Chapter II (1)

It was about ten o'clock on the next morning, when Mrs. Gaston appeared at the shop of Berlaps, the tailor.

"Here is the other pair," she said, as she came up to the counter, behind which stood Michael, the salesman.

That person took the pair of trowsers, glanced at them a moment, and then, tossing them aside, asked Mrs. Gaston if she could make some cloth roundabouts.

"At what price?" was inquired.

"The usual price--thirty cents."

"Thirty cents for cloth jackets! Indeed, Michael, that is too little. You used to give thirty-seven and a half."

"Can't afford to do it now, then. Thirty cents is enough. There are plenty of women glad to get them even at that price."

"But it will take me a full day and a half to make a cloth jacket, Michael."

"You work slow, that's the reason; a good sewer can easily make one in a day; and that's doing pretty well, these times."

"I don't know what you mean by pretty well, Michael," answered the seamstress. "How do you think you could manage to support yourself and three children on less than thirty cents a day?"

"Haven't you put that oldest boy of yours out yet?" asked Michael, instead of replying to the question of Mrs. Gaston.

"No, I have not."

"Well, you do very wrong, let me tell you, to slave yourself and pinch your other children for him, when he might be earning his living just as well as not. He's plenty old enough to be put out."

"You may think so, but I don't. He is still but a child."

"A pretty big child, I should say. But, if you would like to get him a good master, I know a man over in Cambridge who would take him off of your hands."

"Who is he?"

"He keeps a store, and wants just such a boy to do odd trifles about, and run of errands. It would be the very dandy for your little fellow. He'll be in here to-day, and, if you say so, I will speak to him about your son."

"I would rather try and keep him with me this winter. He is too young to go so far away. I could not know whether he were well or ill used."

"Oh, as to that, ma'am, the man I spoke of is a particular friend of mine, and I know him to be as kind-hearted as a woman. His wife's amiability and good temper are proverbial. Do let me speak a good word for your son; I'm sure you will never repent it."

"I'll think about it, Michael; but don't believe I shall feel satisfied to let Henry go anywhere out of Boston, even if I should be forced to get him a place away from home this winter."

"Well, you can do as you please, Mrs. Gaston," said Michael, in a half offended tone. "I shall not charge anything for my advice. But say! do you intend trying some of these jackets?"

"Can't you give me some more pantaloons? I can do better on them, I think."

"We sha'n't have any more coarse trowsers ready for two or three days. The jackets are your only chance."

"If I must, I suppose I must, then," replied Mrs. Gaston to this, in a desponding tone. "So let me have a couple of them."

The salesman took from a shelf two dark, heavy cloth jackets, cut out and tied up in separate bundles with a strip of the fabric from which they had been taken. As he handed them to the woman, he said--

"Remember, now, these are to be made extra nice."

"You shall have no cause of complaint--depend upon that, Michael. But isn't Mr. Berlaps in this morning?"

"No. He's gone out to Roxbury to see about some houses he is putting up there."

"You can pay me for them pantys, I suppose?"

"No. I never settle any bills in his absence."

"But it's a very small matter, Michael. Only a dollar and five cents," said Mrs. Gaston, earnestly, her heart sinking in her bosom.

"Can't help it. It's just as I tell you."

"When will Mr. Berlaps be home?"

"Some time this afternoon, I suppose."

"Not till this afternoon," murmured the mother, sadly, as she thought of her children, and how meagerly she had been able to provide for them during the past few days. Turning away from the counter, she left the store and hurried homeward. Henry met her at the door as she entered, and, seeing that she brought nothing with her but the small bundles of work, looked disappointed. This touched her feeling a good deal. But she felt much worse when Ella, the sick one, half raised herself from her pillow and said--

"Did you get me that orange as you promised, mother?"

"No, dear; I couldn't get any money this morning," the mother replied, bending over her sick child and kissing her cheek, that was flushed and hot with fever. "But as soon as Mr. Berlaps pays me you shall have an orange."

"I wish he would pay you soon, then, mother; for I want one so bad. I dreamed last night that I had one, and, just as I was going to eat it, I waked up. And, since you have been gone, I've been asleep, and dreamed again that I had a large juicy orange. But don't cry, mother. I know you couldn't get it for me. I'll be very patient."

"I know you will, my dear child," said the mother, putting an arm about the little sufferer, and drawing her to her bosom; "you have been good and patient, and mother is only sorry that she has not been able to get you the orange you want so badly."

"But I don't believe I want it so very, very bad, mother, as I seem to. I think about it so much--that's the reason I want it, I'm sure. I'll try and not think about it any more."

"Try, that's a dear, good girl," murmured Mrs. Gaston, as she kissed her child again, and then turned away to resume once more her wearying task. Unrolling one of the coarse jackets she had brought home, she found that it was of heavy beaver cloth, and had to be sewed with strong thread. For a moment or two, after she spread it out upon the table, she looked at the many pieces to be wrought up into a well-finished whole, and thought of the hours of hard labor it would require to accomplish the task. A feeling of discouragement stole into her heart, and she leaned her head listlessly upon the table. But only a moment or two elapsed before a thought of her children aroused her flagging energies.

