A TRAGEDY OF THE NIGHT.

AT AN EDINBURGH STREET CROSSING.

SHE started suddenly from the moving mass.
The wind sprang up and caught her by the shawl,
And held her like a thing that dared not pass,-
Then shook her for an instant. That was all.

Once beautiful, and still almost a child!

She wore her wet hair round her with a grace.

I saw the great eyes staring black and wild

As the scared lamplights shuddered from her face.

Upon her track there followed such a cry:

"Will you come back, or no?" was all it said,— "Will you come back, or no?" The Voice wailed by;

On-to the Pit?-the girlish phantom fled.

GOOD-BYE.

A WOMAN'S SONG.

GOOD-BYE, if it please you, sir, good-bye. This is a world where the wild swans fly. This is a world where the thorn hangs on When the rose, its twin, is gone, is gone. Good-bye-good-bye-good-bye.

FRED'S MOTHER.

MASTER HARRY'S COMMENT.

"FRED says his mother cannot tell One-half the things he asks her. Well!

"She doesn't even know how far It is straight to that nearest star.

"She only knows the Golden Rule. -I wonder where she went to school!"

QUESTIONS OF THE HOUR.

MARIAN, SIX YEARS OLD.

"DO ANGELS wear white dresses, say?
Always, or only in the summer? Do
Their birthdays have to come like mine, in May?
Do they have scarlet sashes then, or blue?

"When little Jessie died last night,

How could she walk to Heaven-it is so far? How did she find the way without a light? There wasn't even any moon or star.

"Will she have red or golden wings?

Then will she have to be a bird, and fly?
Do they take men like presidents and kings
In hearses with black plumes clean to the sky?

"How old is God? Has He gray hair?
Can He see yet? Where did he have to stay
Before you know—He had made-Anywhere?
Whom does He pray to-when He has to pray?

"How many drops are in the sea?

How many stars ?—well, then, you ought to know How many flowers are on an apple tree?

How does the wind look when it doesn't blow?

"Where does the rainbow end? And why
Did-Captain Kidd-bury the gold there? When
Will this world burn? And will the firemen try
To put the fire out with the engines then?

"If you should ever die, may we

Have pumpkins growing in the garden, so My fairy godmother can come for me,

When there's a prince's ball, and let me go?

S.

S. WEIR MITCHELL.

WEIR MITCHELL is not dependent upon any one profession for fame. Both as a physician and a writer has recognition been accorded him from some of the best critics of our times.

Dr. Mitchell was born in Philadelphia, February 15, 1829. His father won renown both as a physician and author, and the son followed closely in his footsteps. The family is of English descent. Dr. Mitchell graduated from the Jefferson Medical School in 1850, and in 1851 he went abroad and passed the next two years in Europe, studying. His first writings appeared in the Atlantic Monthly during the war, and since that time he has been a frequent contributor to our American press. Some of his novels have called forth commendation from most prominent writers. His contributions to the literature of the medical profession have been valuable, and have been published among the Smithsonian Memoirs of the American Publishing Society, and elsewhere. Conjointly with Drs. Keene and Morehouse he published, in 1864, a work on the "Effect of Gunshot Wounds and Other Injuries of the Nerves." He is a member of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America, and of numerous other scientific institutions.

Dr. Mitchell has been twice married. His first wife was Miss Elwyn, of Chester, Pa., whose father was a grandson of John Langdon, famous in Revolutionary times, and by whom he had two sons, both of whom are living. The present wife is a sister of John Cadwallader.

Dr. Mitchell in early life met with the same resistance and opposition that all advanced thinkers must meet, but he has been able to overcome all such, and is now enjoying the fruits of his perseverance and indomitable courage. N. L. C.

THE QUAKER GRAVEYARD.

FOUR Straight brick walls, severely plain,
A quiet city square around;

A level space of nameless graves,-
The Quaker's burial-ground.

In gown of gray, or coat of drab, They trod the common ways of life, With passions held in sternest leash, And hearts that knew not strife.

To yon grim meeting-house they fared, With thoughts as sober as their speech,

To voiceless prayer, to songless praise, To hear their elders preach.

Through quiet lengths of days they came,
With scarce a change to this repose;
Of all life's loveliness they took
The thorn without the rose.

But in the porch and o'er the graves,

Glad rings the southward robin's glee, And sparrows fill the autumn air With merry mutiny;

While on the graves of drab and gray
The red and gold of autumn lie,
And willful Nature decks the sod
In gentlest mockery.

HOW THE CUMBERLAND WENT DOWN.

GRAY Swept the angry waves

O'er the gallant and the true,
Rolled high in mounded graves
O'er the stately frigate's crew-
Over cannon, over deck,
Over all that ghastly wreck,—

When the Cumberland went down.

Such a roar the waters rent
As though a giant died,
When the wailing billows went
Above those heroes tried;
And the sheeted foam leaped high,
Like white ghosts against the sky,—

As the Cumberland went down.

O shrieking waves that gushed
Above that royal band,
Your cold, cold burial rushed
O'er many a heart on land!
And from all the startled North
A cry of pain broke forth,-

As the Cumberland went down. And forests old, that gave

A thousand years of power To her lordship of the wave

And her beauty's regal dower, Bent, as though before a blast, When plunged her pennoned mast,And the Cumberland went down.

And grimy mines that sent
To her their virgin strength,

And iron vigor lent

To knit her lordly length,