Happy Days for Boys and Girls. Various

alarmed at her threats and her resolution, hung his head, like a guilty wretch before a just judge, while Sivora, with wild countenance, piercing voice, and imperial manner, her long black hair loosely falling upon her shoulders, with her arms extended towards the abyss, almost resembled an ancient goddess, who suddenly appears at the moment of crime, arrests the homicidal arm, and subjects the criminal to punishment. There was in her figure an imposing grandeur, before which the rude men, for an instant recalled to themselves, felt humiliated and condemned.

      Astounded by that firmness and devotion, ashamed of his violence towards the woman who was living a life of outrage, the chief, after some moments of moody silence, said, in an altered voice, —

      “You wish it! He is free!”

      Salvator threw himself upon his knees before his preserver, covered her hand with kisses and tears, and pressed, with transport, the two children in his arms. Completely wild with happiness and gratitude, he abandoned himself to the buoyancy of his generous nature, when Sivora said to him, in a whisper, —

      “Go! go quickly! The tiger is only sleeping!”

      They put a bandage over the eyes of the young man, so that he might not see the path by which he descended from the mountains, and two of the brigands then conducted him to the highway which led to the city.

      Hardly had he entered Florence, yet sad from the recollection of the scene in which he came near being a victim, when the young painter hastily sketched the principal details; and, some time after, the picture of which we have spoken was composed, and hangs this day in the museum at Naples, admired and pointed out to all visitors.

L. D. L.

      WE SHOULD HEAR THE ANGELS SINGING

      IF we only sought to brighten

      Every pathway dark with care,

      If we only tried to lighten

      All the burdens others bear,

      We should hear the angels singing

      All around us, night and day;

      We should feel that they were winging

      At our side their upward way!

      If we only strove to cherish

      Every pure and holy thought,

      Till within our hearts should perish

      All that is with evil fraught,

      We should hear the angels singing

      All around us, night and day;

      We should feel that they were winging

      At our side their upward way!

      If it were our aim to ponder

      On the good that we might win,

      Soon our feet would cease to wander

      In forbidden paths of sin;

      We should hear the angels singing

      All around us, night and day;

      We should feel that they were winging

      At our side their upward way!

      If we only did our duty,

      Thinking not what it might cost,

      Then the earth would wear new beauty

      Fair as that in Eden lost;

      We should hear the angels singing

      All around us, night and day;

      We should feel that they were winging

      At our side their upward way!

Kate Cameron.

      MY LITTLE HERO

      HOW we wish that we knew a hero!”

      Say the children, pressing round;

      “Will you tell us if such a wonder

      In London streets can be found?”

      I point from my study-window

      At a lad who is passing by:

      “My darlings, there goes a hero;

      You will know his oft-heard cry.”

      “’Tis the chimney-sweep, dear father,

      In his jacket so worn and old;

      What can he do that is brave and true,

      Wandering out in the cold?”

      Says Maudie, “I thought that a hero

      Was a man with a handsome face.”

      “And I pictured him all in velvet dressed,

      With a sword,” whispered little Grace.

      “Mine is only a ‘sweeper,’ children,

      His deeds all unnoticed, unknown;

      Yet I think he is one of the heroes

      God sees and will mark for his own.

      “Out there he looks eager and cheerful,

      No matter how poorly he fares;

      No sign that his young heart is heavy

      With the weight of unchildish cares.

      “Home means to him but a dingy room,

      A father he shudders to see;

      Alas for the worse than neglected sons

      Who have such a father as he!

      “And a mother who lies on a ragged bed,

      So sick and worn and sad;

      No friend has she but this one pale boy —

      This poor little sweeper-lad,

      “So rough to others, and all unskilled,

      Yet to her most tender and true,

      Oft waking with patient cheerfulness

      To soothe her the whole night through.

      “He wastes no time on his own scant meals,

      But goes forth with the morning sun;

      Never a moment is wasted

      Till his long day’s work is done.

      “Then home to the dreary attic

      Where his mother lies lonely all day,

      Unheeding the boys who would tempt him

      To linger with them and play.

      “Because she is helpless and lonely,

      He is doing a hero’s part;

      For loving and self-denying

      Are the tests of a noble heart.”

      ROBIN REDBREAST

      ROBIN, Robin Redbreast,

      O, Robin, dear!

      And what will this poor Robin do?

      For pinching days are near.

      The fireside for the cricket,

      The wheat-stack for the mouse,

      When trembling night winds whistle,

      And moan all round the house.

      The frosty way like iron,

      The branches plumed with snow —

      Alas! in winter, dead and dark,

      Where can poor Robin go?

      Robin, Robin Redbreast,

      O, Robin dear!

      And a crumb of bread for Robin,

      His little heart to cheer.

      HOW