Beautiful girl, ’tis a weary year Since thy sweet voice fell on my ravished ear. ’Tis a long, long year of light and gloom Since I gazed on thy young cheek’s lovely bloom— Yet thy gentle tones of music still Through the holiest depths of memory thrill Like tones of a fount, or breeze, or bird, In the long gone years of childhood heard. And oft in my dark and lonely moods, When a demon-wing o’er my spirit broods, Thine image seems on my soul to break Like the sweet young moon o’er a gloomy lake, Filling its depths as the shadows flee, With beauty and love and melody. Beautiful girl, thou art far away, And I know not where thy steps now stray; But oh! ’tis sweet, it is very sweet, In the fairy realms of dreams to greet Thy cheek of roses, thy brow of pearl, And thy voice of music, beautiful girl. * * * * * PICTURE OF CHILDHOOD. BY WM. ALEXANDER. Forth issuing from a craggy mountain’s side, A stream is seen. Anon, with gilded prow And silvery oars, a bark appears to glide, Bearing a happy infant, on whose brow, Pictured are Joy and Wonder. Onward still Over the widening stream’s wild waves, eke, skims It merrily. The tiny steersman hymns His roundelay of Joy, or at his will, Plucks the gay flowers of early morn, Which diamond dew-drops, silver-like, adorn— Unmindful that such pleasures fade away, That youth, and love, and beauty soon decay— Life is a launch—we voyage to the grave, We venture on, unthoughtful of the whelming wave. * * * * * MINNIE DE LA CROIX: OR THE CROWN OF JEWELS. BY ANGELE DE V. HULL. (_Concluded from page 304._) “Lord bless us, my children! what a noise,” cried Mr. de la Croix on the morrow as he entered the store-room. “I am deaf! give me some claret and water some of you! I am thirsty enough to swallow bottle and all. I have had lamps fastened to every other tree in the avenue and every column around the piazza.” Minnie brought him the iced wine and ran off to work again. She was beating eggs for a mayonnaise, and directing the servant behind her in chopping celery and chicken for salad. Lisa was standing on a table pouring from an immense bowl a stream of icing over a pyramid of cake that stood in a salver on the floor. Rose was frothing eggs for something else, Kate was churning syllabub, and Blanche was pounding almonds.