It was after eleven o'clock before she was fairly at work. The first thing to be done, after laying aside the different portions of the garment in order, was to put in the pockets. This was not accomplished before one o'clock, when she had to leave her work to prepare a meal for herself and little ones. There remained from their supper and breakfast a small portion of the fish and potatoes. Both of these had been boiled, and hashed up together, and, of what remained, all that was required was to make it into balls and fry it. This was not a matter to occasion much delay. In fifteen minutes from the time she laid aside her needle and thimble, the table had been set, with its one dish upon it, and Harry and little Emma were eating with keen appetites their simple meal. But, to Mrs. Gaston, the food was unpalatable; and Ella turned from it with loathing. There was, however, nothing more in the house; and both Ella and her mother had to practice self-denial and patience.

After the table was cleared away, Mrs. Gaston again resumed her labor; but Emma was unusually fretful, and hung about her mother nearly the whole afternoon, worrying her mind, and keeping her back a good deal, so that, when the brief afternoon had worn away, and the deepening twilight compelled her to suspend her labors, she had made but little perceptible progress in her work.

"Be good children now until I come back," she said, as she rose from her chair, put on her bonnet, and drew an old Rob Roy shawl around her shoulders. Descending then into the street, she took her way with a quick step towards that part of the city in which her employer kept his store. Her heart beat anxiously as she drew near, and trembled lest she should not find him in. If not?--but the fear made her feel sick. She had no food in the house, no friends to whom she could apply, and there was no one of whom she could venture to ask to be trusted for even a single loaf of bread. At length she reached the well-lighted store, in which were several customers, upon whom both Berlaps and his clerk were attending with business assiduity. The sight of the tailor relieved the feelings of poor Mrs. Gaston very much. Passing on to the back part of the store, she stood patiently awaiting his leisure. But his customers were hard to please. And, moreover, one was scarcely suited before another came in. Thus it continued for nearly half an hour, when the poor woman became so anxious about the little ones she had left at home, and especially about Ella, who had appeared to have a good deal of fever when she came away, that she walked slowly down the store, and paused opposite to where Berlaps stood waiting upon a customer, in order to attract his attention. But he took not the slightest notice of her. She remained thus for nearly ten minutes longer. Then she came up to the side of the counter, and, leaning over towards him, said, in a half whisper--

"Can I speak a word with you, Mr. Berlaps?"

"I've no time to attend to you now, woman," he answered, gruffly, and the half frightened creature shrunk away quickly, and again stood far back in the store.

It was full half an hour after this before the shop was cleared, and then the tailor, instead of coming back to where Mrs. Gaston stood, commenced folding up and replacing his goods upon the shelves. Fearful lest other customers would enter, the seamstress came slowly forward, and again stood near Berlaps.

"What do you want here to-night, woman?" asked the tailor, without lifting his eyes from the employment in which he was engaged.

"I brought home the other pair of trowsers this morning, but you were not in," Mrs. Gaston replied.

"Well?"

"Michael couldn't pay me, and so I've run up this evening."

"You're a very troublesome kind of a person," said Berlaps, looking her rebukingly in the face. Then taking a dollar and five cents from the drawer, he pushed them towards her on the counter, adding, as he did so, "There, take your money. One would think you were actually starving."

Mrs. Gaston picked up the coin eagerly, and hurried away. It was more than an hour since she had left home. Her children were alone, and the night had closed in some time before. The thought of this made her quicken her pace to a run. As she passed on, the sight of an orange in a window reminded her of her promise to Ella. She stopped and bought a small one, and then hurried again on her way.

"Here's half a dollar of what I owe you, Mrs. Grubb," said she, as she stepped into the shop of that personage, and threw the coin she named upon the counter. "And now give me a loaf of bread, quickly; some molasses in this cup, and a pint of milk in this," drawing two little mugs from under her shawl as she spoke.

The articles she mentioned were soon ready for her. She had paid for them, and was about stepping from the door, when she paused, and, turning about, said--

"Oh, I had like to have forgotten! I want two cent candles. I shall have to work late to-night."

The candles were cut from a large bunch hanging above the narrow counter, wrapped in a very small bit of paper, and given to Mrs. Gaston, who took them and went quickly away.

All was dark and still in the room that contained her children, as she gained the house that sheltered them. She lit one of her candles below, and went up stairs. As she entered, Ella's bright eyes glistened upon her from the bed; but little Emma had fallen asleep with her head in the lap of Henry, who was seated upon the floor with his back against the wall, himself likewise locked in the arms of forgetfulness. The fire had nearly gone out, and the room was quite cold.

"Oh, mother, why did you stay so long?" Ella asked, looking her earnestly in the face.

"I couldn't get back any sooner, my dear. But see! I've brought the orange you have wished for so long. You can eat it all by yourself, for Emma is fast asleep on the floor, and can't cry for it."

But Emma roused up at the moment, and began to fret and cry for something to eat.

"Don't cry, dear. You shall have your supper in a little while. I have brought you home some nice bread and molasses," said the mother, in tones meant to soothe and quiet her hungry and impatient little one. But Emma continued to fret and cry on.

