WHEN YOU WERE SEVENTEEN.

BY JOEL BURNS.

When the hay was mown, Maggie,

In the years long ago,

And while the western sky was rich

With sunset's rosy glow,

Then hand in hand close-linked we passed
The dewy ricks between,
And I was one-and-twenty, Mag,
And you were seventeen.

Your voice was low and sweet, Maggie,

Your wavy hair was brown;
Your cheek was like the wild red rose
That showered its petals down;
Your eyes were like the blue speedwell,
With dewy moisture's sheen,
When I was one-and-twenty, Mag,
And you were seventeen.

The spring was in our hearts, Maggie,
And all its hopes were ours;
And we were children in the fields,
Among the opening flowers.
Aye; life was like the summer day
Amid the woodlands green,
For I was one-and-twenty, Mag,
And you were seventeen.

The years have come and gone, Maggie,
With sunshine and with shade;

And silvered is the silken hair

That o'er your shoulders strayed
In many a soft and wayward tress-
The fairest ever seen-
When I was one-and-twenty, Mag,
And you were seventeen.

Though gentle changing Time, Maggie,

Has touched you in his flight,
Your voice has still the old sweet tone,
Your eye the old love-light.
And years can never, never change
The heart you gave, I ween,
When I was one-and-twenty, Mag,
And you were seventeen.

The Pin and the Needle.

A pin and a needle, being neighbors in a workbasket, and both being idle folks, began to quarrel, as idle folks are apt to do.

"I should like to know," said the pin, "what you are good for, and how you expect to get through the world without a head?"

"What's the use of your head," replied the needle, "if you have no eye?"

"And you are so proud that you can't bend your back without breaking it."

"I'll pull your head off if you insult me again," said the needle.

"I'll put your eye out if you touch me; remember your life hangs on a single thread," said the pin.

While they were thus conversing, a little girl entered, and undertaking to sew, she very soon broke off the needle at the eye. She then tied the thread around the head of the pin, and attempting to sew with it, she soon pulled the head off, and threw it in the dirt by the side of the broken needle.

"Well, here we are," said the needle.

"We have nothing to fight about now," said the pin. "It seems misfortune has brought us to our senses."

"Pity we did not come to them sooner," said the needle. "How much we resemble human beings who quarrel about their blessings till they lose them, and never find out that they are brothers till they lay down in the dust as we do."

Man's Destiny.

It is a man's destiny still to be longing after something; and thus the gratification of one set of wishes but prepare the unsatisfied soul for the conception of another.

The child of a year old wants little but food and sleep; and no sooner is he supplied with a sufficient allowance of either of these very excellent things, then he begins whimpering or yelling, it may be for the other.

At three, the young urchin becomes enamored of sugar-plums, apple pies, and confectionery.

"At six, his imagination runs on kites, marbles, and tops, and an abundance of playtime.

At ten, the boy wants to leave school, and have nothing to do but go bird-nesting.

At fiftern, he wants a beard, and a watch, and a pair of boots.

At twenty he wishes to cut a figure and ride horses; sometimes his thirst for display breaks out in dandyism, and sometimes in poetry; he wants sadly to be in love, and takes it for granted that all the ladies are dying for him.

The young man of twenty-five wants a wife; and at thirty he longs to be single again.

From thirty to forty he wants to be rich, and thinks more of making money than spending it. About this time also he dabbles in politics, and wants office.

At fifty, he wants excellent dinners and capital wine, and considers a nap indispensable.

The respectable old gentleman of sixty wants to retire from business with a snug independence of three or four hundred thousand, to marry his daugh

then, for the rest of his days, he wants to be young

"Because you have always a stitch in your side," said the pin.

spots. This is an important fact in natural history."

HAT makes you so stupid, Monsieur Chapouile?" playfully said a young and beautiful girl to a handsome youth, as the two sat together in a tasteful apartment of their home one summer evening. "Here I have been talking to you for the last half hour, and not a single sentence in reply! Where were your ears just now, that you did not answer my last question?"

"I do not feel gay to-night, Theresa. How can I be so, when to-morrow I leave you, whom I love so well, and go away to scenes of danger from which I may never return?" said the youth, with a sigh.

