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"If he bring me pansies purple and gold And clasp them within my hand,

"If he bring me blue forget-me-nots-
As blue as the summer sky-
I shall know I will never falsehood see
In the blue of his bonnie eye.

"If he bring me poppies red as the coals
That glow in the blacksmith's fire,

I shall know like the coals his love will die In the ashes of his desire.

"If he bring me soft carnation-pinks In a wreath as children wear,

I shall know it is but fancy for me
That with others I must share.

"If he bring me snowdrops waxen white That droop with their own weight low,

I will know, alas! when the winter comes, I shall sleep beneath the snow."

Nor snowdrops white, nor pinks, nor blossoms pale,

Were given to the maiden fair;
Nor poppies red, nor blue forget-me-nots,
Nor pansies yet, nor lilies rare;

But laden down with roses came he then

Moss-roses, maiden-blush and white, Burgundy roses crimson as the wine

When crystal goblets flash the light;

Roses like sea-shells with pink pearly tints, Roses with petals of rare yellow gold,

Roses as scarlet as a woman's lips

When rain warm kisses all untold.

I shall know that rare treasures I will glean He flung them o'er her, laughing as they From many a distant land.

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fell :

No laughter rippled back to him.

"I hold an omen in these flowers," she

said

"An omen for the future dim.

WHY SHOULD WE SIGH?

"Would you had brought me lilies in their | Departing, leaves no kindly gleam

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To cheer the lonely waste of years? Why should we sigh? The fairy charm

That bound each sense in Folly's chain Is broke, and Reason, clear and calm, Resumes her holy rights again.

Why should we sigh that earth no more Claims the devotion once approvedThat joys endeared with us are o'er

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And gone are those these hearts have loved?

Why should we sigh? Unfading bliss

Survives the narrow grasp of time, And those that asked our tears in this Shall render smiles in yonder clime.

F

WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.

CHOICE OF A WIFE.

LUTTERING lovers, giddy boys, Sighing soft for Hymen's joys, Would you shun the tricking arts, Beauty's traps for youthful hearts, Would you treasure in a wife Riches which shall last through life, Would you in your choice be nice, Hear Minerva's sage advice: Be not caught with shape nor air, Coral lips nor flowing hair: Shape and jaunty air may cheat, Coral lips may speak deceit. Girls unmasked would you descry, Fix your fancy on the eye; Nature there has truth designed: 'Tis the eye that speaks the mind. Shun the proud, disdainful eye Frowning fancied dignity; Shun the eye with vacant glare: Cold indifference winters there;

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THE SECRET OF THE STRADIVARIUS.

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THE SECRET OF THE STRADIVARIUS.

Y friend Luigi is reckoned one of the finest violin-players of the day. His wonderful skill has made him famous, and he is well known and honored for his talent in every capital in Europe. If in these pages I call him by a name other than the one he has made famous, it is solely on account of a promise he exacted from me, in case I should ever feel tempted to make the following strange experiences we shared to gether public property. I am afraid, nevertheless, that too many will readily identify the man himself with the portrait I am obliged to draw.

Luigi, leaving his professional greatness out of the question, would have been a noticeable man in any company-a man at whom people would look and ask not only, "Who is he?" but " What has he done in the world?" knowing that men of his stamp are seldom sent upon the scene to live an ordinary every-day life. In person he was very tall, standing over six feet. His figure was graceful: some have called it slight; there was breadth of shoulder enough to tell it was the figure of a strong man. A face with a pale but clear complexion; dark deep-set eyes with a sort of far-away expression in them; black hair worn long, after the manner of geniuses of his kind; a high but rugged forehead, a well-shaped nose, a droop

ing moustache, a hand whose long and delicate fingers seemed constructed expressly for their particular mission-violin-playing,picture all these characteristics, and if you enjoy the acquaintance of the musical world, or even if you have been in the habit of attending concerts where stars of the first magnitude condescend to shine, I fear, in spite of my promise of concealing his name, you will too easily recognize my friend.

as

Luigi's manner in ordinary life was very quiet, gentlemanly and reposed. He was in his dreamy sort of way highly courteous and polite to strangers. Although when alone with me or other friends he loved he had plenty to say for himself and his broken English was pleasant to listen to-in general company he spoke but little; but let his left hand close round the neck of a fiddle, let his right hand grasp the bow, and one knew directly for what purpose Luigi came into the world. Then the man lived and revelled, it were, in a life of his own making. The notes his craft drew forth were like bracing air to him; he seemed actually to respire the music, and his dreamy eyes awoke and shone with fire. He did that rare thing-rare indeed, but lacking which no performer can rise to enduring fame-threw his whole soul into his playing. His manner, his very attitude, as he commenced, was a complete study. Drawing himself up to every inch of his height, he placed the violin-nestling it, I may say-under his chin, and then, taking a long breath of what appeared to be

anticipatory pleasure, swept his magician's wand over the sleeping strings, and, waking them with the charmed touch, wove his wonderful spell of music. The moment the horsehair came in contact with the gut the listener knew that he was in the presence of a master.

Luigi had come to London for the season, having, after much negotiation and persuasion, accepted an engagement at a long series of some of the best, if cheapest and most popular, concerts held in London. It was his first visit to England: he had ever disliked the country, and believed very little in the national love for good music or in our power of appreciating it when heard. He disliked, also, the trumpeting with which the promoters of the concerts heralded his appearance. Although his fame was already great throughout the Continent, he dreaded the effect of playing to an unsympathetic audience. His fears were, however, groundless. Whether the people liked and understood his music and style of playing or not, they at least appeared to do so; and the newspapers, one and all, unable to do things by halves, went into raptures over him. They compared him with Paganini, Ole Bull and other bygone masters, and their comparisons were very flattering.

.

Altogether, Luigi was a great success. I met him on two occasions at the houses of some friends of mine who are in the habit of spending much time, trouble and some money on that strange sport lionhunting. His concerts were held, I think, on two evenings in every week; so he had time at his disposal and was somewhat sought after. We were introduced, and I took a liking to the quiet, gentlemanly

celebrity, who, different from any others whose names are in the mouths of men, gave himself no airs nor vaunted by words or manner the "aristocracy of talent." I could make a shift to converse with him fairly enough in his own soft language; so that upon my meeting him the second time. he expressed his pleasure at again encountering me. A few days afterward we met by chance in the street, and I was able to extricate him from some little difficulty into which his imperfect knowledge of English and of English ways had betrayed him. Then our acquaintance ripened until it became friendship, and even at this day I reckon him among the friends I hold the dearest.

I saw a great deal of Luigi during his stay in London. We made pleasant little excursions together to such objects of interest as we wished to visit. est as we wished to visit. We spent many evenings together-nights, I should rather say, for the small hours had sounded when we parted, leaving the room dim with the smoke from my cigars and his cigarettes. Like many of his countrymen, he smoked simply whenever he could get a chance; and when alone with me, I believe the only cessation to his consumption of tobacco was when he took his beloved fiddle in his hand and played for his own pleasure and my delight. He was a charming companion; indeed, what man who had seen such varied life as he had could be otherwise when drawn out by the confidence that friendship gives?

I soon found that under the external calmness of the man lay a nature full of poetry and not free from excitement. I was also much amused to find a vivid vein of superstition and belief in the supernatural running

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