"George's apple-tree?"

"No, no; his father's."

"Oh!"

"He said-"

66 His father said?"

"No, no, no; George said. 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I did it with my little hatchet.' And his father said: 'Noble boy, I would rather lose a thousand trees than have you tell a lie.'"

George did?"

"No, his father said that."

"Said he'd rather have a thousand apple-trees?"

66 No

than-"

no, no; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple-trees

"Said he'd rather George would?"

"No, said he'd rather he would than have him lie." "Oh! George would rather have his father lie?"

We are patient and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers hadn't come and got her prodigy at that critical juncture, we don't believe all Burlington could have pulled us out of the snarl. And as Clarence Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers pattered down the stairs we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had a father named George, and he told him to cut down an apple-tree, and he said he'd rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple-tree.

-Burlington Hawkeye.

THE FACES WE MEET.-ALLIE WELLINGTON.

Oh, the faces we meet, the faces we meet,
At home or abroad, on the hurrying street!
Each has its history, dark or bright,

Traced so clearly in legible light;

As with pen of gold

Of the finest mold,
Diamond pointed

And lightly scrolled,

Some, telling that fortune hath graciously planned
Their sketch, and wrote with her soft, white hand.

Others, where harrowing grief and care

Have left in steel their traces there,-

Steel that cuts like the sharpened sword,
Slowly carving each written word,

Through anxious fears,
And sorrowing tears,-
Each furrowed line
Its import wears;

And we read that "Life is a stern warfare,
To battle and do, to suffer and bear."

While others, the iron hand of sin
Branding each line and sentence in,
Leaving forever its harrowing trace,
Where once was purity, beauty, and grace;
The soul's deep scars

Like iron bars

O'er windows bright,

The visage mars;

And we read, "Life's a wild bacchanalian song,
The province of selfishness, ruin, and wrong.”

Faces so old, yet so young in their years,
Where pinching penury blights and sears,
And the bony finger of poverty writes
What merciless misery e'er indites;
Where pain and want
And hunger gaunt,
Bid joy and beauty
And hope avaunt ;—

"Life is to wander, starving and cold,
Shunned, and forsaken,―toil, and grow old."

Oh, the faces we meet, the faces we meet,
At home, or abroad, on the hurrying street!
Beautiful faces with soul-beaming eyes,
Visions of angels that walk in disguise!
Faces glad and as gay

As the blue skies of May,
With no more of care

Than the rose on the spray!

Others, sad, yet more sweet with submission's soft tone,By treading the wine-press of sorrow alone.

Pitiful faces upturned so to mine,

Wistful and eager, as if to divine

If human charity, pity, or love

Could be found 'neath the dome of the heavens above.

Little faces so old,

Thin with hunger and cold;

Faces furrowed by toil

After perishing gold!

Ah, the heart is oft burdened with sorrow replete,
By the tales that are read in the faces we meet!

IF.

If, sitting with this little worn-out shoe
And scarlet stocking lying on my knee,
I knew the little feet had pattered through

The pearl-set gates that lie 'twixt heaven and ine,
I could be reconciled, and happy too,

And look with glad eyes toward the jasper sea.

If, in the morning, when the song of birds
Reminds us of a music far more sweet,

I listen for his pretty broken words

And for the music of his dimpled feet,
I could be almost happy though I heard
No answer, and but saw his vacant seat.

I could be glad, if, when the day is done,
And all its cares and heart-aches laid away,
I could look westward to the hidden sun,
And with a heart full of sweet yearnings say:
"To-night I'm nearer to my little one

By just the travel of a single day."

If I could know those little feet were shod
In sandals wrought of light in better lands,
And that the foot-prints of a tender God
Ran side by side with his in golden sands,
I could bow cheerfully and kiss the rod,
Since Bennie was in wiser, safer hands.

If he were dead, I would not sit to-day

And stain with tears the wee sock on my knee,

I would not kiss the tiny shoe, and say,

"Bring back again my little boy to me!"

