210
The Old Man and the Princess.
HERE were once assembled, in Doc-
t tory, a great many distinguished
persons, some to consult him,
were many French ladies and gentlemen,
and a Russian prince, with his daughter,
attention. A young French Marquis at-
tempted, for the amusement of the la-
doctor; but the latter, though not ac-
quainted with the French language, an-
bad not the laugh on his side. During
the conversation, there entered an old
white beard, a neighbor of Schuppach’s.
The doctor directly turned away from
and hearing that his wife was ill, set
about preparing the medicine for her,
more exalted guests, whose business he
did not think so pressing. The Marquis
wit, and therefore chose to turn his jokes
against the old man, who was waiting
ring something for his old Mary. After
many silly observations upon his long
louis d’or, that none of the ladies would
kiss the old fellow. The Russian Prin-
to her attendant, who brought her a
salver. The Princess put twelve louis
quis, who, of course, could not decline
to add twelve others. Then the fair Rus-

tor Michael Schuppach’s labora-
and some out of curiosity ; among them
whose singular beauty attracted general
dies, to display his wit on the miraculous
swered so cleverly, that the Marquis
peasant, meanly dressed, with a snow-
his great company, to his old neighbor,
without paying much attention to his
was now deprived of one subject of his
while his neighbor, Michael, was prepa-
white beard, he offered a wager of twelve
cess hearing these words, made a sign
d’or on it, and had it carried to the Mar-
sian went up to the old peasant, and said,

 

 

THE YOUTH’S CABINET.

‘Permit me, venerable father, to salute
you after the fashion of my country.”
Saying this, she embraced him, and gave
him akiss. She then presented him with
the gold which was on the salver, with
these words: “Take this as a remem-
brance of me, and as a proof that the
Russian girls think it their duty to honor
old age.” —Slater’s Little Princes.

The Scent of the Rose.

 

BY MARGARET JUNKIN,

 

I went to the garden to-night, mamma,
To the spot where the rose tree grows,
And I bent down a branch of your favorite
bush,
And gathered a beautiful rose.

It bore such a sweet perfume, mamma,

I thought it must be its breath,

And I hushed my own while I listened to
hear,

But the rose was as still as death.

Then I looked at the pale pink color, mamma,
And fancied the scent was there ;

But then I remembered the delicate bloom

On your cheek was just as fair.

I had often heard of the fairies, mamma,

Who danced all the moonlit night,

And who sometimes slept in the heart of the
rose,

When the sun was warm and bright.

So I tore the flower apart, mamma,
And scattered its leaves around ;
But no little fairy with scented wings,
Was anywhere there to be found.

And now I have gathered another, mamma,
As fragrant as any that grows ;

And I’ve brought it to you to ask you where
Is hidden the scent of the rose.

LexineTon, Va.