The 66 THE FIRST PARTY. Was invited to a party, JOSEPHINE POLLARD. Your company from four to ten," the invitation said; And the maiden was delighted To sit up till the hour when the big folks went to bed. crazy little midget Ran and told the news to Bridget, Who clapped her hands, and danced a jig, to Annabel's delight, And said, with accents hearty, "Twill be the swatest party If ye're there yerself, me darlint! I wish it was to-night!" The great display of frilling And, oh, the little booties! and the lovely sash so wide! And the gloves so very cunning: And the whole McCarty family regarded her with pride. They gave minute directions, With copious interjections Of "sit up straight!" and "don't do this or that 'twould be absurd!" But, what with their caressing, Miss Annabel McCarty didn't hear a single word. There was music, there was dancing, And the sight was most entrancing, As if fairyland and floral band were holding jubilee ; There was laughing, there was pouting; There was singing, there was shouting; And old and young together made a carnival of glee. Miss Annabel McCarty Was the youngest at the party, And every one remarked that she was beautifully dressed; Like a doll she sat demurely On the sofa, thinking surely It would never do for her to run and frolic with the rest. The noise kept growing louder; The naughty boys would crowd her; "I think you're very rude indeed!" the little lady said; And then, without a warning, Her home instructions scorning, She screamed: "I want my supper—and 1 want to go to bed!" HAVE lived by the sea-shore and by the mountains. No, I am not going to say which is best. The one where your place is, is the best for you. But this difference is: you can domesticate mountains, but the sea is feræ naturæ. You may have a hut, or know the owner of one, on the mountain-side; you see a light half-way up its ascent in the evening, and you know there is a home, and you might share it, You have noted certain trees, perhaps; you know the particular zone where the hemlocks look so black in October, when the maples and beeches have faded. All its reliefs and intaglios have electrotyped themselves in the medallions that hang round the walls of your memory's chamber. The sea remembers nothing. It is feline. It licks your feet,-its huge flanks purr very pleasantly for you; but it will crack your bones and eat you, for all that, and wipe the crimsoned foam from its jaws as if nothing had happened. The mountains give their lost children berries and water; the sea mocks their thirst and lets them die. The mountains have a grand, stupid, lovable tranquillity; the sea has a fascinating, treacherous intelligence. The mountains lie about like huge ruminants, their broad backs awful to look upon, but safe to handle. The sea smooths its silver scales until you cannot see their joints,-but their shining is that of a snake's belly, after all. In deeper suggestiveness I find as great a difference. The mountains dwarf mankind and foreshorten the procession of its long generations. The sea drowns out humanity and time; it has no sympathy with either; for it belongs to eternity, and of that it sings its monotonous song for ever and ever. Yet I should love to have a little box by the sea-shore. I should love to gaze out on the wild feline element from a front window of my own, just as I should love to look on a caged panther, and see it stretch its shining length, and then curl over and lap its smooth sides, and by-and-by begin to lash itself into rage, and show its white teeth, and spring at its bars, and howl the cry of its mad, but, to me, harmless fury. THE BAREFOOT BOY. JOHN G. WHITTIER. LESSINGS on thee, little man, Prince thou art-the grown-up man, Let the million-dollared ride! O! for boyhood's painless play, |