"Ah, yes, you will return, Adolphe!" said the young girl. "My heart tells me you will, and that you will bring back honors, won in battle with our foes-the English. Then be not gloomy to-night. Look at me. Is not my face bright and sunny, and how can you be sad? Let us, ma chere cousine, bury our grief out of sight. It is not well to wear it upon our faces, thereby making each other sad." "Your words are true, Theresa. It is not well to forebode evil, and I will banish all fears, and be happy in the present, and in hope for the future," replied the young man, as, looking upon his cousin, his heart, overleaping the weary days of separation, grew joyous in thinking of the bliss in store for him when they should be united.

Bring me my lute, then, Adolphe, and let us sing together once more some of the happy songs of our childhood days, when, in la belle France, we enjoyed peace and security," said Theresa.

The young man ro-e, and crossing the apartment, took the instrument from a marble table, and placed it before his cousin; then, standing beside her, joined in the songs that followed. The rich melody of their voices filled the room, and floated out on the soft summer air in a harmony of volume and sweetness, as song after song of sunny grapeland and Provencal minnesinger followed.

The events of our story lie back in that period of history called the French and Indian war, when the French and English were battling for supremacy upon the lakes, and the conquest of Canada was looked upon as of great importance by the latter nation.

Monsieur Villiers was past the meridian of life, and therefore did not take active part in the war which was surrounding him, but to Adolphe, his nephew, who was eager to engage in the cause of his people, his words were, "Go, and, by the bravery of your good right arm, bring success to our cause!" Adolphe and Theresa had been destined for each other from infancy, and their marriage was to take place when the young man should return from the

army.

The two now in the luxurious drawing-room of the handsome mansion Monsieur Villiers had built just outside the verge of the populous city, were spending their last evening together-Theresa, with her lute in her hand, sitting at the open window which gave a view of the garden wherein bloomed her favorite flowers, and whose broad walks led to pleasant, vine-wreathed arbors, and her cousin standing beside her; both bright, living pictures of the youth of that sunny land their songs had conjured up.

They were so engaged that neither noticed the opening door, and the entrance of Monsieur Villiers who came and stood near them.

At the close of the last song, when Adolphe was about to pay some sweet meed of praise to Theresa Monsieur approached them.

"My dear children," he said, "the words of your song carry me back to France again, and I grow sad. If we were there now, Adolphe would not, tomorrow, leave us for the army. But it is best. I feel hopeful that his strong frame and lion heart will carry him through battle-scenes, and that he will return to us to make us both happy again. I almost wish that I, too, had the vigor of youth, that I might assist my countrymen. But, Adolphe, you will be brave!" he said, placing his hand upon the young man's head, "and do service for us both!"

"Yes, and Adolphe will return to us a titled officer," said Theresa, gaily. "In place of Monsieur Chapouile, it will be 'Le Capitaine,' or 'Le Colonel.' Mon chere pere, our house will be well represented in Adolphe, I know, for he is both brave and bold," she said proudly.

"Do not be too sanguine of my success, Theresa," said her cousin. "My ears are yet unused to the sound of battle; and though I have no fears of that, yet some must fall, and it may be my fate. But I shall die without regret, if my life can aid in the success of the cause wherein I engage, and in giving to you peace."

Monsieur Villiers had but recently emigrated from la belle France. His wife had died in Paris three years previous, and he had left his native land—the scene of his early happiness and his late bereavement-which was now rendered insupportable to him, and with Theresa and Adolphe, who, orphaned in early youth, had found in his uncle a parent crossed the ocean, and settled in the city of his countrymen, Quebec.

period, my dear children, and I will not stay longer now. Come to my room, Adolphe, in an hour, for I have much to say to you ere you go," and Monsieur Villiers left the apartment.

An hour went by, its swift-winged moments fraught with happiness to the lovers. At its close, when Theresa sought her own room to weep the tears she had restrained during the evening, at the coming separation, and then to sink into an uneasy slumber, Adolphe, who had on leaving her, hastened to his uncle's room, sat with him late into the night, receiving good advice and his farewell wishes

On the morrow, when, in the early hours of the forenoon, the young soldier stood in the doorway, bidding them adieu, he whispered to Theresa, as he took her hand at parting:

"I feel as though something would come between us, my beloved, and that, if I should be spared to return, we should not meet as now. Why is it my heart forbodes this, dearest one?"

"You are growing fearful and gloomy, mon cher Adolphe," she replied. "Bring back the bravery to your heart, or it will never do for you to leave us so."

