arine, break thy mind to me in broken English; wilt thou have me?

Kath. Dat is as it sall please de roi mon pere.

K. Hen. Nay, it will please him well, Kate; it shall please him, Kate.

Kath. Den it sall also content me.

K. Hen. Upon that I kiss your hand, and I call you

my queen.

Kath. Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez.

K. Hen. Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.
Kath. Il n'est pas la coutume de France.

K. Hen. Madam my interpreter, what says she?
Alice. Dat it is not be de fashion pour les ladies of
France I cannot tell vat is baiser en Anglish.

K. Hen. To kiss.

Alice. Your majesty entendre bettre que moi.

K. Hen. It is not the fashion for the maids in France to kiss before they are married, would she say?

Alice. Oui, vraiment.

K. Hen. O Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within the weak list of a country's fashion: we are the makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that follows our places stops the mouth of all find-faults; as I will do yours, for upholding the nice fashion of your country in denying me a kiss; therefore, patiently and yielding. [Kissing her.] You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate; there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council; and they should sooner. persuade Harry of England than a general petition of monarchs.

THE WIFE'S APPEAL.-GRACE Greenwood.

I'm thinking, Charles, 'tis just a year,

Or will be very soon,

Since you first told me of your love,

One glorious day in June.

The birds caught up our notes of love
In a song not half so sweet,

And earth's green carpet, violet flowered,
It scarcely felt our feet.

But, apropos of carpets, Charles,

I looked at some to-day,

Which you will purchase, won't you, dear, Before our next soiree?

And then, remember you, how, lost

In love's delicious dream,

We long stood silently beside

A gentle, gliding stream?

"Twas Nature's mirror; when your gaze
No longer I could bear,

I modestly cast down my eyes,
Yet but to meet it there.

And, apropos of mirrors, love,
The dear gift of your mother
Is quite old-fashioned, and to-day
I ordered home another.

Ah, well do I remember, Charles,
When first your arm stole round me;
You little dreamed how long your soul
In golden chains had bound me.

But apropos of chains, my own,
At Banks's store last week,
I found the sweetest one, so rich,
So tasteful, and unique!

The workmanship is most superb,
The gold most fine and pure ;

I quite long, Charles, to see that chain
Suspend your miniature!

I heard sad news when you were out,—
My nerves are much affected ;-
You know that navy officer
I once for you rejected?

Driven to despair by your success,
Made desperate by my scorn,
He went to sea, and has been lost
In passing round Cape Horn.

Ah, apropos of capes, my love,
I saw one in Broadway,

Of lace, as fine as though 'twas wove
Of moonbeams, by a fay.

You'll purchase the exquisite thing,
"Twill suit your taste completely;
Above the heart that loves you, Charles,
"Twill rise and fall so sweetly.

MARJORY MAY.

Marjory May came tripping from town,
Fresh as a pink in her trim white gown.

A picture was Marjory, slim and fair,

With her large sun-hat and her sunlit hair;

And down the green lane where I chanced to stray
I met, by accident, Marjory May.

Marjory May had come out for a stroll,
Past the gray church and round by the toll,
Perhaps by the wood and the wishing-stone,
There was sweet Marjory tripping alone.
May I come, too? now don't say me nay."
"Just as you please," laughed Marjory May.
So it fell out that we went all alone,

Round by the wood and the wishing-stone;
And there I whispered the wish of my life,—
Wished that sweet Marjory May were my wife,
"For I love you so dear. Is it aye or nay?
Come, answer me quickly, sweet Marjory May !"
Marjory stood; not a word did she speak,
Only the red blood flushed in her cheek.
Then she looked up with a grave, sweet smile
(The flush dying out of her face the while),
"I like you so much, but not in that way,

And then there is John," said Marjory May.
Years have rolled on since that fair summer's day,
Still I'm a bachelor, old and gray.

Whenever I take my lonely stroll

Round by the wood and back by the toll,
I pass by the house where her children play,
For John has married sweet Marjory May.

FROM THE WRECK.-ADAM LINDSAY GORDON.

"Turn out, boys."-"What's up with our super to-night? The man's mad. Two hours to daybreak, I'd swear. Stark mad-why, there isn't a glimmer of light

"Take Bolingbroke, Alec, give Jack the young mare; Look sharp. A large vessel lies jammed on the reef,

And many on board still, and some washed on shore. Ride straight with the news-they may send some relief From the township; and we,—we can do little more.

"You, Alec, you know the near cuts, you can cross The Sugarloaf ford with a scramble, I think; Don't spare the blood filly, nor yet the black horse; Should the wind rise, God help them! the ship will soon sink.

Old Peter's away down the paddock, to drive

The nags to the stockyard as fast as he can,—

A life and death matter; so, lads, look alive."

Half dressed, in the dark to the stockyard we ran.

There was bridling with hurry, and saddling with haste, Confusion and cursing for lack of a moon.

"Be quick with these buckles, we've no time to waste." "Mind the mare, she can use her hind legs to some tune." "Make sure of the crossing-place; strike the old track,

They've fenced off the new one. Look out for the holes On the Wornbat hills." 'Down with the slip rails; stand back."

"And ride, boys, the pair of you, ride for your souls."

In the low branches heavily laden with dew,

In the long grasses spoiling with deadwood that day, Where the black wood, the box, and the bastard oak grew, Between the tall gumtrees we galloped away.

We crashed through a brush fence, we splashed through a swamp,

We steered for the north, near "the Eaglehawk's Nest," We bore to the left, just beyond "the Red Camp,"

And round the black tea-tree belt, heeled to the west.

We crossed a low range, sickly scente. with musk
From wattle-tree blossom-we skirted a marsh-
Then the dawn faintly dappled with orange the dusk,
And pealed overhead the jay's laughter note harsh,

And shot the first sunstreak behind us,

and soon

The dim, dewy uplands were dreamy with light; And full on our left flashed "the reedy lagoon,"

And sharply "The Sugarloaf” reared on our right.

A smothered curse broke through the bushman's brown beard,

He turned in his saddle, his brick-colored cheek

Flushed feebly with sundawn, said, "Just what I feared;
Last fortnight's late rainfall has flooded the creek."
Black Bolingbroke snorted and stood on the brink
One instant, then deep in the dark sluggish swirl
Plunged headlong. I saw the horse suddenly sink,
Till round the man's armpits the wave seemed to curl.
We followed,-one cold shock, and deeper we sank

Than they did, and twice tried the landing in vain;
The third struggle won it-straight, straight up the steep bank
We staggered, then out on the skirts of the plain.
The stockrider, Alec, at starting had got

The lead, and had kept it throughout; 'twas his boast That through thickest of scrub he could steer like a shot, And the black horse was counted the best on the coast.

The mare had been awkward enough in the dark,
She was eager and headstrong, and barely half-broke;
She had had me too close to a big stringy bark,

And made a near thing of a crooked she-oak;
But now on the open, lit up by the morn,

She flung the white foam flakes from nostril to neck, And chased him,-I, hatless, with shirt-sleeves all torn (For he may ride ragged who rides from a wreck)—

And faster and faster across the wide heath

We rode till we raced. Then I gave her her head,
And she-stretching out with the bit in her teeth-
She caught him, outpaced him, and passed him, and led.
We neared the new fence; we were wide of the track;
I looked right and left-she had never been tried
At a stiff leap. 'Twas little he cared on the black.
"You're more than a mile from the gateway," he cried.

I hung to her neck, touched her flank with the spurs
(In the red streak of rail not the ghost of a gap);
She shortened her long stroke, she pricked her sharp ears,
She flung it behind her with hardly a rap.