"It's so cold, mamma!" she said. "It's so cold, and I'm hungry!"

"Don't cry, dear," again urged the mother. "I'll make the fire up nice and warm in a little while, and then you shall have something good to eat."

But--"It's so cold, mamma! it's so cold! and I'm hungry!" was the continued and incessant complaint of the poor child.

All this time, Ella had been busily engaged in peeling her orange and dividing it into four quarters.

"See here, Emma! Look what I've got!" she said, in a lively, cheerful tone, as soon as her orange had been properly divided. "Come, cover up in bed here with me, until the fire's made, and you shall have this nice bit of orange."

Emma's complaints ceased in a moment, and she turned towards her sister, and clambered upon the bed.

"And here's a piece for you, Henry, and a piece for mother, too," continued Ella, reaching out two other portions.

"No, dear, keep it for yourself. I don't want it," said the mother.

"And Emma shall have my piece," responded Henry; "she wants it worse than I do."

"That is right. Be good children, and love one another," said Mrs. Gaston, encouragingly. "But Emma don't want brother Henry's piece, does she?"

"No, Emma don't want brother Henry's piece," repeated the child; and she took up a portion of the orange as she spoke, and handed it to her brother.

Henry received it, and, getting upon the bed with his sisters, shared with them not only the orange, but kind fraternal feelings. The taste of the fruit revived Ella a good deal, and she, with the assistance of Henry, succeeded in amusing Emma until their mother had made the fire and boiled some water. Into a portion of the water she poured about half of the milk she had brought home, and, filling a couple of tin cups with this, set it with bread and molasses upon a little table, and called Henry and Emma to supper. The children, at this announcement, scrambled from the bed, and, pushing chairs up to the table, commenced eating the supper provided for them with keen appetites. Into what remained of the pint of milk, Mrs. Gaston poured a small portion of hot water, and then crumbled some bread, and put a few grains of salt into it, and took this to the bed for Ella. The child ate two or three spoonfuls; but her stomach soon turned against the food.

"I don't feel hungry, mother," said she, as she laid herself back upon the pillow.

"But you've eaten scarcely anything to-day. Try and take a little more, dear. It will do you good."

"I can't, indeed, mother." And a slight expression of loathing passed over the child's face.

"Can't you think of something you could eat?" urged the mother.

"I don't want anything. The orange tasted good, and that is enough for to-night," Ella replied, in a cheerful voice.

Mrs. Gaston then sat down by the table with Henry and Emma, and ate a small portion of bread and molasses. But this food touched not her palate with any pleasurable sensation. She ate only because she knew that, unless she took food, she would not have strength to perform her duties to her children. For a long series of years, her system had been accustomed to the generous excitement of tea at the evening meal. A cup of good tea had become almost indispensable to her. It braced her system, cleared her head, and refreshed her after the unremitting toils of the day. But, for some time past, she had felt called upon, for the sake of her children, to deny herself this luxury--no, comfort--no, this, to her, one of the necessaries of life. The consequence was that her appetite lost its tone. No food tasted pleasantly to her; and the labors of the evening were performed under depression of spirits and nervous relaxation of body.

This evening she ate, compulsorily, as usual, a small portion of dry bread, and drank a few mouthfuls of warm water in which a little milk had been poured. As she did so, her eyes turned frequently upon the face of Henry, a fair-haired, sweet-faced, delicate boy, her eldest born--the first pledge of pure affection, and the promise of a happy wedded life. Sadly, indeed, had time changed since then. A young mother, smiling over her first born--how full of joy was the sunlight of each succeeding day! Now, widowed and alone, struggling with failing and unequal strength against the tide that was slowly bearing her down the stream, each morning broke to her more and more drearily, and each evening, as it closed darkly in, brought another shadow to rest in despondency upon her spirit. Faithfully had she struggled on, hoping still to be able to keep her little ones around her. The proposition of Michael to put out Henry startled into activity the conscious fear that had for some months been stifled in her bosom; and now she had to look the matter full in the face, and, in spite of all her feelings of reluctance, confess to herself that the effort to keep her children around her must prove unavailing. But how could she part with her boy? How could she see him put out among strangers? How could she bear to let him go away from her side, and be henceforth treated as a servant, and be compelled to perform labor above his years? The very thought made her sick.

Her frugal meal was soon finished, and then the children were put to bed. After laying away their clothes, and setting back the table from which their supper had been eaten, Mrs. Gaston seated herself by the already nearly half burned penny candle, whose dim light scarcely enabled her failing eyesight to discern the edges of the dark cloth upon which she was working, and composed herself to her task. Hour after hour she toiled on, weary and aching in every limb. But she remitted not her labors until long after midnight, and then not until her last candle had burned away to the socket in which it rested. Then she put aside her work with a sigh, as she reflected upon the slow progress she had made, and, disrobing herself, laid her over-wearied body beside that of her sick child. Ella was asleep; but her breathing was hard, and her mother perceived, upon laying her hand upon her face, that her fever had greatly increased. But she knew no means of alleviation, and therefore did not attempt any. In a little while, nature claimed for her a respite. Sleep locked her senses in forgetfulness.