"I am strong only where you are concerned, Theresa," he replied. "Have no fears that I shall prove a coward in battle. But henceforth, I will banish all foolish fears in looking forward to a speedy and happy meeting!" and kissing her adieu, Adolphe ran down the steps, and in a few moments was upon the street leading to the open highway from the city.

CHAPTER II.

THE FALL OF QUEBEC.

THE war had lasted for several years, and point after point had been won from the French by the English, till the waters of most of the lakes were free to them.

In the year 1759, the grand campaign for the entire conquest of Canada, was undertaken, and all the strongholds of the French were to be attacked at about the same time by three powerful British armies.

Under the brave Montcalm, Adolphe Chapouile had won distinction as a soldier, and a captain's commission had been bestowed upon him.

So earnest and vigorous had been the efforts of the French to repel their foes, and so hard-pushed had their forces been, that Adolphe had found no opportunity for a visit to Quebec since joining the army. During the brief intervals when a cessation of hostilities occurred, it had so happened that he was stationed at some important post it was his duty to guard, and so three years had gone by, and during that period, which seemed an age to his impatient, waiting heart, he had not looked upon Theresa or her father.

The campaign had commenced. It was well known to the French that their enemies had set their hearts on the subjugation of Canada. Their own forces held Ticonderoga, Crown Point Niagara and Quebec, and hard battles must ensue ere the English wrested these away. But, like all the others, these were destined to pass from them, and the voice of the French people was to take a minor key in the great pean of victory which went swelling over the Canadas.

Early in July, led by the brave British commander-in-chief, General Amherst, a division of men marched against Ticonderoga and this fortress was compelled to surrender; then, moving their forces against Crown Point, this also fell into their hands. While General Amherst led this portion of the - forces in the east, across the State of New York, at i's western boundary, another army under General

and again the English were victorious, and during the period in which these places were being conquered, the conquest of Quebec was meditated.

This most important enterprise of the war was under the control of the brave and gallant Genera l Wolfe, and the city of Quebec was ably guarded by Montcalm, equal in bravery, and as distinguished an officer as the young English commander.

But the bold plan of Wolfe—to reach the heights of Abraham with his army, in the night—and the successful carrying out of this project, decided the fate of that city.

When the thick darkness hung heavy over the earth, Wolfe's army in their boats, silently dropping down the stream, landed near the city, and under the pall of midnight, gained the desired station.

At early dawn, great was the surprise and consternation of the French to behold their enemy drawn up in long battle array in their very midst. Had an army dropped down from Heaven, General Montcalm, who, deeming this point impregnable from its height, had not fortified it, could not have been more astonished. But his eye did not deceive him; the English were there in strong force, and a battle must speedily follow, and when the dawn broadened into mid-day, then came the shock of battle. The two armies met, and in the sanguinary contest that followed, fell both commandersthe British General consecrating the field with his life blood, while the gallant Montcalm, who, had fought nobly, desperately, but vainly, hved to be taken to the city, where he passed the last moments of his waning life in writing a letter to the English general, imploring his mercy on the French prison ers of war.

Five days passed, and one morning, Monsieur Villiers rushed into the room where his daughter sat, pale and anxious.

Theresa, the city has surrendered! The English are victorious!" was his exclamation.

"What shall we do?" exclaimed Theresa, in great alarm. "Will our captors drive us from our homes? Will they prove a cruel foe, do you think, my father?"

"Helas! I know not," he replied, walking the floor in great agitation. "I only know that our good city is in the hands of the enemy, but what measures will be taken by them will shortly be determined. I will leave you now to ascertain, if possible."

Theresa remained in a state of great excitement during her father's absence. For five days and nights she had hardly taken rest or sleep, kept on the rack of suspense by the siege of the city. But now, the end had come. They were at the mercy of their English captors, and the proud heart of the French girl rebelled at this; yet she was obliged to strive for calmness, in order to allay the fears of the terrified servants who came rushing in, each with some wonderful tale of the dreadful cruelty they must shortly experience at the hands of their British enemy.

In the midst of this alarm Monsieur Villiers returned again.

"Hush, my foolish friends!" he exclaimed, au thoritatively. Tis true Quebec has fallen, but in

dividually, we are in no danger. The English have their headquarters in the city, but their commander assures us that the rights and property of the French citizens shall be respected. Now, go about your usual duty, without fear of molestation!" was his command.

