very wrong, and I am very sorry. Take me home, and I will

be a sister to you.'

"Not a wife?" said I.

"I can't! I can't!" she answered.

Over went the fourth bag, and I began to think she would beat me after all, for I did not like the idea of going much higher. I would not give in just yet, however. I whistled for a few moments, to give her time for reflection, and then said: "Fanny, they say that marriages are made in heaven if you do not take care, ours will be solemnized there." I took up the fifth bag. Come," I said, "my wife in life, or my companion in death. Which is it to be?" and I patted the sand-bag in a cheerful manner. She held her face in her hands, but did not answer. I nursed the bag in my arms as if it had been a baby.

me.

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"Come, Fanny, give me your promise," I could hear her sobs. I'm the softest-hearted creature breathing, and would not pain any living thing, and I confess she had beaten me. I forgave her the ducking; I forgave her for rejecting. I was on the point of flinging the bag back into the car, and saying, "Dearest Fanny, forgive me for frightening you. Marry whomsoever you wish. Give your lovely hand to the lowest groom in your stables-endow with your priceless beauty the chief of the Panki-wanki Indians. Whatever happens, Jenkins is your slave—your dog-your footstool. His duty henceforth, is to go whithersoever you shall order, to do whatsoever you shall command." I was just on the point of saying this, I repeat, when Fanny suddenly looked up, and said, with a queerish expression upon her face :

“You need not throw that last bag over. I promise to give you my hand.”

"With all your heart ?." I asked, quickly.

"With all my heart," said she, with the same strange look. I tossed the bag into the bottom of the car, and opened the valve. The balloon descended. Gentlemen, will you believe it? when we reached the ground and the balloon had been given over to its recovered master, when I had helped Fanny tenderly to the earth, and turned towards her to receive anew the promise of her affection and her hand — will you believe it? she gave me a box on the ear that upset me against the car, and running to her father, who at that moment came up, she related to him and the assembled company what she called my disgraceful conduct in the balloon, and

ended by informing me that all of her hand that I was likely to get had been already bestowed upon my ear, which she assured me had been given with all her heart.

"You villain!" said Sir George, advancing towards me with a horsewhip in his hand. "You villain! I've a good mind to break this over your back!"

"Sir George," said Ï, “villain and Jenkins must never be coupled in the same sentence; and as for the breaking of this whip, I'll relieve you of the trouble," and, snatching it from his hand, I broke it in two, and threw the pieces on the ground. "And now I shall have the honor of wishing you good morning. Miss Flasher, I forgive you." And I retired.

Now I ask you whether any specimen of female treachery equal to that has ever come within your experience, and whether any excuse can be made for such conduct?

LITCHFIELD MOSELEY.

THE HERITAGE.

THE rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick and stone and gold;
And he inherits soft, white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One would not care to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares:

The bank may break, the factory burn;
Some breath may burst his bubble shares;
And soft, white hands would hardly earn
A living that would suit his turn ;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants:

His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy-chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One would not care to hold in fee.

What does the poor man's son inherit ?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart;
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What does the poor man's son inherit?

Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things; A rank adjudged by toil-won merit; Content that from employment springs; A heart that in his labor sings;

A heritage, it seems to me;
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What does the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned by being poor;
Courage, if sorrow comes, to bear it;
A fellow feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son ! there is a toil

That with all other level stands;

Large charity doth never soil,

But only whitens, soft, white hands;
That is the best crop from the lands;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;
There is worse weariness than thine,

In merely being rich and great;

Work only makes the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign;

A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast,
By record of a well-filled past;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE PRIDE OF BATTERY B.

SOUTH Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay, And over on the wooded height we held their lines at bay.

At last the muttering guns were still; the day died slow and

wan.

At last the gunners' pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns began.

When, as the wind a moment blew aside the flagrant flood Our brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden stood.

A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed (Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed).

And as we stared, her little hand went to her curly head In grave salute: "And who are you?" at length the sergeant said.

"And where's your home?" he growled again. She lisped out, "Who is me?

Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Battery B.

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My home? Why, that was burned away, and pa and ma are dead,

And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant Ned.

"And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too, And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at review.

"But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have their

smoke,

And so they're cross--why, even Ned won't play with me and

joke.

"And the big colonel said, to-day—I hate to hear him swear— He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yank had over there;

"And so I thought when beat the drum, and the big guns were still,

I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the hill

"And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me some Lone Jack,

Please do when we get some again I'll surely bring it back.

"Indeed, I will, for Ned-says he-if I do what I say, I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay.'

We brimmed her tiny apron o'er: you should have heard her laugh

As each man from his scanty store shook out a generous half.

To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy men, Until the sergeant's husky voice said ""Tention, squad !”

and then

We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid, And watched her toddle out of sight-or else 'twas tears that hid

Her tiny form-nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word Till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we heard!

We sent it back, and cast sad eyes upon the scene around: A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound.

That's all-save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell, And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles

fell,