(To be continued.)

THE NEW SEWING-MACHINE.

It may interest some of our readers to know how this ingenious invention is applied to such various purposes of utility. The following brief account will explain the mode of operation:--

The sewing-machine, of which a representation is now given, is about twelve inches square, and is driven by a wheel at the end of a main shaft which passes through the machine. The wheel can be driven either by the hand, foot, or steam-engine. From the top plate of the machine and at the side on which the wheel is placed, an arm rises to about ten inches and extends to the opposite or front side, in which arm is worked a lever which drives the vertical needle. This needle is attached to a sliding bar, worked by the arm. Underneath and below the plate of the machine is another needle of horizontal shape, which is fed by a bobbin or reel of thread also out of sight. Imagine the vertical needle as being threaded and supplied by a reel on the top of the arm, and the horizontal needle threaded as described, and the machine put in motion; the vertical needle would penetrate the cloth or other material, say half an inch below the surface, and, on being drawn back by the action of the machine, would leave a loop; when this loop is formed, and at the exact time, the horizontal needle enters it and holds the thread until the stitch is formed, when by a counter action it revolves back and throws the loop off and takes another. The machine is capable of stitching every part of any garment, except the buttons and button-holes, whether the work be _light_ or _heavy_, _coarse_ or _fine_; also for gaiters, boots, shoes, sacks, bags, sailcloths, tents, &c. &c. It is so _simple_ in its construction and action that it may be worked by a _child_, and will sew a circle, curve, or turn a square corner, equally as well as a straight line. It is only twelve inches square, and is driven by the hand or foot. By the action of a screen in the machine, the stitch can be either lengthened or shortened, as may be desired. The machine feeds itself with both cloth and thread, and it is only necessary for the operator to guide the material to the needle to sew. It will with ease sew a yard per minute, stronger, more uniform, and consequently better than it is possible to be done by hand.

LETTERS LEFT AT THE PASTRY-COOK'S:

BEING THE CLANDESTINE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN KITTY CLOVER AT SCHOOL, AND HER "DEAR, DEAR FRIEND" IN TOWN.

EDITED BY HORACE MATHEW.

THE SECOND LETTER LEFT.

(_Dated February 11th._)

SHOWING HOW KITTY FARED (OR SCARCELY FARED AT ALL) THE FIRST DAY AT
SCHOOL, AND THE DREADFUL DISASTER THAT BEFELL HER.

Oh! my dear Nelly, I'm in such a mess, and can't think how I am to get out of it. I would run away, only I don't know where to run to: and, besides, all the doors are fast; and more than that, I feel ma would only bring me back again if I were to get away. Only think of that shabby Mrs. ---- (you know whom I mean) opening all the letters; and I never knew this until my letter was in her bag. Mrs. Sharpe (who has promised to give this to some one who will drop it in the post on the sly for me) says every word we write home, and every word we receive from home, is pried into, and very often kept back if it does not exactly please the Lady Principal! A pretty lady! I wonder she isn't ashamed of herself! A nice example to set us young girls--actually teaching as to go a peeping into other persons' secrets! Meggy (that's Miss Sharpe's name) says she intends speaking to her papa about it. He is a Scotch lawyer; and she has often heard him say that there's a fine of 100_l._ for any one who breaks a seal upon trust papers! What fun it would be if we could make the Lady Principal pay 100_l._! I'm sure it would only serve her right.

The beauty of it is, Nelly, she says she only looks at the signatures of the letters that come here, to see if they are from proper persons. This is very likely! How, then, _does she know all that is going on in the girls' homes, if she never reads their letters_? I've no patience with her! I'm sure that I shall never be able to look the mean creature in the face again.

Now, Nelly, I must tell you all about the young ladies; for I may not have another opportunity, dearest, of smuggling out a letter.

Well, then, when we went to breakfast, Mrs. Rodwell was seated on a sort of raised throne at the end of the table, and all the girls walked up to her to courtesy, and "_souhaiter le bon jour, Madame_," and show her--this is a positive fact, dearest--their teeth and nails! Meggy told me this was to teach us to keep them sharp and in good fighting condition, as _woman's natural weapons_; but she was only laughing at me, for I learnt afterwards it was to see that they were properly cleaned every morning. But I think the practice might well be dispensed with, as not being over and above complimentary to young ladies!

When my turn came, I was preparing to show my teeth in real earnest--for I felt both indignant and ashamed of such treatment--when she took me kindly by the hand, and instantly, at that touch of kindness, my mouth shut of its own accord. She asked me how I had slept, and introduced me to Miss Plodder, who, she said would cheer my spirits and make me feel more at home. She is such a fat, round, little sleepy, and looks as stupid, too, as she is fat! If my spirits have to wait for Miss Plodder to cheer them, I'm afraid they'll have to wait long enough.

Well, my own darling Nell knows I am not dainty, and that I should think it wicked to be fanciful over good food; but I never did see such thick slices of bread, smeared over with what they called butter. I have not been so petted at home as to quarrel at any time with my bread and butter; but, on my word, I should as soon have thought of munching a deal board, as taking up one of the long slices--planks, rather--that were piled up, as in a timber yard, before me; and yet, to see the poor hungry girls! If it had been wedding-cake, they could not have devoured it more greedily!

