W. H. Carryl, who is rare authority in such matters. Draperies arranged by him are shutting out the cold air from northern firesides, and excluding the already fervent glow of a southern sun. His constantly increasing, establishment is filled with busy workmen; and the choicest materials that are manufactured abroad, whether in silk or lace, are to be found among his importations. Among the public calls upon his taste and skill, we notice particularly the fitting up of the La Pierre House, the new and model Philadelphia hotel; and, still more recently, the draperies of the State House at Harrisburg.

The La Pierre is situated on Broad, our finest street, and was opened to the public the past October. It is not one of the mammoth toy-shops now so much the rage, where everything is too fine to use, and comfort is swallowed up in carving and gilding. Comfort is, in fact, the distinguishing characteristic of the La Pierre, the rooms being of an inhabitable size, and furnished with united neatness and elegance, giving the traveller a cheerful welcome and a homelike feeling. To this the draperies of Mr. Carryl, which are found all through the house, even in the fifth story, contribute; for it is now an undisputed axiom in decorating, that nothing goes so far as curtains in furnishing a room. On the principal floor, we find the drawing-room windows draped with crimson, garnet, and gold brocatelle, finished by heavy cornices and the richest corresponding decorations, as will be seen in Fig. 1. which is nearly identical with the style. Of course, there are exquisite lace curtains, as in the plate, falling below. The reading and sitting-rooms, appropriated to the gentlemen, are made cheerful by crimson brocatelle draperies, while the tea-room is distinguished by the heavy green lambrequins, with their rich bullion fringe. It would take a practised eye to detect it from gold bullion, so perfect is the imitation. The effect, especially in the evening, is precisely the same. In the elegant suite of parlors on the second floor, Mr. Carryl has placed curtains of brocatelle, crimson, yellow, and green and gold, equally rich and suited to the style of the apartments, as in the drawing-room below (see Fig. 2); while throughout the bed-chambers, many entire suites, curtains of Paris stripe, insatin laine, give the cheerful aspect we at first noticed.

The bridal chamber—that modern abomination to good taste and common sense, yet demanded by the fashion of hotels—is, of course, thechef-d'œuvreof the whole house. Mr. Carryl has chosen "celestialrosyred, love's proper hue," instead of the pure white of the St. Nicholas, or the staring yellow of the Metropolitan, for the draperies of the apartment. Arosered, be it understood, of the most delicate shade, softened still more by the pure transparency of the lace embroideries falling from the rich canopy above the bed, or shrouding the broad arch that divides the two apartments—a triumphal arch to Mr. Carryl's decorative art. The whole house is decorated in good keeping with the already far-famed character of this luxurious hotel, which may be justly regarded as one of the most fashionable and distinguished in the United States.

The State House at Harrisburg is fitted from drawings made expressly for it, in a style now become classic in public buildings. The deep crimson India damask of our grandmothers' times, lined with white India silk—the most judicious choice, as it never grows yellow by age—is disposed in full folds above the Speaker's chair; and from these, which take the place of a lambrequin in a modern curtain, falls a similar heavy drapery to the floor. The whole is surmounted by a superbly carved eagle in gilt, with expanded wings, done expressly for Mr. Carryl from a life model. The curtains of the windows are to be in the same rich and simple style, and the clock has also a decorative drapery. The whole is arranged with a classic taste far more appropriate to the hall than modern French fripperies, and will add much to Mr. Carryl's rapidly growing celebrity in this branch of domestic art. Mr. Carryl has also furnished the State House at Austin, Texas, with rich brocatelle hangings, diversified with emblems and mottoes of the Southern State of the Gulf, all finished in superb style.

Through the very extensive establishment of Mr. Carryl, No. 169 Chestnut Street, our Southern and Western merchants can conveniently fill their orders for curtains and trimmings, gilt ornaments, &c., being sure to get the newest styles and the best qualities. The height fromfloorto top ofwindow-frame, and width of frame at the top, should always accompany an order.

[From the establishment ofG. Brodie, No. 51 Canal Street, New York.]

THE SALAMANCA.

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The engravings presented this month are so very dear in the design, that any person at all conversant with the fabrication of garments can construct either of them without the aid of any special information. We, however, will merely say that

Is composed of maroon or black satin. The skirt is set in box plaits upon the yoke in the back; it is plain in front. The yoke is deep, and is pointed in front. The sleeves are flowing. A trimming of very deep black lace (from ten to twelve inches) ornaments the skirt and the bottom of the yoke. The whole is finished by a neat ornament made of a succession of small loops of No. 6 satin ribbon terminating in streamers.

(See Plate in front of Book.)

Consists of three three-quarter circular capes upon a circular skirt. The first is plain, the others full, and are of equal depth. The skirt, however, is about one-third less in depth below the capes than they are with each other. It may be constructed of cloth, but the one illustrated is of royal purple velvet, edged around each cape with royal ermine six inches wide. The bottom of the skirt, however, is wider, the fur there being eight inches. It is lined with white enamelled satin.

Dress

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This dress, which is a combination of the "Polka Jacket" and ordinary dress, is exceedingly pretty and elegant, and well calculated to show off the figure to advantage. It is made up in silk or French merino, and the trimming consists of broad ribbon velvet, about an inch in width, of the same color as the dress, or one in good contrast. To those who are averse to wearing the jacket as a single garment, this may form a pleasing substitute.

DESCRIPTION OF DIAGRAMS.

Fig. 1.—The front of body—the trimming to be brought up in the form of stomacher.

Fig. 2.—Back of body. Joinatoa(Fig. 1),btob,ctoc,dtod.

Fig. 3.—Jacket. Joinetoe(Fig. 1)ftof(Fig. 2).Fig. 4.—Sleeve.

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EMBROIDERY FOR SHIRTS.

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Fig. 1.

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Fig. 2.Fig. 3.

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Fig. 1, it will be seen, approaches more to the style of the pelisse than the mantilla, a fashion that bids fair to be quite general the entire winter for outside garments, orpardessus, as the French call them. This, however, is intended for the milder season of spring, being made of rich violet-colored taffeta, trimmed with bows of thick satin ribbon, the same shade in front, and encircled by two falls of black lace.

Figs. 2 and 3 are breakfast caps, Fig. 2 being intended for a bride or young married lady, being composed of lace and close bows of rose-colored satin ribbon; the cap fits close to the head, a fall of broad ribbon coming behind the ear.

Fig. 3 is more novel in shape, and intended for an older person, the trimming encircling the face.

EMBROIDERED SCREEN.

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Materials.—Black satin, three shades of green chenille, gold twist, and gold beads.

Work the shamrock with the green chenille, veining the leaves with gold twist; the foliage in the background is also worked with green chenille. The frame-work of the harp is executed with beads, and the strings with twist. The wolf-hound is worked with brown chenille in embroidery stitch, as also are the stems of the shamrock and foliage.

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