upon it.--Is he going to fall in love with Iris?

Here are some lines I read to the boarders the other day:--

THE CROOKED FOOTPATH

Ah, here it is! the sliding rail
That marks the old remembered spot,
--The gap that struck our schoolboy trail,
--The crooked path across the lot.

It left the road by school and church,
A pencilled shadow, nothing more,
That parted from the silver birch
And ended at the farmhouse door.

No line or compass traced its plan;
With frequent bends to left or right,
In aimless, wayward curves it ran,
But always kept the door in sight.

The gabled porch, with woodbine green,
--The broken millstone at the sill,
--Though many a rood might stretch between,
The truant child could see them still.

No rocks, across the pathway lie,
--No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown,
--And yet it winds, we know not why,
And turns as if for tree or stone.

Perhaps some lover trod the way
With shaking knees and leaping heart,
--And so it often runs astray
With sinuous sweep or sudden start.

Or one, perchance, with clouded brain
From some unholy banquet reeled,
--And since, our devious steps maintain
His track across the trodden field.

Nay, deem not thus,--no earthborn will
Could ever trace a faultless line;
Our truest steps are human still,
--To walk unswerving were divine!

Truants from love, we dream of wrath;
--Oh, rather let us trust the more!
Through all the wanderings of the path,
We still can see our Father's door!

V

The Professor finds a Fly in his Teacup.

I have a long theological talk to relate, which must be dull reading to
some of my young and vivacious friends. I don't know, however, that any
of them have entered into a contract to read all that I write, or that I
have promised always to write to please them. What if I should sometimes
write to please myself?

Now you must know that there are a great many things which interest me,
to some of which this or that particular class of readers may be totally
indifferent. I love Nature, and human nature, its thoughts, affections,
dreams, aspirations, delusions,--Art in all its forms,--virtu in all
its eccentricities,--old stories from black-letter volumes and yellow
manuscripts, and new projects out of hot brains not yet imbedded in the