I thought of the dear delicious hot rolls, soaked through and through with the best Fresh (at sixteen pence a pound) that I had been in the habit of having every morning for breakfast, and sighed that I was not at home.

Meggy asked me which I liked best, "_hay or beans?_" Before I could answer that I had never tasted either, the Lady Principal inquired "if I took cocoa or coffee?" A basin of the latter was brought to me, but unless I had been told it was coffee, I'm sure I should never have guessed it. It looked more like water taken from the Regent's-canal. Meggy whispered into my ear, "Hay's best;" and seeing me puzzled, she explained, shortly afterwards, that, in their school dictionary, hay meant cocoa, and that beans was the English for coffee, from a popular belief, which she said "was extremely well grounded" (in their coffee cups), that "those agricultural commodities formed the principal ingredients of their matutinal beverages."

Meggy Sharpe is such a nice girl, so clever, and so full of fun, and such large bright, black eyes, and a face laughing all over with mischief, it puts one in good-humor merely to look at it. I feel I shall love her very much, but not so much as you, dearest Nelly.

After breakfast, she told Miss Plodder that she would "take care of me, and introduce me to the Elders." Then bidding me not to be afraid, she led me by the hand to a group of tall young ladies, and in a set speech, delivered in a mock tone, such as I've heard my brothers imitate Mr. John Cooper in, "begged to present a humble candidate to their friendship and favor." The tallest, a Miss Noble, who seemed the head girl, and as stiff as a backboard, made me welcome, and then began questioning me in the following manner: "Did I live in London?--at the Westend, of course?--perhaps in Belgrave-square? No! then near Hyde Park? No! then in one of the squares? Yes! Well, some of the squares were still respectable. In which of the squares did I live, pray?"

I mumbled out, as well as I could, "Torrington-square."

"Oh! hem! where was Torrington-square?" continued my tormentor. "Near the city, was it not? No!--what, near Russell-square and Gower-street? Gower-street! Well, really, she knew nothing of those parts of the town."

I was next asked, "Whether my mamma went to court?"

"No," I answered, in my ignorance; "but papa does sometimes, and takes his blue bag with him when he has law business." This gave rise to shouts of laughter, and long exclamations of "Dear, dear!" whilst looks of pity were showered down upon me.

"I mean," continued Miss Noble, "her Majesty's receptions. My mamma goes to court; and I am to be presented myself by the Grand Duchess of Mechlenburgh-Sedlitz immediately on my leaving college;" and she tossed her head up to the ceiling, until I thought it would never come down again.

"How did you come last night?" resumed Miss Noble. "In the omnibus," cried out wicked Meggy, who immediately ran away.

"No; I know how she came," said another beauty, "for I was in the drawing-room at the time, and looked out of the window; she came in a clarence _with one horse_." And they all tittered again, and I felt my cheeks growing red, though why I should be ashamed of mamma's pretty clarence I don't know, even though it has but _one_ horse.

I was next asked, "Whether my paternal (meaning papa, I suppose) lived at home?" "Of course," I answered; "where should he live?" "Why some people have an establishment in the city, and a family in a square. The shop (and they tittered again) must not be neglected." "Do not be rude, Miss Ogle," interrupted Miss Noble, affecting to be very serious; "personalities are extremely rude; and, besides, Miss Clover's father may not live in a shop. Tell us, dear, what profession are you in?" "I--I'm in no profession," I said, trembling lest I should be laughed at again. "Dear! what beautiful simplicity!" said the court lady, lifting her hands up; "not you--your father, child." "Oh! papa is a stockbroker." "A what? A stockbroker! Pray, what's that?" "I know," said the young lady who had told about the clarence with one horse; "it's a trade; for I hear papa talk of desiring his stockbroker to buy and sell; and I am certain, now I think of it, that they deal in _bears and ducks_." "No such thing," exclaimed a little girl with a turn-up nose; "they sell old stocks, such as bankrupts' stocks, or retiring haberdashers' stocks; they're a sort of old-clothesmen." "At any rate, they are not professional, and therefore must be in trade," decided proud Miss Noble; and they all turned away from me, with sneers and contempt. "It's no such thing," I burst out; "my papa is a gentleman--a real gentleman--and he's quite as good, if not better, than any of your papas, though you are so proud; and I sha'n't answer any more of your rude questions." "That's right," laughed Meggy; "that's the way to disappoint them. Don't tell 'em anything."

You should have heard, too, Nelly, their curiosity about my brothers, making me describe them over and over again--their eyes, whiskers, noses, and calling them by their names, Oscar, Alfred, Augustus, Henry, as if they had known them for years. The impudent girl, with the turn-up nose, actually said she felt she could madly love Oscar; and I couldn't help replying, "You need not trouble yourself, Miss; he'll never ask you." Silly thing! I'm sure Oscar wouldn't as much as look at her--not even in church.

But the greatest shame has yet to come. You can never believe what I am going to tell you, Nelly, although you know I scorn fibbing.

