know she usually gives me a few items of news, then I go ahead and write the letter, as if it were for myself; but this time, I made an exact copy of all she said. [Laugh.] I suppose it is in the post office now, ready to start on its journey. What? tell you what she said? Well, all right, and I will even do this: If you'll promise never again to tease me about that horrid old cross-eyed Sam Arnold, I'll put on this kerchief, and use grandpa's walking-stick, and imitate Aunt Hannah, through the entire letter-writing scene. Do you promise? Very well, remember now, you are never, never to mention his name to me again. [Exit; enter with kerchief on and stick in hand.]

"Good mawnin', Miss Julie; how you is dis mawnin'? You looks mighty peart. I'm feelin' sorter po'rly, but I thought I'd des run over fur a minit, ter git you fur ter write a few lines ter Sary. [Hand out paper and pencil.] I fetched some paper

an

a pencil. I didn't hab no develop an' stamp, but I t'ought you wouldn't min' funushin' dat much, onct in a while. [Sit.]

"Lor' bress you, honey, don't ax me how ter write it. He, he, he! 'Pears like, wid all yo' edification, you ought ter know how ter write a letter, widout axin' nobody,specially a cullud pusson. He, he, he!

Well, den, des say: Dear daughter:Has you got dat writ?—I seats myse'f wid pen in han' ter drap you a few lines-Oh, you knows de way, Miss Julie, des go on an' fix it up dat a way. You knows how ter write a nice letter, good as I do.

Des tell

her we's all well, an' a-doin' well at prisen' time; but den my ol' man, Allen, he would work out in de rain, las' week, an' now he's laid up wid de rheumatiz,-can't hardly move hisse'f, han' nur foot; an' my ol' back is pretty nigh gin out, a-liffin' him about so much, 'case you know Lige, he can't lif'

much sence he hurt his back at Jerry's house-raisin',las' week; an' den Becky, she's got one o' dem dare bone-fellers on her finger, so's she has ter make bread wid her lef han'.

"Tell her I wisht she could be here nex' week, 'case our big meetin' commences den, an' our circuit rider say he gwine ter hab de presidin' elder an' two local preachers ter he'p him. Oh, we's spectin' a glorious time, Miss Julie! Tell her dat her brudder Joshua has dun cum back fum Kansas. Dey couldn't stan' dem terrible skycrones dey has out dar. Dey's all well, an' a-doin' well at de prisen' time, but dey had ter sell dere beds an' cheers fur ter pay dere way back. Dey's all stayin' about wid de relations now, fur a while, till he gits him a job.

"Tell her ter make 'as'e an' hab dat baby's picter tuk, an' sen' me one. He, he, he! Go' bress dat sassy little rascal! W'y I wants ter see him wuss'n I do Sary. I reck'n if dey sen's me his picter, I won't do nuf'n but des set an' look at it. He, he, he! Now, Miss Julie, you needn' be a-lafin' dar 'hin' dat han'kercher. You better not make fun o' po' ol' darky, or de Lawd might sen' jedgment on you. Now, I don' mean ter hurt yo' feelin's, honey, 'case I lub you 'mos' like I did yo' ma, whin she wuz a gal. Oh, how I lubbed yo' ma! She wuz des as pretty as one o' dem lilies out dar in de garden. [Groan.] Is you waitin' fo' sumpin' else ter put in dat letter? Well, you's done tol' her we's all well, an' a-doin' well, hain't you? You has? An' did you write it down, 'bout Joshua an' his folks comin' back fum Kansas? Ver' well; den tell her we had a letter fum John las' week: He said dey wuz all well, an' a-doin' well at de prisen' time, but his bes' workin' steer died awhile back, an' all his crap is under water, an' he's afeerd he's gwine ter lose it all. Oh, pore John! [Sigh and groan.] Tell her if she can't come ter de meetin', ter be sho an' come ter de picnit de Fo'th o' July, 'case we's powerful anxious ter see her an' de baby. He, he, he! When I t'inks about dat baby, I can't hardly wait. I b'lieve it's de peartest gran'chil' I got.

