Not a Mistake. UR neighbor over the way passes for a woman who has failed in her career, because she is an old maid. People wag solemn heads of pity, and say that she made so great a mistake in not marrying the brilliant and famous man who was for long years her suitor. It is clear that no orange flower will ever bloom for her. The young people think of her solitary hours of bitter regret, and please their imaginations with fancying her hard struggle with the conviction that she has lost all that makes life beautiful. But this old maid who is thus pitied for a secret sorrow, is a woman whose nature is a tropic, in which the sun shines, the birds sing, the flowers bloom forever. There are no regrets, no doubts and half wishes, but -G. W. Curtis. a calm sweetness, a transparent peace. Niagara. The morning stars, Amid thy foam and mist,-'Tis meet for them Thou dost make the soul A wondering witness of thy majesty; -Lady H. Sigourney. 'M SITTING alone by the fire, In a robe even you would admire- Her Letter. I'm be-diamonded out of all reason, A dozen engagements I've broken; I left in the midst of a set; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits-on the stairs-for me yet. They say he'll be rich-when he grows upAnd then he adores me indeed; And you, sir, are turning your nose up, Three thousand miles off, as you read. "And how do I like my position?" "And what do I think of New York?" "And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?" "And isn't it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that?" "And isn't it a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat?" Well yes-if you saw us out driving Each day in the park, four-in-hand— If you saw papa's picture, as taken And yet just this moment, when sitting The finest soiree of the year," In the midst of a gaze de Chambery, And the hum of the smallest of talkSomehow Joe, I thought of the "Ferry," And the dance we had on "The Fork ;" Of Harrison's barn, with its muster Of flags festoon'd over the wall; Of the candles that shed their soft luster And tallow on head-dress and shawl; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle; Of the moon that was quietly sleeping On the hill, when the time came to go; To "the best paying lead in the State." That I should be thinking right there, And swam the North Fork and all that, Just to dance with old Follansbee's daughter, The Lily of Poverty Flat. But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing! (Mamma says my taste still is low), Instead of my triumphs reciting, I'm spooning on Joseph-heigh-ho! Whatever's the meaning of that- Your sun's climbing over the trees. And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, And you've struck it-on Poverty Flat. -Bret Harte. |