Class had just broken up, when a maid came in carrying a large tray; and only imagine my confusion when I saw laid out on it all my cakes and goodies! Miss Bright (the quiet teacher who had brought me into the schoolroom) called me, and I was going to ask for permission to put them into my play-trunk, when--think of my surprise, Nelly!--if she did not actually seize _my plum-cake, and begin cutting it up into thin slices_! At first I was so shocked that I could not speak; and I was about to stop her, when she cut some large slices, and desired me "to hand them to the governesses, and then take the dish round to each young lady." I am afraid I looked vexed, and, in truth, I was nearly choking with passion; and I am sure you would have done the same, Nelly, for you would have seen no joke in treating girls to your goodies, after they had been making fun of you, and turning your papa and mamma into ridicule. But this was not all; for one rude thing, upon ascertaining from me that mamma made it, said, in a voice running over with vinegar, "I thought so, for she has forgotten the plums." Then my oranges were cut into quarters, and I had to hand them round also (_the governesses had halves!_) until all was gone, and I had only two pieces myself as a favor. Now, don't think me greedy, Nelly--you know I don't care for feasting, only I do not like to be forced to be generous, and to give to all alike, whether I like them or not--offering as much to that proud Miss Noble (who is not too proud, however, to eat another girl's cake) as to dear Meggy. I dare say it is very pleasant when it's not your own--"share and share alike" is all very fine; but I should like to know when their goodies are coming? As I am the last girl entering this term, I suppose it won't be before next half-year? And I mean to say, Nelly, it is most heart-rending--putting insult on the top of cruelty--to force you to help the governesses, and to _double shares, too_, whilst I'm sure my slice broke all to pieces, it was so miserably thin.

Oh, dear, there's Mrs. Rodwell. If she catches me writing, I shall be found out; so, my own darling Nelly, I must say good-by. Mind you write soon, and tell me all about dear S. Has he asked after me? and often? Is he pale? Tell him not to forget your devoted, true-hearted

KITTY CLOVER.

* * * * *

P. S.--Oh! Nelly, I have had such a fright; my heart is jumping up and down like a canary in a cage when the cat's underneath it. Only think of the Lady Principal's coming up to my desk. I made sure it was to ask me for this letter, and I determined in my mind to swallow it sooner than let her read it. But, thank goodness! it was only to say she had not opened my last letter to you, as it was sealed; but, for the future, she would close them herself, after looking over their contents. Much obliged! Catch me giving her any other than my own compositions. So, darling, we are safe; but isn't that lucky?

P. S.--I'm sure you'll never be able to read this scrawl. Why didn't you answer my last?

ANECDOTE OF BYRON.

"I heard an anecdote that evening of the poet, which was very characteristic, and quite new to me. When at Pisa, his lordship found it difficult to keep up his practice with the pistol on account of the objections of his neighbors and the municipal regulations of the place. He, therefore, by the aid of a small gratuity, obtained permission from a farmer in the vicinity to shoot at a mark in his paddock. On the occasion of his first visit to the premises, the peasant's daughter, a very pretty _contadina_, accosted the bard after the genial manner of her country. She wore in her bosom a freshly-plucked rose with two buds attached to the stein. Byron sportively asked her to give him the flower. She hesitated, and blushed. He instantly turned to his companion and rehearsed in English a very natural tale of humble and virtuous love, bitterly contrasting the apparent loyalty of this fair rustic with women in high life. Then, with perfect seriousness, he again asked for the rose as a token of sympathy for an unloved exile. His manner and words moved the girl to tears. She handed him the rose with a look of compassion, and silently withdrew. The incident aroused his latent superstition. He was lost in a reverie for several minutes, and then inquired of his friend if he remembered that Rousseau confessed throwing stones at a tree to test the prospects of his future happiness. The flower was devoted to a similar ordeal. It was carefully attached to an adjacent pale, and Byron having withdrawn several paces, declared his intention of severing one of the buds from the stalk at one fire. He looked very carefully to his priming, and aimed with great firmness and deliberation. The ball cut the bud neatly off, and just grazed the leaves of the rose. A bright smile illumined the poet's countenance, and he rode back to Pisa in a flow of spirits."

CELESTIAL PHENOMENA.

BY D. W. BELISLE.

ORION.--Whoever learns this constellation can never forget the brilliant lesson. It is too clearly defined and magnificently beautiful to pass from the memory. It is distinguished by four bright stars, which form a parallelogram: Betelguese, a star of great brilliancy, and of the first magnitude, in the right shoulder, Bellatrix in the left, 7½° east of Betelguese, are called the "epaulets of Orion." Rigel, a star of the first magnitude, marks the left foot, and is 15° south of Bellatrix. Eight and a half degrees east of Rigel is Saiph, forming the lower end of the parallelogram.

"First in rank
The martial star upon his shoulder flames:
A rival star illuminates his foot;
And on his girdle beams a luminary
Which, in the vicinity of other stars,
Might claim the proudest honors."

