parted by her faultlessly formed hands, gazed upon the man who was approaching.

There was a tinge of triumph in her tone, and her eyes flashed revenge while she looked.

Margaret Sikinski was, at the time of which we write, the reigning belle of the Polish capital; men of noble birth paid her their addresses, and there were kings who had not hesitated to lay their crowns at her feet. Matchless in her peerless northern beauty, lofty in mien that matched it well, and endowed with all the accomplishments of the age, it is not strange that she had by common consent been crowned the Polish queen of love and passionate beauty.

Some of her sayings, were quoted everywhere in

the palace, at the diet, and on the battle-field. She used to say: "A dagger for the rivals! Siberia for the recreant lover?"

On the day when she stood at the window, and uttered the words that inaugurate our story, Warsaw was filled with tumult. The fires of insurrection which had smouldered since the overthrow of Kosciusko, had burst forth again, and the standard of Polish liberty was set up once more, but to be torn down by the remorseless hand of the Czar Warsaw was destined again, as in the past, to strike the first blow against Russian oppression.

There were brave men, who, while they loved Poland, hesitated to throw themselves into the conflict; they had taken the oath of allegiance to Russia-an oath of great solemnity-to break which meant Siberia, or death at the block.

Among these men, stood the noble-looking personage who approached Margaret Sikinski's house on the eventful day. He was clad in the undress but brilhant uniform of a native colonel, and his step, lofty, and firm, proclaimed him a soldier in every respect.

As he reached the door, he caught a glimpse of Margaret at the window, and salu.ed her with courteous gallantry.

A moment later, he stood before her, holding her little hand in his, and looking into her flushed and bewitching face.

"Poland will be free!" Margaret said, with feigned enthusiasm, for few knew that at heart she wished to see Russia crush out the last spark of liberty in the unhappy country.

pion of freedom that she looked, and as she spoke, she laid her hand on the hilt of his sword. "Margaret, you make me waver!" he said, with indecision.

Oh, that I could sway you on the side of right!" she exclaimed. Why did you take that wicked oath to Russia? Do you value it greater than the life of the land groaning beneath the iron heel of despotism ?"

"No!" cried the colonel, drawing his sword. "God helping me, I will not desert Poland in her hour of need. Margaret, I forswear all allegiance to Russia, and here I prove it by breaking my sword-thus!"

His last word was followed by the ringing snap of his polished blade, and he flung the pieces at the beauty's feet.

"Liberty to Poland is now assured?" she cried. "When the banners of disenthralment wave over Warsaw's capital, we will hail thee our deliverer, and cover thee with glory and honor!"

"Nay! I ask not that," the colonel humbly said. "If Poland gains her ends, I shall be content, and wish to be called no greater than her poorest lancer."

Margaret Sikinski's eyes flashed with great triumph, when she picked up the colonel's sword and laid it on the table.

Then in wine she pledged the soldier, and saw him depart.

"Ivan?" she called, in a low voice, when the door had closed upon the handsome colonel, and a silken arras at the further side of the room was

"You saw all ?" she said.

Colonel Drowski was silent.

"To the Czar this would be treason, Margaret!" he said at last, with a faint smile.

"Then treason be it!" the exclaimed. "Is it such to you, Colonel Nicholas ?"

"No!" he said, flushing. "Unhappy Poland! Would that I could draw my sword for thee!" She pretended to start violently at his words. "What!" she said, Will you stand aloof, when the country calls? Must we say that the bravest colonel in the service refused to listen to Poland's cries-that he stood with folded arms, while Russia forged the fetter of everlasting bondage for the land of John Sobieski ?"

The soldier's face grew pale.
My oath-"

46

"Fling it to the winds! What is an oath given to an oppressor, when one's own country calls for deliverance from that same oppressor? Many brave Poles broke their Russian swords last night, and swore eternal fidelity to Poland. Aye, away with your word to Nicholas! A bad promise is better broken than kept, my colonel. Be true to unhappy Poland; do not let Margaret Sikinski blush to think of you when liberty grapples with oppression on the field of battle."

She stood before him with face all aglow with enthusiasm, seeming in reality the beautiful cham

"Yes-the abominable traitor!" was the man's reply.

"I knew I would not fail, thongh others had." "He is going to-" "Siberia!"

"Not to the block, then!" Ivan said, with a show of disappointment.

"For him, Siberia," was the reply. "Amid the snows of that land of living death, he shall think of Mar aret's revenge, and curse the hour that he broke his swod and his oath."

"How vengeful you Polish beauties are!" said Ivan, who was mor Russian than Pole.

Margaret smiled, and showed her pearly teeth. "I shall keep my word!" he continued.

"Oh, I care not for that," she said, with a light laugh. "This is an era of oath-breaking. He will fling himself into the rebellion like a madman, and if battle spares him, then Siberia. But Ivan do you not think the revolution might succeed ?" "Succeed?" the word was followed by a coarse laugh. "It will be crushed. Russia will strangle the very customs of this land. I came from the Czar's palace. I know what he will do. He will abolish the universities of Wilna and Warsaw— carry the public libraries and museums to St. Petersburgh, and probibit the Polish language.”

