I woke and heard the thrushes sing at dawn,-- A strangely blissful burst of melody, A chant of rare, exultant certainty, Fragrant, as springtime breaths, of wood and lawn. Night's eastern curtains still were closely drawn; No roseate flush predicted pomps to be, Or spoke of morning loveliness to me. But for those happy birds the night was gone! Darkling they sang, nor guessed what care consumes Man's questioning spirit; heedless of decay, They sang of joy and dew-embalmed blooms. My doubts grew still, doubts seemed so poor while they, Sweet worshippers of light, from leafy glooms Poured forth transporting prophecies of Day. FLORENCE EARLE COATES. NOS PENSIONS. They have been many and of a widely various character. We tried them in England, in France, in Italy; we tried them likewise in Germany, Sweden, and Spain, but the result of that trying was, in these last-named countries, far more trying to our digestions and tempers than rich in such recollections as would add to the interest of this paper. Our first European _pension_ was, naturally, a London one. It was one of the innumerable host in the pale realms of Bloomsbury. Like others of its kind in that region, it prided itself upon its "connexion,"--or, less euphemistically, its _custom_,--and made a specialty of an Australian "connexion," as the next number upon the right made a specialty of Germans, the one upon the left of South Americans and Spaniards, the one opposite of Russians, and uncounted ones all over London of our countrymen. Although our house was largely frequented by Australians, it did by no means confine its privileges to them. Like every other London boarding-house, it was a perfect caravansary of foreigners of almost every nation and every shade of color. At one time, with a Danish landlord and an Irish landlady, we were Norwegians, Swedes, Russians, Spaniards, Germans, Italians, and East Indians. Also we were several Americans, as was proved one notable day. That day we heard the arrival of new-comers in the hall below. We saw not their hue, but we recognized their cry as that of our countrypeople. We are not madly enamoured of our countryman in foreign climes. There his least adorable qualities--his bumptiousness, his provincialism, his strident tones and "_costume de Yank_"--are always more strikingly conspicuous than the chivalry toward women and the self-respecting manliness we always recognize so emphatically in him when we return to our own land after a prolonged absence. Hence we panted not for the dinner-hour, that should show us the faces whose voices we recognized as to our own manner born. That hour came, however, as all hours come to those who know how to wait. We descended to the showy table, with its floral decorations of paper, muslin, and gay paint, the ladies in the evening dress of flowers, trains, and _decolletee_ bodices which is the absurd custom of pretentious London _pensions_.