Three bright stars lie in a straight line near the middle of the square, and are known by the name of the "Three Kings," or the "Ell," or "Yard." In sacred history, they are usually termed the "bands of Orion;" they are also known as the "belt" of Orion. The space they occupy is three degrees, and a straight line passing through them, points to the Pleiades on one side and Sirius on the other. There is a row of small stars running down obliquely from the belt, called the "sword of Orion." In the middle of this row is one of the most remarkable nebulæ in the heavens. With a good telescope, in the centre an apparent opening is discovered, through which, as through a window, we seem to get a glimpse of other heavens and brighter regions beyond. How little man appears, with all his pride of pomp and splendor, in contemplating this immeasurable expanse, and with awe we are led to exclaim, "What is man, that _Thou_ art mindful of him?"

About 9° west of Bellatrix are eight stars of the fourth magnitude, in a curved line that marks the lion's skin, which Orion used as a shield in his left hand. Rheita asserts there are 2,000 stars in this constellation, although but 78 are visible to the naked eye. Galileo found 80 in the belt, 21 in a nebulous star in the head, and about 500 in another part within the space of four degrees. This constellation comes to the meridian the 21st of January.

According to some Greek authorities, Orion was a son of Neptune and Euryale, a famous Amazonian huntress, and inheriting the disposition of his mother, became the most famous hunter in the world, and boasted that there was not an animal on earth which he could not conquer. To punish this vanity, a scorpion sprang out of the earth and bit him, so that he died of the poison, and, at the request of Diana, he was placed among the stars opposite the scorpion that caused his death. Others say that he was the gift of the gods to a peasant of Bœotia as a reward for piety, and that he far surpassed other mortals in strength and stature.

"When chilling winter spreads his azure skies,
Behold Orion's giant form arise;
His golden girdle glitters on the sight,
And the broad falchion beams in splendor bright;
A lion's brindled hide his bosom shields,
And his right hand a ponderous weapon wields!"

LEPUS--_The Hare._--This constellation is situated south of Orion, and comes to the meridian on the 24th of January. It may readily be distinguished by means of four stars of the third magnitude, which form an irregular square or trapezium. Three small stars curve along the back, while four minute ones mark the ears, and are 5° south of Rigel, whose brilliancy obscures their lesser light. The Greeks assert this animal was one which Orion delighted in hunting, therefore it was placed near him in the sky.

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COLUMBIA--_Noah's Dove._--Continuing a straight line from the Hare 16° south, it comes to Phaet, a star of the second magnitude, in the Dove. This star is also on the meridian at the same time with that in the belt of Orion, and with Sirius and Naos makes an equilateral triangle. This constellation is so called in commemoration of the dove Noah sent out "to see if the waters were abated from off the face of the ground," after the ark had rested on Ararat. "And the dove came in to him, in the evening, and lo! in her mouth was an olive leaf!"

"The sure messenger,
A dove went forth once, and again, to spy
Green tree or ground whereon his foot may light;
The second time returning, in his bill
An olive leaf he brings, pacific sign!"

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ERIDANUS.--This constellation is composed of 84 stars, of which one is of the first magnitude, one of the second, and eleven of the third. The others are very minute stars, and the constellation is exceedingly difficult to trace in the heavens. Achernar is a star of great brilliancy and beauty, but it cannot be seen in our latitude, having a southern declination of 58°. West of Rigel are four stars of the fourth magnitude, and five of the fifth, arching up in a semicircular form, marking the first bend of the northern stream, while 19° west of Rigel glitters a bright star of the second magnitude, called Gamma. This star is on the meridian thirteen minutes after the Pleiades. The entire length of Eridanus is 130°, and as the other stars which compose it are very minute, it is not desirable to trace them.

The Latin poets have rendered this river (which is in Cisalpine Gaul, and also called Padus, and by moderns, Po) memorable by its connection with the beautiful fable of Phaeton, a favorite of Venus, who intrusted him with the care of one of her temples. Vain of the favor of the goddess, he obtained an oath from his father, Phœbus, that he would grant him any request he should make. The charioteer of the skies had no sooner uttered the oath than

"The youth, transported, asks without delay,
To guide the Sun's bright chariot for a day;
The god repented of the oath he took,
For anguish thrice his radiant head he shook;
'My son,' says he, 'some other proof require--
Rash was my promise, rash was thy desire;
Not Jove himself, the ruler of the sky,
That hurls the three-forked thunder from above,
Dares try his strength; yet who as strong as Jove?
Besides, consider what impetuous force
Turns stars and planets in a different course:
I steer against their motions; nor am I
Borne back by all the currents of the sky;
But how could you resist the orbs that roll
In adverse whirls, and stem the rapid pole!'"

Phœbus pleaded with his son in vain. Phaeton undertook the aerial journey, and no sooner had he received the reins than he forgot the explicit directions of his father, and betrayed his ignorance of the manner of guiding the chariot. The flying coursers became sensible of the confusion of their driver, and immediately departed from the usual track. Too late Phaeton saw his rashness, and already heaven and earth were threatened with destruction as the penalty, when Jupiter, perceiving the disorder of the horses, struck the driver with a thunderbolt, and he fell headlong into the river Eridanus--

"At once from life, and from the chariot driven,
The ambitious boy fell thunderstruck from heaven."