I would be patient, knowing 'twas God's way,

And that he'd lead me to him o'er death's silent sea. But oh, to know the feet once pure and white, The haunts of vice have boldly ventured in! The hands that should have battled for the right Have been wrung crimson in the clasp of sin! And should he knock at heaven's gate to-night, I fear my boy could hardly enter in.

PIP'S FIGHT.-CHARLES DICKENS.

"Come and fight," said the pale young gentleman. What could I do but follow him? I have often asked myself the question since: but, what else could I do? His

manner was so final and I was so astonished, that I followed where he led, as if I had been under a spell.

"Stop a minute, though," he said, wheeling round before we had got many paces. "I ought to give you a reason for fighting, too. There it is!" In a most irritating manner he instantly slapped his hands against one another, daintily flung one of his legs up behind him, pulled my hair, slapped his hands again, dipped his head, and butted it into my stomach.

The bull-like proceeding last mentioned, besides that it was unquestionably to be regarded in the light of a liberty, was particularly disagreeable just after bread and meat. I therefore hit out at him, and was going to hit out again,when he said, "Aha! Would you?" and began dancing backward and forward in a manner quite unparalleled within my limited experience.

"Laws of the game!" said he. Here he skipped from his left leg on to his right. "Regular rules!" Here he skipped from his right leg on to his left. "Come to the ground, and go through the preliminaries!" Here he dodged backward and forward, and did all sorts of things, while I looked helplessly at him.

I was secretly afraid of him when I saw him so dexterous; but I felt morally and physically convinced that his light head of hair could have had no business in the pit of my stomach, and that I had a right to consider it irrelevant when so obtruded on my attention. Therefore, I followed him without a word to a retired nook of the garden, formed by the junction of two walls and screened by some rubbish. On his asking me if I was satisfied with the ground, and on my replying Yes, he begged my leave to absent himself for a moment, and quickly returned with a bottle of water and a sponge dipped in vinegar. "Available for both," he said, placing these against the wall. And then fell to pulling off, not only his jacket and waistcoat, but his shirt too, in a manner at once light-hearted, business-like and blood-thirsty.

Although he did not look very healthy-having pimples on his face, and a breaking-out at his mouth-these dreadful preparations quite appalled me. I judged him to be about my own age, but he was much taller, and he had a way of

spinning himself about that was full of appearance. For the rest, he was a young gentleman in a gray suit (when not denuded for battle), with his elbows, knees, wrists, and heels considerably in advance of the rest of him as to develop

ment.

My heart failed me when I saw him squaring at me with every demonstration of mechanical nicety, and eying my anatomy as if he were minutely choosing his bone. I never have been so surprised in my life as I was when I let out the first blow, and saw him lying on his back, looking up at me with a bloody nose and his face exceedingly fore-shortened.

But he was on his feet directly, and after sponging himself with a great show of dexterity began squaring again. The second greatest surprise I have ever had in my life was seeing him on his back again, looking up at me out of a black eye.

His spirit inspired me with great respect. He seemed to have no strength, and he never once hit me hard, and he was always knocked down; but he would be up again in a moment, sponging himself or drinking out of the water-bottle, with the greatest satisfaction in seconding himself according to form, and then came at me with an air and a show that made me believe he really was going to do for me at last. He got heavily bruised, for I am sorry to record that the more I hit him, the harder I hit him; but he came up again and again and again, until at last he got a bad fall with the back of his head against the wall. Even after that crisis in our affairs, he got up and turned round and round confusedly a few times, not knowing where I was; but finally went on his knees to his sponge and threw it up: at the same time panting out, "That means you have won."

He seemed so brave and innocent, that although I had not proposed the contest I felt but a gloomy satisfaction in my victory. Indeed, I go so far as to hope that I regarded myself, while dressing, as a species of savage young wolf, or other wild beast. However I got dressed, darkly wiping my sanguinary face at intervals, and I said, “Can I help you?" and he said, “No, thankee," and I said, "Good afternoon," and he said, "Same to you." -Great Expectations.