"Not the last, Ivan ?" cried Margaret, her face growing deathly pale.

"Yes, and more, my lady."

"That is enough. God help thee, miserable land!"

Margaret could not repress the exclamation. Despite her Russian sympathies, there was one corner of her heart green for Poland.

At last she found herself alone, for Ivan the Czar's spy had departed to communicate with his master, and to think of the lovely Polish girl for whose heart and hand he was plotting.

As he hurried to the outskirts of the capital, he saw Colonel Drowski emerging from an unpretentious house, and his keen eyes caught a glimpse of a bewitching face beyond the half open door. Quick as thought, his countenance darkened; but his eyes flashed with malignity.

He knew that Nicholas Drowski had just left Anna Kiolda, and the spy bit his lips when he thought the fair Polish lass had kissed the noble • colonel.

Seated on his charger, and clad in his magnificent uniform, which had attracted the enemy's attention all through the day, this soldier gazed upon the bloody rout, and, undismayed, saw the tide of defeat sweep swiftly by. Like Murat at Smoleusko, he seemed to be waiting for the bullet which should prostrate him with the overthrow of Poland.

SEE ENGRAVING.

His eye surveyed every part of the disastrous field; he saw the terrible work of the Russian cannon, and his eye flashed as a regiment of his countrymen turned for a minute and punished a horde of Cossacks.

All at once he caught sight of a person riding directly towards him. The coming one seemed intent on escaping to the capital, for he was urging his animal to the top of its speed. But when he

CHAPTER II.

THE BITER BITTEN.

"GOOD-BY, dearest!" said the Polish colonel to Anna Kiolda one day, and mounting his horse he threw himself at the head of his regiment and galloped from Warsaw.

The night before he had parted from Margaret; with a smile deep and full of revenge, the belle of Warsaw threw a richly embroidered cloak over his shoulders, and saw him ride away.

"Farewell, my exile!" she said after him. "Margaret Sikinski sends to Siberia all who refuse to fall at her feet and worship her!"

Poland rose against the oppression of Russia in her insignificant might—insignificant, because domination had weakened her once puissant arm, and because the result of rebellion had been fore

cast.

The struggle which followed the revolution of 1831 will go down to history as one of the bravest conflicts for liberty ever waged by man. The Poles, with liberty on one hand and Siberia and death on the other, performed deeds of valor to which time will ever bow, but the struggle, hopeless from the first, will never disgrace the national

name.

Throughout the war Nicholas Drowski led his men to heroic sacrifice, and won a name cherished to-day by the unhappy land for which he fought. For some time messages from Anna Kiolda reached him with regularity; but they suddenly ceased, and he heard nothing from the sweetheart at the capital.

Dark was the day for Poland that witnessed the last great battle, not far from the walls of Warsaw. The Russians far outnumbered the revolutionists; their serried ranks moved resistless over the field, and the charges of the gallant Poles were vain. Four times, with lance and sabre, Nicholas Drowski led his cavalry against the foe, and as many times had he been forced to retire with shattered ranks and riddled standards. At last, unable to stem the tide of Russian war, the Polish army gave way; the cavalry broke and fled, leaving one man alone amid the smoke and carnage of the fatal field.

and said in a sarcastic voice:

"Anna Kiolda was wedded last night to Ivan Michelloff, the Czar's spy. Colonel Drowski can die over there!"

The man was pointing to a Russian battery that was dealing death to the fugitives; but he saw the Polish colonel grow pale, and almost reel from the saddle.

He did not speak, but half drew his sword, and looked at the battery.

"Go!" the man cried. for a Polish colonel to die. ye between them!"

"It is a glorious place That or Siberia; choose

"Siberia? Never that!" cried Nicholas, and the next moment his horse was bearing him towards the jaws of the Russian battery.

For a moment the strange man watched him, and then galloped toward Warsaw.

"Margaret Sikinski says Siberia; but I say death!" he said, an evil expression of triumph settling on his unhandsome face begrimed with battle powder. "You are a brave man, Nicholas Drowski; the Russian cannon will soon finish you, and give me Anna Kiolda!"

The speaker, who was none other than the spy Ivan, soon disappeared, and without looking back joined the fugitives whom his fleet charger speedily distanced.

He entered the capital and dismounted before an unpretentious house in the poor, but withal a respectable quarter of the city, and sprang across the threshold. A beautiful young girl who had noticed his arrival, greeted him in the low ceiled corridor.

"The day?" she gasped, as if reading bad news in his face.

"It is lost!"

"Lost for Poland ?"

"Russia has crushed her again-this time forever!"

"Where is he?"

"Dead before a Russian battery!"

One wild shriek and Anna Kiolda reeled from the spy; but his arms caught her before she touched the floor.

"Mourn him not, Anna," he said with his lips close to her golden hair. "I love you! I stand high in the Czar's favor. He has promised to make me a prince, and you shall be my princess far from

it."

But the girl did not reply; she only looked up into his face and shuddered.

64

Say that it shall be thus!" he continued. "Not now," was the answer.

dead."

"Not dead?" cried Ivan with a start. "Why, I saw him go down before the Russian guns. He lies there now, free from Siberia."

