“Poor naked wretches, whereso’er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these?” G. R. G. * * * * * A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES. BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ. (_Continued from page 11._) FIRST LOVE. The poor little girl by my side made no struggle to quit me, no effort to return to her mother, but ran along holding my hand, with perfect docility and confidence, weeping bitterly, it is true, and never uttering a word. It was a strange situation for a boy of twelve years of age, and yet I felt a certain sort of pride in it—in the trust which was reposed in me—in the right, and, as I fancied, the power of protecting. I would have fought for that little girl to the death, if any one had attempted to molest her; and although I had never at that time heard of paladins and knights-errant, I was quite as valiant in my own opinion as any one of them ever was. I was not very hard-hearted at that time—youth seldom is—and I felt greatly moved by the poor child’s grief. After we had gone about a mile, at a very quick pace, I began to slacken my speed, and to try and comfort my little companion. At first she appeared inconsolable, but by trying hard, I at length made some impression—won her mind away from the terrors and sorrows of her situation, and got her to speak a word or two in reply to my question. She told me that her name was Mariette, and that she had walked some way that day—that her mother had rushed into the room where she was playing, all covered with blood, as I had seen her just before—had caught her up in her arms, and rushed out of a château where they lived, by a back way, plunging at once into the wood. They had then walked a long distance, she said, her mother sometimes carrying her, sometimes letting her run by her side; and I could perceive that, delicately nurtured and unaccustomed to hard exercise, the poor little thing was already considerably tired. I was a strong, big boy, and so without more ado, I took her up in my arms and carried her. After some way, I put her down again, and she walked on refreshed, and then I carried her again, and then we sat down upon a bank and rested; and I got her water from the stream in the hollow of my hand, and tried to amuse her by telling her stories. But I never was a good story-teller in all my life, and I did not succeed very well. All this occupied time, however, and when we arrived within half a mile of the town, light was fading fast. This alarmed me; not that I had any fear of darkness, but it was good Jeanette’s custom, in the gray of the evening to walk out through our