and kind words, and sometimes more substantial tokens in the shape of sweets or cakes, a flower or a picture.

We could imagine the scene; the crowd around the caravan, the gaudily-dressed figures gesticulating, while the shouts of invitation to "Walk up" were nearly drowned by the blare of a trumpet and the beat of a drum. The flaring oil-lamps, before whose blaze the pure light of the declining day shrank hastily beneath the cloak of night; Jo standing at the outer edge of the crowd gazing up with longing eyes; then the appearance of Mr. Kearney, to whom Jo's face made instant appeal; his steering her through the crowd and up the steps of the caravan, to mount which, and to enter was to Jo, we knew, the summit of earthly happiness.

Perhaps Jo's thoughts had travelled in the same direction as ours, for she looked downcast still for that slip of her tongue, and, as if to break an awkward pause, she bade the stranger show what was in her pinafore which she had tucked up. The child spread it out, saying with an English accent as she did so :

"The sweets is for myself, the biscuits for Jack, and the apples for Rosinar."

"Rosina!" we exclaimed, "What a splendid name!"

"She is my sister, and Jack's my brother. They perform!" she said, with much dignity, adding, "My name is Elizar." "And do you perform too?"

Noa, not yet, But, I say! don't yer like my name?" "Oh! it is a very nice name, but not so grand as Rosina, you know. What does she perform?"

"She dances a waltz and a jig, and Jack sings a comic and dances a hornpipe."

"Well, and is there anything else?"

"We have," she said, bridling with proprietary pride, "a kangaroo, a oppossum, a ostritch and some more; and then, there's the pony!"

"What kind of pony?"

"Why, a performin' pony. He shows up the old woman that's fond of her cup of tea, and the old man that takes a drop too much, and the lads and lasses that goes a-courtin'."

"He's a stupid old pony anyway," remarked Jo.

"Mind you

they asked him what little girl doesn't learn her lessons, and he stopped at me! and that was a lie for him, I do learn my lessons."

"He's not stupid," cried Eliza indignantly. "He's a fu'st-rate pony."

"Well, did he ever tell anything about you that was the truth?"

Eliza nodded affirmatively.

"What was it?" persisted Jo.

"That I'm the little gal that steals the sugar.' "What a dreadful pony!" we cried.

"The price to

"Wouldn't you like to see him?"-eagerly. get in is fourpence, but I'll let you in for tuppence." This generous offer was gratefully declined. Well, I thought you might," she went on. "Lots of people like to see the pony. Why! we drew fifteen shillins last night!" The child's business-like air was saddening somehow.

"Is your mother alive, little one?"

"Yes, she is, but she aint here; she's in Manchester with my grandmother 'cause she's sick. My grandmother," she continued solemnly, and looking to see that we were duly impressed, "is a giant! She could chuck yer up into the sky!"

"Did she ever raise you so high? "

"That she did, many a time."

"And what did you see up there?"

"I saw heaven and the angels, and they had on white dresses with spangles all over, same as our Rosina wears when she's performin'.'

"And did you not wish to stay in that beautiful place?"

"Noa, I didn't; anyway my gran hauled me down pretty quick."

"Much she knows about heaven!" broke in Jo. "She hasn't found out where the chapel is yet; but I'm going to take her to Mass on Sunday."

Jo was as good as her word; on Sunday we encountered the pair.

"Isn't she a queer little girl?" said Jo. "She was looking about all the time at Mass instead of saying her prayers, and she doesn't know how to bless herself; I've been trying to teach her." "Do you not go to Mass every Sunday, child?"

"Noa, we mostly travels on a Sunday, and don't I have a rare good time, gatherin' flowers or berries! Sometimes I ride Puck, that's the pony, for a mile or two."

"But don't you have to learn catechism or say any prayers, Eliza ?" asked Jo.

"My name aint Elizar."

"Oh! you told us that is your name!”

"Well, it aint, it's Rosinar."

