The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name?

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myselfI'm somebody else—that's me yonder-no-that's somebody else got into my shoes-I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!"

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, my good woman?" asked he.

"Judith Gardenier."

"And your father's name?"

"Ah! poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl."

Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice:

"Where's your mother?"

"Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a bloodvessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler."

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he"Young Rip Van Winkle once-old Rip Van Winkle now! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?"

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle—it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been these twenty long years?"

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty long years had been to him but as one night.

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back.

The old Dutch inhabitants almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon.

Are the Children at Home?

Each day when the glow of sunset
Fades in the western sky,
And the wee ones, tired of playing,
Go tripping lightly by,

I steal away from my husband,
Asleep in his easy-chair,

And watch from the open doorway
Their faces fresh and fair.

Alone in the dear old homestead
That once was full of life,
Ringing with girlish laughter,
Echoing with boyish strife,
We two are waiting together;
And oft, as the shadows come,

With tremulous voice he calls me,

"It is night! are the children home?”

Irving.

"Yes, love!" I answer him gently,
"They're all home long ago;"
And sing, in my quivering treble,
A song so soft and low,
Till the old man drops to slumber,
With his head upon his hand,
And I tell to myself the number
Home in the better land-

Home, where never a scrrow

Shall dim their eyes with tears! Where the smile of God is on them Through all the summer years! I know!-yet my arms are empty, That fondly folded seven, And the mother heart within me Is almost starved for heaven.

Sometimes, in the dusk of evening,
I only shut my eyes,

And the children are all about me-
A vision from the skies;
The babes whose dimpled fingers
Lost the way to my breast,
And the beautiful ones, the angels,
Passed to the world of the blessed.

With never a cloud upon them,

I see their radiant brows; My boys that I gave to freedomThe red sword sealed their vows!

In a tangled Southern forest,

Twin brothers, bold and brave, They fell; and the flag they died for, Thank God! floats o'er their grave.

A breath, and the vision is lifted
Away on the wings of light,
And again we two are together,
All alone in the night;

They tell me his mind is failing,
But I smile at idle fears;
He is only back with the children,
In the dear and peaceful years.

And still as the summer sunset
Fades away in the west,
And the wee ones, tired of playing,
Go trooping home to rest,

My husband calls from his corner,

"Say, love, have the children come?"

And I answer, with eyes uplifted,

"Yes, dear, they are all at home!"

Atlantic Monthly.

From the "School for Scandal."

Sir Peter. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it.

Lady Teazle. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as you please; but I ought to have my own way in every thing; and what's more, I will too. What! though I was educated in the country, I know very well that women of fashion in London are accountable to nobody after they are married.

Sir P. Very well, ma'am, very well-so a husband is to have no influence, no authority?

Lady T. Authority! No, to be sure: if you wanted authority over me you should have adopted me, and not married me. I am sure you were old enough.

Sir P. Old enough!-ay-there it is. Well, well, Lady Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your temper, I'll not be ruined by your extravagance.

Lady T. My extravagance! I am sure I am not more extravagant than a woman ought to be.

Sir P. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums upon such unmeaning luxury. You spend as much to furnish your dressing-room with flowers in winter as would suffice to turn the Pantheon into a green-house.

Lady T. Sir Peter, am I to blame because flowers are dear in cold weather? You should find fault with the climate, and not with

me. For my part, I'm sure, I wish it were spring all the year round, and that roses grew under our feet.

Sir P. Zounds! Madam; if you had been born to this, I should not wonder at your talking thus; but you forget what your situation was when I married you.

Lady T. No, no, I don't; 'twas a very disagreeable one- or I should never have married you.

Sir P. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in a somewhat humbler style the daughter of a plain country squire. Recollect, Lady Teazle, when I saw you first sitting at your tambour, in a pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys at your side; your hair combed smooth over a roll, and your apartment hung round with fruits in worsted of your own working.

Lady T. Oh yes! I remember it very well, and a curious life I led-my daily occupation to inspect the dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt-book, and comb my aunt Deborah's lap-dog.

Sir P. Yes, yes, ma'am 'twas so indeed.

Lady T. And then, you know, my evening amusements, to draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not the materials to make up; to play Pope Joan with the curate; to read a novel to my aunt; or to be stuck down to an old spinnet to strum my father to sleep after a fox chase.

Sir P. I am glad you have so good a memory. Yes, madam these were the recreations I took you from; but now you must have your coach-vis-a-vis—and three powdered footmen before your chair; and, in summer, a pair of white cats to draw you to Kensington Gardens. No recollection, I suppose, when you were content to ride double behind the butler, on a docked coach-horse. Lady T. No-I never did that; I deny the butler and the coach-horse.

Sir P. This, madam, was your situation; and what have I done for you? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune, of rank; in short, I have made you my wife.

Lady T. Well then; and there is but one thing more you can make me, to add to the obligation, and that is

Sir P. My widow, I suppose.

Lady T Hem! hem!