The bird released, on eager wing Soared upward to the skies; A second arrow reached his breast— He fell—no more to rise! Beauty looked sore dismayed, to see Her snare thus incomplete. When gallant Wit the trophy raised, And laid it at her feet. “Could we but journey hand in hand,” He said to Beauty, smiling, “No prey could e’er escape my shaft, Who saw your charms beguiling. “But since the stern decrees of fate Our union thus opposes, And you so oft my arrows blunt, Beneath a weight of roses; “Remember, Beauty’s charms will fade, Despite each fond endeavor, And strong, _well tempered_ shafts of wit Her chains will often sever.” * * * * * PATRICK O’BRIEN. A TALE OF HUMBLE LIFE. BY H. HASTINGS WELD. THE father of Ellen O’Brien was a small farmer, whose situation when the child began to think at all, seemed to her the realization of all that is happy, and all that is cheerful in this world. Children do think very early; much earlier than their elders suspect. But happily for them they are easily contented. They look at the bright side, and unconscious of the superior advantages, and the greater comforts of others, have no temptation to discontented comparisons, and no motive for uneasy envy. Ellen’s earliest memory of marked and positive happiness—that is to say, of an incident which conferred particular pleasure, was connected with a child—a _very_ small child. She remembered how her father told her to “make a lap, now,” and placed the wee thing upon the knees which she prepared with much ado to receive it. She was told that this was her little brother, her own little brother; and she hugged it in troubled happiness, almost afraid to touch, lest she should hurt it. She gazed upon it with that undefined feeling of mingled awe and pleasure with which little children regard less children. She looked at its fragile hands and wondered, if she took them in hers, whether they would fade or drop to pieces, like the delicate blossoms which she had often killed with kindness. And when it cried—oh, but she was astonished! That such a little thing should be so ungrateful while she coddled and cared for it, and nursed it ever so tenderly, was more than she could well endure. She thought it well deserved, and ought to have a whipping, only that a whipping might _hurt_ it—and that she would not consent to.