The consequence was, that he, dreading the _tête-à-tête_ domestic, confined his attention to his monetary affairs. Retirement with an unlovable and moreover intolerably suspicious companion as Mrs. L., or, as she signed herself, Sappho, was out of the question; so he determined to stick to the counting-house. And now a great idea filled his brain almost to monomania, which was, to make his one hundred thousand _two_. Once conceived, every thought and action was merged in that one absorbing idea. Heedless of the domestic tornadoes that ever and anon swept over his devoted head, he slaved, fretted, lied, I think I may venture to say, cheated, but honorably, and in the way of business, until after a few years of health-destroying worry, he beheld himself within sight of the desired haven. But five thousand more, and the sum would be accomplished; one stroke of luck—one piece of indifferent fortune, and he would then be really content. Worn out by constant exertion, he fell dangerously sick. During his illness, news arrived which brought him within a few hundreds of his desired maximum. Notwithstanding his bad health, and in opposition to all remonstrance, he called for his books, and with weak hand, and weaker brain, attempted to calculate. After many hours labor, altogether unaware that he was thus unprofitably expending his last flickering of life, he gave a long sorrowful sigh, and gasping forth, “Not enough! not enough!” expired. Not many days after, a few feet of earth were sufficient for THE MAN WHO NEVER HAD ENOUGH. B. * * * * * MY BIRD HAS FLOWN. BY MRS. E. W. CASWELL. [Written on reading “My Bird,” by Fanny Forester.] My bird has flown, my gentle bird! Four autumn suns gone by, She left, to cheer our loneliness, Her own dear native sky. With love, the precious treasure came; I drew her to my breast, Gazed in her heaven-lit eye of blue, And felt—how richly blest! She grew in beauty day by day, More dear each passing hour, Until we came to feel our bird Would never leave our bower. The rich, wild sweetness of her song, Rung on the morning air, And mildly, on the evening breeze, It told the hour of prayer. We thought when darkness frowned above, And wint’ry winds went by— ’Twould still be summer _in our home_, And sunshine _on our sky_.