THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL.*-HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

It was very cold, the snow fell, and it was almost quite dark; for it was evening-yes, the last evening of the year. Amid the cold and the darkness, a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, was roaming through the streets. It is true she had a pair of slippers when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were very large slippers; so large, indeed, that they had hitherto been used by her mother; besides, the little creature lost them as she hurried across the street, to avoid two carriages that were driving very quickly past. One of the slippers was not to be found, and the other was pounced upon by a boy who ran away with it, saying that it would serve for a cradle when he should have children of his own. So the little girl went along, with her little bare feet that were red and blue with cold. She carried a number of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything from her the whole livelong day; nobody had even given her a penny.

Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along a perfect picture of misery-poor little thing! The snow-flakes covered her long flaxen hair, which hung in pretty curls round her throat; but she heeded them not now. Lights were streaming from all the windows, and there was a savory smell of roast goose; for it was New Year's Eve. And this she did heed.

She now sat down, cowering in a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected beyond the other. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she felt colder than ever; yet she dared not return home, for she had not sold a match, and could not bring home a penny! She would certainly be beaten by her father; and it was cold enough at home, besides-for they had only the roof above them, and the wind came howling through it, though the largest holes had been stopped with straw and rags. Her little hands were nearly frozen with cold. Alas! a single match might do her some good, if she might only draw one out of the bundle, and rub it against the wall, and warm her fingers.

*The same story is told in verse in No. 1, page 100, entitled "New Year's Eve."

So at last she drew one out. Ah! how it sheds sparks, and how it burns! It gave out a warm, bright flame, like a little candle, as she held her hands over it,-truly it was a wonderful little light! It really seemed to the little girl as if she were sitting before a large iron stove, with polished brass feet, and brass shovel and tongs. The fire burned so brightly, and warmed so nicely, that the little creature stretched out her feet to warm them likewise, when lo! the flame expired, the stove vanished, and left nothing but the little halfburned match in her hand.

She rubbed another match against the wall. It gave a light, and where it shone upon the wall, the latter became as tranparent as a veil, and she could see into the room. A snowwhite table-cloth was spread upon the table, on which stood a splendid china dinner service, while a roast goose stuffed with apples and prunes, sent forth the most savory fumes. And what was more delightful still to see, the goose jumped down from the dish, and waddled along the ground with a knife and fork in its breast, up to the poor girl. The match then went out, and nothing remained but the thick, damp wall.

She lit yet another match. She now sat under the most magnificent Christmas tree, that was larger, and more superbly decked, than even the one she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's. A thousand tapers burned on its green branches, and gay pictures, such as one sees on shields, seemed to be looking down upon her. She stretched out her hands, but the match then went out. The Christmas lights kept rising higher and higher. They now looked like stars in the sky. One of them fell down, and left a long streak of fire. "Somebody is now dying," thought the little girl,—for her old grandmother, the only person who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her, that, when a star falls, it is a sign that a soul is going up to heaven.

She again rubbed a match upon the wall, and it was again light all round; and in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining like a spirit, yet looking so mild and loving. "Grandmother," cried the little one, "oh, take me with you! I know you will go away when the match goes out,—you will vanish like the warm stove, and the delicious roast goose, and the fine, large Christmas tree!" And

she made haste to rub the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to hold her grandmother fast. And the matches gave a light that was brighter than noonday. Her grandmother had never appeared so beautiful nor so large. She took the little girl in her arms, and both flew upwards, all radiant and joyful, far, far above mortal ken, where there was neither cold, nor hunger, nor care to be found; where there was no rain, no snow, or stormy wind, but calm, sunny days the whole year round.

But, in the cold dawn, the poor girl might be seen leaning against the wall, with red cheeks and smiling mouth; she had been frozen on the last night of the old year. The new year's sun shone upon the little dead girl. She sat still holding the matches, one bundle of which was burned. People said: "She tried to warm herself." Nobody dreamed of the fine things she had seen, nor in what splendor she had entered, along with her grandmother, upon the joys of the New Year.

TOBY TOSSPOT.-GEORGE Colman.

Alas! what pity 'tis that regularity,
Like Isaac Shove's, is such a rarity!
But there are swilling wights in London town,
Termed jolly dogs, choice spirits, alias swine,
Who pour, in midnight revel, bumpers down,
Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine.

These spendthrifts, who life's pleasures thus run on,
Dozing with headaches till the afternoon,
Lose half men's regular estate of sun,

By borrowing too largely of the moon.

One of this kidney-Toby Tosspot hight

Was coming from the " Bedford" late at night;
And being Bacchi plenus, full of wine,
Although he had a tolerable notion
Of aiming at progressive motion,
"Twasn't direct,-'twas serpentine.

He worked, with sinuosities, along,

Like Monsieur Corkscrew, worming through a cork,
Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong,―a fork.

At length, with near four bottles in his pate,

He saw the moon shining on Shove's brass plate,

When reading, “Please to ring the bell,"
And being civil beyond measure,
"Ring it!" says Toby,-" very well;

I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure."
Toby, the kindest soul in all the town,
Gave it a jerk that almost jerked it down.
He waited full two minutes,--no one came;
He waited full two minutes more;--and then
Says Toby, "If he's deaf, I'm not to blame;
I'll pull it for the gentleman again.”

But the first peal woke Isaac in a fright,
Who, quick as lightning, popping up his head,
Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed,

Pale as a parsnip,-bolt upright.

At length he wisely to himself doth say,
Calming his fears,-

"Tush! 'tis some fool has rung and run away;"
When peal the second rattled in his ears.

Shove jumped into the middle of the floor;

Aud, trembling at each breath of air that stirred, He groped down stairs, and opened the street door, While Toby was performing peal the third.

Isaac eyed Toby, fearfully askant,

And saw he was a strapper, stout and tall; Then put this question, "Pray, sir, what d'ye want?" Says Toby, "I want nothing, sir, at all."

"Want nothing! Sir, you've pulled my bell, I vow, As if you'd jerk it off the wire."

Quoth Toby, gravely making him a bow,

I pulled it, sir, at your desire."

"At mine?" "Yes, yours; I hope I've done it well! High time for bed, sir!-I was hastening to it; But if you write up, Please to ring the bell,' Common politeness makes me stop and do it."

Part Sixteenth.