Before Anna could reply, the door was flung wide, and the uniformed figure of a Polish colonel darkened the hall.

Ivan the spy turned and confronted Nicholas Drowski, whom he had just told lay dead before the Russian cannon.

“Draw, villain!” cried the Pole. "I thought I recognized your face despite the powder. I am here to punish!"

With a cry of rage the spy released the fair girl,

and the next moment the crash of blades resounded throughout the house.

The combat was of short duration, for Nicholas hewed the traitor down, and sheathed his sword. "Come, Anna, while all is yet contusion," he cried. "I know a spot where the iron hand of Russia throttles nothing."

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For days Margaret Sikinski's spies hunted for the Polish colonel. She would have sent him to Siberia, but he and his love eluded her vigilance. The fugitives ultimately escaped to America, where under the flag of established freedom, they were united in marriage.

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left Warsaw and ended her days in the clime to which she had consigned the Polish colonel. For intrigue she went, herself, to Siberia!

A Native House in Algeria.

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་

If you do not take care of them, I shall," said

the clever shoemaker, in anger. "What do you say, Esquire White ?"

"I cannot take care of them now, but I will pay you for all damages."

Well," said he, "you will find that a hard thing, I guess."

So off he went, and I heard a terrible squalling among the geese. The next news from the geese was that three of them were missing. My children went, and found them terribly mangled and dead, and thrown into the bushes.

"Now," said I," all keep still, and let me pun

ish him."

In a few days the shoemaker's hogs broke into my corn. I saw them, but let them remain a long time. At last I drove them all out, and picked up the corn they had torn down, and fed them with it in the road. By this time the shoemaker came after them.

"Have you seen anything of my hogs ?" says he. "Yes, sir, you will find them yonder, eating some corn which they tore down in my field."

"In your field?"

"Yes, sir," said I; "hogs love corn you knowthey were made to eat it."

"How much mischief have they done?" "Oh, not much," said I.

Well, off he went to look, and estimated the damage to be equal to a bushel and a half of corn.

'Oh, no," said I, "it can't be." "Yes," said the shoemaker, "and I will pay every cent of damage."

"No," replied I, "you shall pay me nothing. My geese have been a great trouble to you."

The shoemaker blushed, and went home. The next winter, when we came to settle, the shoemaker determined to pay me for my corn.

"No," said I," I ask nothing."

After some talk we parted, but in a few days I met him on the road, and fell into conversation in the most friendly manner. But when I started on he seemed loth to move, and I paused. For a moment both of us were silent. At last he said

"I have something laboring on my mind." "Well, what is it?"

"Those geese. I killed three of your geese, and shall never rest till you know how I feel. I am sorry."

And the tears came into his eyes. "Oh, well," said I, "never mind. I suppose my geese were provoking."

1 never took anything of him for it; but whenever my cattle broke into his field after this, he

seemed glad, because he could show how patient be could be.

THE SMACK AT SCHOOL.

A district school, not far away
'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day
Was humming with its wonted noise
Of threescore mingled girls and boys;
Some few upon their tasks intent,
But more on furtive mischief bent;
The while the master's downward look
Was fastened on a copy book,

Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack!
As 'twere a battery of bliss

Let off in one tremendous kiss!
"What's that?" the startled master cried,
"That, thir," a little imp replies,
"Wath William Willith, if you pleathe
I thaw him kith Thuthannah Peathe!"
With frown to make a statue thrill,
The master thundered, "Hither, Will!"
Like a wretch o'ertaken in his track,
With stolen chattels on his back,
Will hung his head in fear and shame,
And in the awful presence came-
A great, green, bashful simpleton,
The butt of all good-humored fun.

With smile suppressed and hirch upraised,

The threatener faltered, "I'm amazed

That you, my biggest pupil, should

Be guilty of an act so rude!

Before the whole set school to boot-
What evil genius put you to't?"
""Twas, she herself, sir," sobbed the lad,
"I didn't mean to be so bad;-
But when Susannah shook her curls,
And whispered, I was 'fraid o' the girls,
And darsen't kiss a baby's doll,

I couldn't stand it, sir, at all,
But up and kissed her on the spot;
I know-boo-hoo-I ought to not,
But somehow from her looks-boo-hoo-
I thought she kinder wished me to!"

Maternal Affection of the Whale. The maternal affection of the whale, which, in other respects, is apparently a stupid animal, is striking and interesting; the cub, being insensible to danger, is easily harpooned; when the tender attachments of the mother is so manifested as not unfrequently to bring her within the reach of the whalers. Hence, though a cub is of little value, seldom producing above a ton of oil, and often less, yet it is sometimes struck as a snare for its mother. In this case she joins it at the surface of the water, whenever it has occasion to rise for respiration; encourages it to swim off; assists its flight by taking it under her fin, and seldom deserts it while life remains. She is then dangerous to approach; but affords frequent opportunities for attack. She loses all regard for her own safety in anxiety for the preservation of her young; dashes through the midst of her enem.es; despises the danger that threatens her; and even voluntarily remains with her offspring, after various attacks on herself from the harpoons of the fishers.