"Well, Miss Julie, des bring de letter ter a close, I rec'on. I b'lieve I ain't got no mo' news. Des ax her ter 'scuse bad writin' an' spellin', den fol' it up an' put it in one o' yo' developes. Now, honey, pas'e one o' yo' stamps on it, an' I'll trudge along an' take it ter de pos'-office. 'Fo' I goes, do, honey, you might gin me a few col' biscuits for Allen. No, wait, I'll des sen' Becky back arter dem, an' den you can put in any o' de res' o' de col' victuals you got on han'. She can tote more'n I can. I'm much obleeged ter you, honey, fur de letter, an' one day 'fo' long, I'll come up an' take a flannin rag an' some ile an' tuppentine, an' shine up de funicher in yo' room,-I will sho. [Rise.] Oh, my po' ol' back-I can't hardly git up when I gits down. Good-bye, Miss Julie. Go' bress you, honey. Good-bye." [Exit.]

LESSON-TALK.

The introduction is given with merry, girlish abandon. No definite instructions

can be given for the rendition of the remainder of this recitation, without the fear of making it mechanical. Aunt Hannah was

a sanctimonious old negro, reared in slavery. She was toothless, her voice broken and trembling, her movements slow and palsied. She walked with a large stick, and got up and down with great difficulty. She wore the characteristic "head-rag,' a piece of cloth folded triangularly, covering about half of the forehead and all of the head above the ears. It was tied by the outer corners, at the back of the neck. Negroes never tie this head-rag" under the chin. In the impersonation of Aunt Hannah, don the kerchief, turn the lips in, concealing the teeth (this gives the appearance of being toothless), take the stick, which has been previously placed conveniently, hobble forward, salute 'Miss Julie," and sit down slowly and with seeming pain, make known the object of your visit, and dictate your letter. Occasional sighs and groans may be given. Laugh in a high, thin voice, bobbing the head,

doth wear,

She turns the love of honest men to bitter, blank despair.

But last night, in her silken seat, just for a moment's space,

There stole a subtle change across the fair patrician face.

It was as if an angel fair had brushed her with his wings,

Or else an unseen hand had struck her heart's long-silent strings.

What charm it was I may not say that wrought the mystic spell; Perchance 'twas Lucia's sob of pain-perchance the music's swell;

But coldness passed from out her face, the proud light from her eyes,

Ah, how the picture grows apace with beauty all aglow!

For lips I've mixed the richest red, like roses as they blow;

For starry eyes, the tender hue of violets as they nod,

And for the shining mesh of hair the tints of golden-rod.

The morn has waned to evening, the sun bas kissed the west,

And still I scan my palette o'er in eager anxious quest.

A moment, and my task is done-ah, what a wondrous grace

That look so tender, soulful, gives the proud patrician face!

'Tis done--now death may claim her or age may chill and blight,

But her face may live forever as she sat in her box last night.

Her mouth will be always tender, her eyes the truest blue,

Her cheek will ne'er lose its roses, nor hair its sunny hue!

And now that the picture's finished the truth I may declare:

I love, with a mad, sweet passion, the eyes I've painted there!

My heart is another canvas where smiles her pictured face,

And Love sketched in the outlines with true artistic grace'

And a sawmill down by the medder stream;
I know he's slow, but he ain't no fool,
And I tell ye Tommy is goin' to school."

So Mrs. Brown she had her say
And, woman-like, she carried the day.
Tom stuck to his books with dogged vim,
And mastered each with a purpose grim;
Said "I love" and "you love" and "they
love," too,

With a fine contempt for the loving crew;
Thundered through rhetoric dry and stale;
In Greek and Latin grew thin and pale;
With progress slow, but sure as fate,
At last poor Tom was a graduate.

