I can endure a melancholy man, but not a melancholy child; the former, in whatever slough he may sink, can raise his eyes either to the kingdom of reason or of hope; but the little child is entirely absorbed and weighed down by one black poison-drop of the present. Think of a child led to the scaffold, think of Cupid in a Dutch coffin; or watch a butterfly, after its four wings have been torn off, creeping like a worm, and you will feel what I mean. But wherefore? The first has been already given; the child, like the beast, only knows purest, though shortest sorrow; one which has no past and no future; one such as the sick man receives from without, the dreamer from himself into his asthenic brain; finally, one with the consciousness not of guilt, but of innocence. Certainly, all the sorrows of children are but shortest nights, as their joys are but hottest days; and indeed both so much so, that in the latter, often clouded and starless time of life, the matured man only longingly remembers his old childhood's pleasures, while he seems altogether to have forgotten his childhood's grief. This weak remembrance is strangely contrasted with the opposing one in dreams and fevers in this respect, that in the two last it is always the cruel sorrows of childhood which return; the dream this mock-sun of childhood—and the fever, its distorting glass—both draw forth from dark corners the fears of defenceless childhood, which press and cut with iron fangs into the prostrate soul. The fair scenes of dreams mostly play on an after-stage, whereas the frightful ones choose for theirs the cradle and the nursery. Moreover, in fever, the ice-hands of the fear of ghosts, the striking one of the teachers and parents, and every claw with which fate has pressed the young heart, stretch themselves out to catch the wandering man. Parents, consider then, that every childhood's Rupert—the name given in Germany to the fictitious being employed to frighten children into obedience—even though it has lain chained for tens of years, yet breaks loose and gains mastery over the man so soon as it finds him on a sick-bed. The first fright is more dangerous the sooner it happens: as the man grows older, he is less and less easily frightened; the little cradle or bed-canopy of the child is more easily quite darkened than the starry heaven of the man.—Jean Paul Richter.

A REJECTED LOVER

You 'never loved me,' Ada!—Those slow words Dropped softly from your gentle woman's tongue, Out of your true and tender woman's heart, Dropped—piercing into mine like very swords, The sharper for their brightness! Yet no wrong Lies to your charge; nor cruelty, nor art; Even while you spoke, I saw the ready tear-drop start. You 'never loved me?'—No, you never knew— You, with youth's dews yet glittering on your soul— What 'tis to love. Slow, drop by drop, to pour Our life's whole essence, perfumed through and through With all the best we have, or can control, For the libation; cast it down before Your feet—then lift the goblet, dry for evermore! I shall not die, as foolish lovers do: A man's heart beats beneath this breast of mine; The breast where—Curse on that fiend's whispering, 'It might have been!'—Ada, I will be true Unto myself—the self that worshipped thine. May all life's pain, like those few tears that spring For me—glance off as rain-drops from my white dove's wing! May you live long, some good man's bosom-flower, And gather children round your matron knees! Then, when all this is past, and you and I Remember each our youth but as an hour Of joy—or torture; one, serene, at ease, May meet the other's grave yet steadfast eye, Thinking, 'He loved me well!'—clasp hands, and so pass by.

THE TEARS OF OYSTERS

Glancing round this anatomical workshop (the oyster), we find, amongst other things, some preparations shewing the nature of pearls. Examine them, and we find that there are dark and dingy pearls, just as there are handsome and ugly men; the dark pearl being found on the dark shell of the fish, the white brilliant one upon the smooth inside shell. Going further in the search, we find that the smooth, glittering lining, upon which the fish moves, is known as the nacre, and that it is produced by a portion of the animal called the mantle; and, for explanation's sake, we may add that gourmands practically know the mantle as the beard of the oyster. When living in its glossy house, should any foreign substance find its way through the shell to disturb the smoothness so essential to its ease, the fish coats the offending substance with nacre, and a pearl is thus formed. The pearl is, in fact, a little globe of the smooth, glossy substance yielded by the oyster's beard; yielded ordinarily to smooth the narrow home to which his nature binds him, but yielded in round drops, real pearly tears, if he is hurt. When a beauty glides among a throng of her admirers, her hair clustering with pearls, she little thinks that her ornaments are products of pain and diseased action, endured by the most unpoetical of shell-fish.—Leisure Hours.

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