But why repeat these woes that are the lot of all?—Who is there that has learned the value of the baubles that entice us _here_—Wealth! Fame! Power! or sublunary Love!—but will join in the secret aspiration with which I left the silent resting-place of a perturbed spirit—“Take! oh! Take me home!” * * * * * WESTERN HOSPITALITY. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. Hard by I’ve a cottage that stands near a wood, A stream glides in peace at the door, Where all who are weary, ’tis well understood, Receive hospitality’s store. To cheer that the brook and the thicket afford, The stranger we freely invite: You’re welcome to come and partake at the board, And afterwards rest for the night. The birds in the morning will sing from the trees, And herald the young god of day; Then with him uprising, depart if you please, We’ll set you refresh’d on your way. Your coin for this service we sternly reject, No traffic for gain we pursue, And all the reward that we wish or expect, We take in the good that we do. Mankind are all travellers on life’s rugged road, And myriads would wander astray In seeking eternity’s silent abode Did mercy not point out the way. If all would their duty discharge as they should, To those that are helpless and poor, The world would resemble my cot near the wood, And life the sweet stream at my door. * * * * * THE LADY AND THE PAGE. A STORY OF MOORISH SPAIN. BY MARY S. PEASE. Many years ago there dwelt, not far from Seville, in a castle so old it was a wonder what kept it from tumbling down, a Spanish hidalgo, remarkable for but two things—a very beautiful daughter, and the very strict manner in which he secluded her from the world. In every other respect this hidalgo was like other hidalgos, full of pride, sporting a pair of Spanish mustachios, and wearing a stiletto by his side.