AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

HOW

OW sweet it were, if without feeble fright,
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,
An angel came to us, and we could bear
To see him issue from the silent air

At evening in our room, and bend on ours
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers
News of dear friends, and children who have never
Been dead, indeed, as we shall know for ever.
Alas! We think not what we daily see
About our hearts-angels that are to be,
Or may be if they will, and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air-
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.

Leigh Hunt.

HUMAN life is a constant want, and ought to be a constant

prayer.

S. Osgood.

ONLY so far as a man is happily married to himself, is he fit

for married life and family life, generally.

Novalis.

THERE

ART OF PUTTING THINGS.

HERE is no more sunshiny inmate of any home than the genial happy-tempered one who has the art of putting all things in a pleasant light, from the great misfortunes of life, down to a broken carriage spring, a servant's failings, a child's salts and senna.

Boyd.

AL

LL persons are not discreet enough to know how to take things by the right handle.

Cervantes.

TO MY BIRDIE.

YE ken when folks are paired, Birdie! ye ken when folks

are paired,

Life's fair and foul, and freakish weather,

An' light an' lumbering loads, thegither

Maun a' be shared;

An' shared with lovin' hearts, Birdie! wi' lovin' hearts and

free,

Fu' fashious loads may weel be borne;

An' roughest roads to velvet turn,

Trod cheerfully.

Caroline Southey.

A WARNING.

S the husband is, the wife is; if mated with a clown,

The grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel

force,

Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

Alfred Tennyson.

TRIFLES, NOT TRIFLES.

"NOTHING is a trifle which is displeasing to my friend." Ah! If everybody thought so, there would not so often arise that dull bad weather, those clouded feelings, those little bitter disagreeables, by which not only married people, but brothers and sisters, parents and children, by degrees, embitter one another's lives, and which create altogether that great grey heavy oppressive cloud-discomfort. A fly is a very light burden; but if it were perpetually to return and settle on one's nose, it might weary us of our very lives; and by the side of this we would inscribe upon the tablets of Home. "Nothing is insignificant which gives pleasure to our friend!" Because, from this arises that bright summer-mild atmosphere in the home, which is called comfort.

Frederika Bremer.

THE LENT UMBRELLA.

"Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear

the rain? and you've lent that man our only umbrella! Take cold, indeed! He doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd better have taken cold than taken our umbrella. He return the umbrella? As if anybody ever did return an umbrella. I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow. They shan't go through such weather, I'm determined. No; they shall stay at home, and never learn anything—the blessed creatures—sooner than go and get wet; and when they grow up, I wonder who they'll have to thank for knowing nothing—who, indeed, but their own father. People who can't feel for their own children

ought never to be fathers. But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes; I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow; you know that, and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate me to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. No, sir; if it comes down in buckets-ful, I'll go all the same. No; and I won't have a cab.

"Where do you think the money's to come from? A cab, indeed! Cost me sixteen pence at least sixteen pence-two and eight pence, for there's back again! Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who's to pay for 'em. I can't pay for 'em ; and I'm sure you can't, if you go on as you do; throwing away your property, and beggaring your children-buying umbrellas!

"Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don't care; I'll go to mother's to-morrow; I will, and, what's more, I'll walk every step of the way, and you know that will give me my death. it's you that's the foolish man. and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold-it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up, for what you care, as I dare say I shall ; and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will! It will teach you to lend your umbrella again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death. Yes; and that's what you lent the umbrella for. Of course! Nice clothes I shall get, too, trapesing through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoilt quite. Needn't I wear 'em then? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear 'em. No, sir, I'm not going out a dowdy to please you, or anybody else. Gracious knows 'tisn't often that I step over the threshold; indeed I might as well be a slave at once; better, I should say. to go out as a lady. in the windows.

Don't call me a foolish woman;
You know I can't wear clogs;

But when I go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose
Oh! that rain, if it isn't enough to break

How

But if I die,

"Ugh! I do look forward with dread for to-morrow! I am to go to mother's, I'm sure I can't tell. I'll do it. No, sir, I won't borrow an umbrella. No, and you shan't buy one. (With great emphasis)-Mr. Caudle, if you bring home another umbrella, I'll throw it in the street. I'll have my own umbrella, or none at all. Ha! and it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that umbrella. I'm sure

if I had known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one for me. Paying for new nozzles for other people to laugh at you. Oh, it's all very well for you—you can go to sleep. You've no thought of your poor, patient wife and your dear children. You think of nothing but lending umbrellas!

***

"Men, indeed! Call themselves lords of the creation! Pretty lords, when they can't even take care of an umbrella! I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But that's what you want; then you may go to your club, and do as you like; and then nicely my poor dear children will be used but then, sir, you'll be happy. Oh, don't tell me! I know you will; else you'd never have lent the umbrella. I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's without the umbrella? Don't tell me that I said I would go; that's nothing to do with it—nothing at all. She'll think I'm neglecting her; and the little money we were to have, we shan't have at all, because we've no umbrella. The children too, dear things! They'll be sopping wet; for they shan't stop at home; they shan't lose their learning; it's all their father will leave 'em, I'm sure. But they shall go to school. Don't tell me I said they shouldn't; you are so aggravating, Caudle; you'd spoil the temper of an angel. They shall go to school; mark that. And if they get their death of cold, it's not my fault. I did not lend the umbrella!"

"Here," says Caudle, "I fell asleep; and dreamt that