After the servants had departed, he added to his daughter:

"Our captors are more gentlemanly than I supposed. Many of the officers express a desire to be on friendly terms with us. We must make a virtue of necessity, my daughter, and yield as gracefully as possible. But I have good news for you-a letter from our absent one, which was given me by a trusty courier just as I was entering the house," and he gave her the letter, adding:

"This messenger passed the British lines with great difficulty, and I shall reward him well for the peril he incurred. To-morrow, he will set out on his return to camp; therefore have your reply in readiness. Now, what says our brave Adolphe ?" Theresa opened the letter with eager fingers, and read with heartfelt joy of the safety and continued health of her soldier lover.

He detailed in lively strains the pleasures as well dangers of a soldier's life, and closed with many messages of affection to her father and herself, adding that he had determined to pay a visit to Quebec | at the first favorable opportunity.

She refolded the letter with a light hand, and went to her room to pen a reply, to send by the return messenger.

CHAPTER III.

A HAPPY FINALE.

Six months had elapsed since the reduction of Quebec, and one morning, Monsieur Villiers and Theresa sat at breakfast in the dining-room of their home.

During the three years that had elapsed since Adolphe bade her farewell, Theresa had grown more beautiful than ever. A deeper hue blended in the masses of her magnificent black hair; a more brilliant light flashed in her midnight eyes; her scarlet lips wore a riper swell, and her form had attained more height and added fullness, which gave to her new attractions.

"It has been now six months since we have had a word from Adolphe," said Monsieur Villiers, looking at his daughter carnestly and sadly as he spoke. "It is a long period, and I know something must have occurred, or he would have been with us long ere this, or we should have heard from him in some way. I am afraid he has fallen in battle, or lies wounded and suffering in camp," he added, gloomily.

"Do not despair, my father!" said Theresa, encouragingly. "Adolphe, you know, was well when we last heard. It is a long time, I know," she added, with a sigh. "Six long weary months of suspense, and no tidings! But he may be a prisoner, or guarding some point from which it is impossible to communicate to us. We will hope for the best, and not despair, until we know for a certainty the worst."

Then turning the conversation, she asked:

"But, father, how do you like the English officer, Colonel Dwight, who dined with us yesterday at the Fraziero ?"

"He seemed noble and chivalrous," replied Monsieur Villiers, "and I noticed he was very attentive to you, Theresa. Be prudent, my daughter, and not smile upon any of the young British, for Adolphe should claim all your thoughts."

"Oh, mon pere, you know Adolphe has my promise and my heart!" replied Theresa, "but surely it is no harm to enjoy a little society in his absence, and the English officers are very charmant for a dinner party or an evening's entertainment."

"My child," replied her father, "I trust you with my own and Adolphe's happiness, and I know that your own is as deeply bound up as ours in the fulfillment of the engagement to take place when Adolphe returns. The English, though our enemies, are brave and bold, yet I cannot like them. This Colonel Dwight seems a gallant officer, yet he he is proud and overbearing, I have been told, to his inferiors, and a true gentleman never exhibits these traits. But we are destined to see much of the English officers now, and it becomes us to meet them with politeness and hospitality."

Spring came. The winter months had been enlivened by the presence of the English in Quebec. It was a gay winter, in which dinner-parties, balls and routs followed each other, and Monsieur Villiers' house was often thrown open to them; for the old Frenchman, like others of his countrymen, was too politic to refuse to mingle with the British, because they had come as their conquerors.

Monsieur Villiers' beautiful and brilliant daughter attracted much attention, and she had been quite the belle of the winter, and it would have required a steadier head than hers to have withstood the ad. ulation that was lavished upon her. Though ap heart she was true to Adolphe, and passed many anxious hours in secret, yet by a strange contradiction, it cannot be denied that the handsome and gallant English officer, Colonel Dwight, had fascinated her by his homage. The French girl often found her heart wavering in its allegiance to her given promise, and the image of her cousin Adolphe was growing dim beside that of his dangerous rival, whose heart, had she read truly, when listening to his flattering, gallant words, she would have found, was as fully alive to the wealth she would inherit as the only child of Monsieur Villiers, as to her charms of person and mind.

A few days after the conversation between Monsieur Villiers and his daughter, there came a letter from Adolphe. It had been delayed on the route, and they might expect him at any moment. He had written that he should be compelled to travein disguise in order to pass the English lines, and he added: "Perhaps you will not immediately recognize your Adolphe in his changed attire and after the lapse of time since his absence."

Monsieur Villiers grew joyous at this news.