At present, there is a beautiful cottage situated a few miles out of London, in the suburbs. There is a pleasant garden connected with it, and it seems the abode of peace and happiness. This is the residence of the eminent artist, Arthur Elliott, and his happy wife. There are few households to whom it has fallen to enjoy such unalloyed happiness as theirs. They have not forgotten the author of their prosperity. In the library of Sir Francis Sedley there hangs a beautiful picture,—a perfect gem of art,—on the back of which is traced, in delicate characters,— “Arthur Elliott to his Benefactor.” THE CHILD OF THE STREET. Through the silent thoroughfares Of a city rich and great, Shivering in the pitiless blast, Walked a poor child, desolate. Bright and cold the stars looked down, Glittering in a field of blue; But they brought no warmth to her Whom the winds pierced through and through. Hugging tight her ragged shawl, On she hies with hurried feet, Gliding like a phantom form Through the darkness-shrouded street. Cheerful homes are very near; Happy firesides hem her in; And she hears from many a window Careless childhood’s merry din. No warm fireside her awaiteth; On no couch her limbs shall lie: For the cold street is _her_ dwelling; And _her_ chamber’s roof, the sky. Fiercely blows the northern blast, Penetrating every fold Of her thin shawl; and she whispers, Shivering, “I am very cold!” Hark! the bells with brazen clangor, Rising every moment higher, Peal upon the startled city The terrific cry of “Fire!” O’er the child’s face, wan and weary, Comes a quick flush of delight, As she marks a lofty steeple Wreathed in spires of lurid light. Onward with the hurrying crowd Pressed the child through wind and storm, With one thought to cheer her bosom,— She would once again be warm. _Once again!_ Through every fibre Creeps a warm, reviving glow, As with outstretched hands the maiden Standeth in the street below. Little reck the gallant firemen, As their saving task they ply, Of the poor child who is standing Where the burning cinders lie. “Stand from under! stand from under!” Rises high the voice of all, As the swaying steeple totters, Slowly totters, to its fall. One there was that did not heed it, One there was that did not stir, Till too late! The blazing rafters In their fall enveloped _her_. Child of want and heir of sorrow, Chill and famished, weak and faint, Thou hast passed from out the shadow; Thou _no more_ art desolate. LOST AND FOUND. I.