Poor Tom Trudge! There he sat on the bedside, the very image of botheration. For the life of him, he could not tell whether he had really drawn the prize, or only been visited by a bewildering vision. At last, however, the mists that had hung over his mind began to clear away; the truth came more and more distinct to his mind, and finally he recollected the drawing of the lottery, his obtaining the forty-five thousand dollars, his buying the damask and the fan――his journey homeward, and the meeting with his wife. Just as he had fully brought to recollection the whole affair, he looked up, and discovered a half malicious smile shining through the tears of his spouse. She now burst into a hearty laugh, and brought forth the bundle of bank notes, nicely done up, and Tom Trudge and his wife were the happiest couple in the universe. [To be continued.] The Old Mansion. The following simple but touching ballad was composed a short time since, by a girl in Maine, about seventeen years of age, who had been suffering several years from a weakness of sight, so as to prevent her reading or writing. It was taken down, from her dictation, by a friend. There stood a stately mansion old On brow of sloping hill; There many a joyous day I’ve passed, And mem’ry loves it still. ’Twas ’neath the shade of lofty elms And evergreen dark pine, Where robins sing, with notes so sweet, In spring and summer time. There dwelt my aged ancestor, With partner of his years; They’d travell’d long together here In sunshine and in tears. Their spring-time hopes were faded, And winter days came round, Yet sunny ties of kindred Their hearts to earth still bound. My grandma’s eyes were soft and blue, And tenderly she smiled, She ne’er thought ill of any one, Her words were always mild. I never shall forget her voice, The tones of her “Good even’;” Nothing we ever asked her for But what was kindly given. My grandpa’ often told us tales, All of the olden time; And of the wars for liberty He fought in “auld lang syne.” He gave us pretty picture-books On happy New-Year’s day; And poor, who hither came for aid, Ne’er empty went away. Grandma’ would tell us of the train, The beaver hat and plume, And all the fashion of the dress She wore in girlhood’s bloom. She always kept some plums or cake In cupboard saved away, To give “the children,” every time They came with her to stay. And we assembled every year In that wide ancient hall, To keep the old “Election-day,” Parents and children all. Then rang the walls with merriment, With laughter and with glee; Those sounds come o’er my memory now, And sadly seem to me.