In Ethiopian and Libyan mythology, it is asserted that the great heat produced by the sun's deviation from his usual course dried up the blood of the Ethiopians, and turned their skins black, and produced sterility and barrenness over the greater part of Libya. Evidently this fable alludes to some extraordinary heats at a remote period, and of which this confused tradition is all the account that has descended to later times.

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CAMELOPARDALUS.--This constellation is of modern origin, and the stars--the largest being of the fourth magnitude--are too unimportant and scattered to invite attention. It occupies the space between the head of the Lynx and the pole, containing 58 minute stars.

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AURIGA.--This brilliant constellation is readily distinguished by the most beautiful star which lies between Orion and the polar star. This star is called Capella, and marks the position of the Goat, as well as the heart of Auriga, and with Menkalina in the right shoulder, and Auriga or El Nath in the right foot, which also forms the top of the northern horn of the Bull, forms a beautiful triangle. Capella and Menkalina in the shoulders, have the same distance between them, and are of the same size and brilliancy as Betelguese and Bellatrix in Orion, being 7½° apart, and the four form a long, narrow parallelogram, lying north and south, and it is a curious coincidence that its length is precisely five times its breadth. Auriga, Capella, and Menkalina, together with a star of the fourth magnitude in the head, marked Delta, make an elongated diamond. There can be no more exciting, rational, or pleasant pastime than that of forming different objects by various arrangements of the stars. Select any portion of the heavens, and squares, angles, curves, crosses, and diamonds are visible, and no shape can hardly be conceived that its counterpart might not be traced in the starry firmament above. Those who have never spent an hour thus pleasantly employed, are not aware of the pleasure to be found in contemplating the "stars, which are the poetry of heaven."

"Seest thou the orbs that numerous roll above?
Those lamps that nightly greet thy visual powers
Are each a bright capacious world like ours!"

Mythology is at fault as to the origin of this constellation, and all the most ancient authors are indefinite about its history. Its origin is known to be very ancient, but nothing well authenticated has descended to us as to the period or the character from which it took its rise.

"The blue, deep, glorious heavens! I lift mine eyes
And bless thee, O my God! that I have met
And owned thy image in the majesty
Of their calm temple, still! that never yet
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night!
I bless thee, O my God!"

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GEMINI.--This constellation is remarkable from the singularity of one of its most brilliant stars, Castor, which, on looking through a telescope, resolves into two distinct stars, one of which is very small, and revolves around the larger one once in a period of 342 years and two months. Four and a half degrees south-west of Castor may be seen Pollux, a star of equal brilliancy. This constellation comes to its meridian the 24th of February. It takes its rise from Castor and Pollux, sons of Jupiter and Leda, Queen of Sparta, who were translated to a place in the heavens by Jupiter, as a reward for their courage and bravery.

"Fair Leda's twins in time to stars decreed;
One fought on foot, and one renowned for horse."

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CANIS MINOR.--This is a small constellation, containing only fourteen stars, of which two are of great brilliancy. Procyon, a star of the first magnitude, is situated twenty-three degrees south of Pollux, and twenty-six degrees east of Betelguese, and forms with them a large right-angled triangle. Procyon comes to the meridian the 24th of February. According to Greek mythology, this is one of Orion's hounds. The Egyptians, however, claim its origin from their god Anubis, whom they worshipped under the form of a dog's head. Probably the Egyptians were the inventors of the idea, as the constellation rises a little before Sirius, which, at a particular season, they always dreaded; therefore they represented it as a watchful creature, that warned them of the approach of danger. Moderns have asserted it to be one of Actæon's hounds, that devoured their master after he had been transformed into a stag by Diana, to prevent his betraying her. This is evidently an error, as there is no proof to sustain it.

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CANIS MAJOR.--This interesting constellation is situated south-east of Orion, and is universally known by the brilliancy of its principal star, Sirius, which is the largest and brightest in the heavens. In our hemisphere, during the winter months, it glows with a lustre unequalled by any other star in the firmament. It is also the nearest star to the earth, yet the distance between Sirius and us is so great that sound, travelling thirteen miles a minute, would be three millions of years in traversing the mighty space. And a ray of light, which moves at the rate of 200,000 miles per second, would be three years and eighty-two days in passing through the vast space that lies between Sirius and the earth. If the nearest star to the earth gives such results, what must those give situated a thousand times as far beyond, where worlds, surrounded by their satellites, roll in their orbits away in the immensity of space, each revolving around its own sun, while, millions of miles beyond, stars, like our own, greet their visual organs, and inspire as great an interest to the inhabitants of that world as those do to us which we discover by the aid of our powerful telescopes?

The Thebans determine the length of the year by Sirius, and the Egyptians dreaded its approach, as, at its rising, commenced the inundation of the Nile, teeming with malaria and death.

"Parched was the grass, and blighted was the corn,
Nor 'scape the beasts; for Sirius, from on high,
With pestilential heat infects the sky."

The Romans, also, were accustomed yearly to propitiate Sirius by the sacrifice of a dog.

INGENUITY OF BEES.