It is impossible, of course, to expatiate on all the poets named and many others who are not named; a volume would not be sufficient. All one can say is—read for yourself, and if you are ambitious for self-culture, remember that the reading of the best poetry will do more for you than can possibly be expressed by any words here. There are two minor poets whose works you will probably much enjoy—Jean Ingelow and Coventry Patmore. The “Angel in the House” by the latter is greatly esteemed by Mr. Ruskin. “Teach your children poetry,” says Lord Macaulay; “it opens the mind, lends grace to wisdom, and makes the heroic virtues hereditary.” And the rugged old philosopher, Carlyle, speaks thus of the influence of poetry on any living human creature— “Tones of sphere-music and tidings from loftier worlds will flit round him if he can but listen, and visit him with holy influences, even in the thickest press of trivialities or the din of busiest life.” (_To be concluded._) THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH. BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc. CHAPTER XIX. CHRISTMAS AGAIN. The missive in Lucy’s hand was no simple workman’s clumsy bill. It was a sheet of blank paper. “What can this mean?” said Lucy, turning it about, while Miss Latimer and Tom watched her. “You may be sure it ought to be the bricklayer’s bill, but that he has put in the wrong piece of paper,” observed Miss Latimer. “Or it may have come from that stupid fellow we found in the area,” said Tom. “Perhaps his next tipsy fit has taken this form, and he is under the delusion that he has written a letter to Jane Smith.” “That is not unlikely,” Lucy admitted, still turning the paper about. “The letter has been posted at this district office, and there is no maker’s name on the envelope. Anyhow, there it goes,” and she tore it in two and dropped it into the waste-paper basket. “I wonder if Clementina would notice the strange-looking letter,” said Miss Latimer. “I’m always afraid of something stirring her superstitions and making her take flight to her Highland hills on the score that ‘Babylon’ is too terrible a place to stay in.” That was all. It was but a nine minutes’ wonder. Yet they remembered it afterwards. Early in December there came a letter from Mrs. Grant in Peterhead. Lucy and the captain’s wife had kept up a slight correspondence during their husbands’ absence on the _Slains Castle_. Each had always written to apprise the other of any news she had received. Once or twice, indeed, when unexpected opportunities for ship’s letters had arisen, the busy captain had contented himself with sending a message to his wife _viâ_ his passenger’s home epistle. Mrs. Grant had always promptly and cordially acknowledged these curtesies on Lucy’s part. But she was not naturally a letter-writing woman. Her missives were always of the briefest, and never until now had she taken the initiative.