The second of these was received with especial applause—not forgetting to mention the brilliant sparkle of Grandfather Gordon’s eyes at this original mode of bringing his pet, Bennie, into notice; while the third particularly attracted the laughter and approval of a group around the centre-table, consisting of Mrs. Gordon, the mother of Harry, Amy Carter, her niece, and Mrs. Clinton, her sister. Amy is an orphan, and has been so from infancy. But the tenderness of her grand-parents, with whom she has always resided, has shielded her from the evils of orphanage. She is a blithe, happy-hearted girl of seventeen, the very soul of mirth and music. She is grandma’s especial darling; and the dear old lady never gazes into that lovely, sunny face, never hears that sweet voice warbling its merry carols, but she thinks of her own bright youth, and says, with complacent fondness of her treasured grandchild, “She is just what _I_ was at her age.” It is Grandfather Gordon’s firmly expressed opinion that Amy, more than any other member of their household, resembles his wife as he first knew her. Cousin Harry calls his favorite Amy the Household Witch, because she has managed to wind herself so closely about the hearts of all her relatives, that every eye invariably brightens as her light footstep is heard approaching. But this evening Amy seems for once herself to have been bewitched, for she has found an absorbing object of interest in a spirited volume now lying open before her, entitled, “Greenwood Leaves,” by Grace Greenwood. Amy Carter has long felt an appreciation of the authoress, and to-night is not the first time that, with all the fervor of a young, warm, generous heart, she has wished her God speed in her journeys through Authorland. Mrs. Clinton, who sits close beside her, with one of Amy’s hands resting lovingly in hers, appears to be equally interested in a splendidly bound and illustrated volume of Mrs. Osgood’s poems. She has just finished reading to her sister, Mrs. Gordon, a brief essay upon the productions of her favorite poetess, cut and preserved from a popular newspaper, and from which the ensuing is an extract. “The poems of Mrs. Osgood are not a laborious balancing of syllables, but a spontaneous gushing forth of thoughts, fancies, and feelings, which fall naturally into harmonious measures; and so perfectly is the sense echoed in the sound, that it seems as if many of her compositions might be intelligibly written in the characters of music. In all her poems we find occasion to admire the author as well as the works. Her spontaneous and instinctive effusions appear in a higher degree than any others in our literature, to combine the rarest and highest capacities in art with the sincerest and deepest sentiments, and the noblest aspirations. They would convince us, if the beauty of her life were otherwise unknown, that Mrs. Osgood is one of the loveliest characters in the histories of literature or society.”