Then down beside the meadow stream
For days and days he would sit and dream,
And the house was filled with models and

And his father gravely shook his head,
And to his mother sadly said:

"What good did it do ye to send him to school?

I told ye Tom was a tarnal fool!"

One day the papers were made to ring With a great invention,-a wonderful thing. They called the inventor a man of renown And said that his name was Thomas Brown. "I allers told ye," his father said, "That Tom was a genius born and bred, And anybody could plainly see, With half an eye, he was jest like me." "And I s'pose," said his mother, in accents cool,

"That's why ye called him a tarnal fool!"

XI.

JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

And Jephthah vowed a vow unto the Lord, and said, If thou shalt without fail deliver the children of Ammon into mine hands, then it shall be, that whatsoever cometh forth of the doors of my house to meet me, when I return in peace from the children of Ammon, shall surely be the Lord's, and I will offer it up for a burnt offering.-Bible.

SHE

HE stood before her father's gorgeous
tent,

To listen for his coming. Her loose hair
Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud
Floating around a statue, and the wind,
Just swaying her light robe, revealed a form
Praxiteles might worship. She had clasped
Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised
Her beautiful dark Jewish eyes to heaven,
Till the long lashes lay upon her brow.
Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft
Of a pomegranate blossom; and her neck,
Just where the cheek was melting to its

curve

With the unearthly beauty sometimes there,
Was shaded, as if light had fallen off,—
Its surface was so polished. She was still-
ing

Her light, quick breath to hear; and the white rose

Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swelled,

Like nothing but a lovely wave of light,
To meet the arching of her queenly neck.
Her countenance was radiant with love.
She looked like one to die for it-a being
Whose whole existence was the pouring out
Of rich and deep affections.

Onward came

The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion

notes

Rang sharply on the ear at intervals;
And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts
Returning from the battle poured from far,
Like the deep murmur of a restless sea.
They came, as earthly conquerors always

come,

firm, But free as India's leopard; and his mail, Whose shekels none in Israel might bear, Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame. His crest was Judah's kingliest; and the look

Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow, Might quell the lion. He led on; but thoughts

Seemed gathering round which troubled

him. The veins

Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem, And her luxuriant hair,-'twas like the sweep

Of a swift wing in visions. He stood still, As if the sight had withered him. She threw

Her arms about his neck; he heeded not. She called him "Father," but he answered not. She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth?

There was no anger in that bloodshot eye.

I love you, pretty devotee, whose sins are small and few,

And when I to devotions go I'll ask to kneel by you. -Life.

his helm,

And laid her white hand gently on his brow, And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords.

The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands,

And spoke the name of God, in agony.

She knew that he was stricken then, and rushed

Again into his arms, and with a flood

Of tears she could not stay, she sobbed a prayer

That he would breathe his agony in words. He told her a momentary flush

Shot o'er her countenance! and then the soul Of Jephthah's daughter wakened; and she stood

Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well— And she would die.

The sun had wellnigh set, The fire was on the altar; and the priest Of the High God was there. A pallid man Was stretching out his trembling hands to

heaven,

As if he would have prayed, but had no words

And she who was to die, the calmest one
In Israel at that hour, stood up alone,
And waited for the sun to set. Her face
Was pale, but very beautiful; her lip
Had a more delicate outline, and the tint
Was deeper; but her countenance was like
The majesty of angels.

The sun set

And she was dead-but not by violence.

G

XII.

A LYRIC OF LENT.

IRL of the Lenten period, with softly downcast eyes,

Have you prayed off the surplus force that in your nature lies?

Have you evolved a litany to which your steps shall dance?

Girl of the Lenten period, there's mischief in your glance!

You're thinking not of litanies with penitent refrains,

But of your love's arithmetic, and counting up your gains

Of poems wrought in needlework, of symphonies in gowns,

Of bonnets that at Easter-tide shall banish Lenten frowns.

Girl of the Lenten period, in royal purple clad, Fair penitent in violet, your coming makes me glad!

XIII.

