“But you see, May, I have particular reasons for not wishing to be known as the author—and this poor young man feeling much chafed by the treatment he has received, and which is perfectly natural you know—” “Certainly, papa—the school-master is very sensitive. Mercy, if you only knew—” “Well, no matter now—and feeling as I said, greatly incensed, he threatens to expose me. You can save me May—your hand will make all secure.” “Very well, dear papa—Mr. Warren has always been kind to me in school, and I like him very well—I do papa, and so to oblige you I will do as you wish,” said the arch maiden. Taking her hand, her father now led her up to Harry, and placed it within that of the enraptured lover. And May, dropping a little courtesy, very gravely assured him that she would endeavor to make as obedient a wife as she had a pupil. Madam Rumor is a prying gossip. How she found out the secret was never known—but away she went gadding from house to house, whispering the school-master had obtained his charming young wife by fathering the literary bantling of the learned Mr. Lillie! * * * * * THE NEW SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS. A BUCOLIC. BY E. FOXTON. When with glances far and free My Spirit stood at Childhood’s knee, And gazed and smiled with careless glee, To see the fateful spinsters three Draw deftly out from carded naught Its first soft rainbow thread of thought, My playmate true, delight and joy, Was a tiny wingéd boy. Nightly nestled in my breast, His legends lulled me to my rest; Thence his voice awakening gay Trilled back the early linnet’s lay; In the bird’s nest, in the tree, By the purling rill sat he; From wind-rocked blue-bells flashed his eye; He floated round the butterfly; His little golden head rose up In the water-lily’s cup; His saucy breath, with nectar fed, Puffed at me from the violet’s bed. Half in sport and half caress; Oh, dear artless Happiness! Womanhood one day me found, And my brows with roses crowned. In a naiad’s glass I saw, Pleased, my graces touched with awe; And “These royal flowers shall be Forged to links, my boy, for thee,” So I said. From morn till eve Through my haunts the shepherds grieve; But the urchin bursts amain Shouting from my bloomy chain, Bursts and leaves me all forlorn, Pricked and bleeding with a thorn. “Why thus wrong my gentleness, Light, inconstant Happiness!”