"Oh!" cried Jo again.

fib.

"What a

A look silenced Jo, but she formed with her lips the letters

"Did you not tell us Rosina is your sister's name ?"

"Well, it's mine too, for I christened myself."

Our grave

looks seemed to trouble the little one.

"You said," she cried, excitedly, "that Rosinar is splendid, and I just went and christened myself all over in a big tub of water!"

"Didn't I tell you she's a very queer little girl?" cried Jo.

"My dear child, you must be content with your own name, and I think you will, when I tell you that in heaven there is a saint called Elizabeth, that is Eliza too you know. I am going to ask her to be a friend to you."

"Oh, I say! that is nice; and next time my gran chucks me Maybe she'll know me!" walking briskly by herself.

up I shall look out for her!

Some days later we met Jo

"So the show is gone, Jo. Are you lonely?" we said.

"Indeed I'm not; why should I be lonely? I am going up to Gracie Murphy's now; her brother has a donkey, and he promised to give us a ride apiece."

JESSIE TULLOCH.

THE PERFECT WORK.

I.

O the great earth revolveth at God's will,

Through noon, and night, and solemn watch of day, Securely poised and girdled in the way

By Him, who wrought and guards her axle still,
As He doth guard the pod, that for the bill

Of the blue bird was nurtured with sweet clay,
And sun, and rain, and housing of the spray
Of tender leaves. All things proclaim His skill :
The humblest flower that springs straight from His hand,
The weed made salvage by a wanton sea,

And driven forth and back through spume and sand,
O mark the veins, the fringe, the symmetry,
Almost the waste of care. What art has planned
The spider's loom, the shuttle of the bee!

II.

And ever still with each returning year,

When summer decks with gold the grave of spring,
When stirs again the swallow's restless wing,
Without a compass, with no thought of fear,
No scrip, no purse, no friend, and far or near,
No wayside inn, she steers, a helpless thing
Safe in His hands, where oceans rage and fling
Wild foam; 'mid pathless wastes, her pathway clear.
He makes an architect of the poor snail,

And shows him how to work his well laid plan,
And build his doorless house, without a nail,
Without a stone, perfect in curve and span,
In color, shade, and stain, grey, red or pale,
Fairer than e'er was drawn by hand of man.

ALICE ESMOnde.

CLAVIS ACROSTICA.

A KEY TO DUBLIN ACROSTICS."

EFORE referring to the last solutions received we may refer back to the last light of No. 10. We find that Nuttall's Standard Dictionary (of which the hundredth thousand was issued in 1886) gives what we sought in vain in the colossal Worcester. "Bees-wing, a filmy crust on port wine." This makes "Admire my wing" an ingenious roundabout for port. A parrot has no special right to utter that egotistical appeal.

We have reason to believe that these acrostics excite some interest among readers who do not care to come forward with their solutions. For instance a certain beautiful Convent of Mercy not only made out the proper answers but threw into rhyme the answer to No. 7.

From trough to crest,
E'en when at rest

The tar is tossed.

To deaden sound of hoof or van,
Commend me to asphalt or tan.

A Highland lad
With tartan plaid
Whose green and blue
(Like love when true)
Is ever crossed.

J. W. A. is evidently enervated by the hot weather or by the spirit of vacation. He writes:

"Your nuts are much too hard to crack this time. No. 12 is certainly 'blackberry,' and four of the lights are bob,' lattice,' 'character,' and 'key.' But the other light puzzles me completely. No. 11 I give up, though I can make three of the lights easily fit the solution' railways.'

But the answer to No. 11 is "ironclad," and the lights are "italic," "revel," "Oriana," and "Nereid." The third light for "blackberry" is "armour" and the allusion is to Ivanhoe. The next light-which J. W. A. has explained for us-refers to a couplet in Pope's Moral Essays, Epistle II. :

Nothing so true as what you once let fall

Most women have no character at all.