AN INDIAN SERENADE.

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

ARISE from dreams of thee in the first sweet sleep of night,

When the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright.

I arise from dreams of thee, and a spirit in my feet

Hath led me-who knows how?-to thy chamber window sweet!

The wandering airs they faint on the dark, the silent stream-

The champak odors fall like sweet thoughts in a dream;

The nightingale's complaint it dies upon her heart,

As I must die on thine, beloved as thou art!

Oh, lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain on my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas! my heart beats loud and fast.

Oh, press it close to thine again, where it will break at last.

MARTHA MORTON ON WOMEN DRAMATISTS.

MARTHA MORTON, author of the

successful "A Fool of Fortune," the latest play taken up by Mr. Crane, essays to answer the query "Why do we not have more successful women dramatists?" in the New York Tribune for Dec. 13. She says:

"Probably because most of those who attempt the work are appalled, when they have proceeded a little way, by the difficulties which it presents. I do not blame them. If I had even a faint idea, when I chose my profession, of the amount and variety of labor which it would entail, I hardly think I should have had courage enough to go on. It was my ignorance that helped me along in that respect. Merely writing the manuscript of a play is not sufficient. No dramatist can succeed who does not understand all the technical points of stage-setting, costuming, the most effective entrances and exits, and a thousand and one details which seem trifling, but which are vitally important in the mass. It is not so easy for a woman to acquire this practical knowledge as it is for a man, and I suppose many women have become discouraged at their failure to get hold of what is technically known as 'theatrical business.' Nevertheless, it is entirely possible for them to do so, if they will go about it patiently, persistently, and with the right sort of spirit. As for their actual ability to write and to create, I have no doubt of their success in that line. They are more emotional and more instinctive than men, and can better catch the force of many strong situations. In my opinion, their power in dramatic writing will make itself felt before many years go by, and I think the progress they have already made is remarkably rapid, considering the comparatively few years of literary education which they have behind them.'

The Tribune adds:

"It may be interesting to those who do not know how such things are arranged to learn that Miss Morton finds the use of a chessboard and a set of chessmen of great assistance in planning her stage-scenes. She has before her a ground plan of the stage on which the play is to be produced, with the furniture, or other articles, set in the order in which they are to appear. The chessboard corresponds to this ground-plan, and as Miss Morton decides upon a certain entrance for a character, she puts a piece upon the square which approximates the position of the door through which he comes. As he moves to the centre or the front of the stage, as it may be, the chess piece is

The truth that the voice depends upon the body and that any system of voice-culture which fails to take this into account is onesided and insufficient is generally recognized, but never too much emphasized. If singers are not strong, they fail to realize all of their possibilities. Louis Arthur Russell, in a recent number of the Vocalist, declares that nervous, weak, dyspeptic, and scrawny people are not equal to the requirements of singing, and their work will always be defective. To quote further:

"There must be complete harmony throughout, and there is nothing less than discord where the culture is lacking in physical development. Not only the moment of singing requires strength of body but the whole process of study, and the final requirements of a public singer in the way of exposure in all weathers, enforced irregularity of living through travel, etc., all call for physical endurance. As it is one of the greatest human privileges to sing, so it is one of the severest processes to develop oneself properly for a singer's career. In America a singer is expected to be as well fitted for society as her non-singing sister. She must have the same intellectual development. Every item of personal power which ordinary mortals possess the singer must also have, and besides, she must also be a cultured musician and possess a welltrained voice. There is no room before the public for half-equipped singers, no room for voices without intellect to guide them, no room for singers whose weak bodies call for sympathy instead of confidence. If you expect to fulfil a singer's mission, in this day of many vocalists, you must be fullyequipped, standing before your audience with instant and convincing personal power. No matter how small of stature, no matter how lacking in flesh you may be, you must command your listener's attention by a 'presence' as mighty as your work. There are other signs of power than stature. Many little bodies have done great things; so, without regard to your bigness of body, see to it that you give it commanding