Wandering, wandering all the world over, Hither and thither, and to and fro, Free as the wind—the rollicking rover, Lightly humming and thrumming I go. Free as the wind to linger and tarry, Free as the wind to hasten afar, All my wealth in my hands I carry— Look, behold it—my gay guitar! Gold and houses and lands encumber, Never king, in his palace high, Slumber’d as sweetly as I slumber, Under the clear, unclouded sky. Free as the wind, the rollicking rover, Little of trouble or care I know, Wandering, wandering all the world over, Hither and thither, and to and fro. And off he goes with his merry song, and his weary smile, and his pockets jingling with pennies; and is succeeded by a fair-haired Norwegian, with a basket on his head, crying, “Oranges, oranges!” Harry rushes down, and buys him out of the stock in hand, and before any one has time to protest, begins to treat the assembled company. So it was for this feast that the round, golden fruit has been, all these months, basking and ripening and gathering fragrance and sweetness from the rays that gladden a land of perpetual summer. “What’s this—a picnic?” asks a gentleman in uniform, who has come to call upon the Lieutenant. The youngsters follow with their eyes the blue coat and bright buttons disappearing through the open doorway, then they slowly disperse; and Ponto, the great shaggy Newfoundlander, is left alone, dozing upon the mat. And the wee, gray sparrow returns with a wisp of horse-hair, and commences to build her nest. PATCHES AND PERSEVERANCE. “There goes Patches!” “Hallo, Patches!” Sitting in the porch, in the twilight of a June afternoon, Kate overhears those cruel taunts. “Oh-h-h!” she exclaims in smothered indignation, the hot flush mounting up her forehead. “What is it, sister?” asks the Lieutenant. “Oh, Walter, there are some boys down there in the street, calling names at a little newsboy, and making sport of his poor, patched clothes. And he looks so downhearted and discouraged—poor little fellow! Oh, it’s _too_ bad! I wish you could say something to him to comfort him. Mrs. McAllister was telling me about them the other day. His mother is a widow and does washings, and there are other children—he the eldest; and he is so kind and thoughtful, and does everything he can to help her; goes around town, out of school-hours, running on errands and carrying newspapers. I know what I’ll do”—but her plan for a new suit of clothes is suddenly broken in upon by the boy approaching, and handing her the evening paper, damp, just from the press. “How many more of those have you to deliver?” Walter inquires. “Only about a dozen.”