provided with a cork. The part that had been
uppermost was now turned downwards, as often happens when changes take
place; fresh water was poured into it, and it was fastened to the cage
of the little bird, which sung and twittered right merrily.

"Yes, it's very well for you to sing," said the Bottle-neck; and it
was considered remarkable for having been in the balloon--for that was
all they knew of its history. Now it hung there as a bird-glass, and
heard the murmuring and noise of the people in the street below, and
also the words of the old maid in the room within. An old friend had
just come to visit her, and they talked--not of the bottle-neck, but
about the myrtle in the window.

"No, you certainly must not spend a dollar for your daughter's bridal
wreath," said the old maid. "You shall have a beautiful little nosegay
from me, full of blossoms. Do you see how splendidly that tree has
come on? yes, that has been raised from a spray of the myrtle you gave
me on the day after my betrothal, and from which I was to have made my
own wreath when the year was past; but that day never came! The eyes
closed that were to have been my joy and delight through life. In the
depths of the sea he sleeps sweetly, my dear one! The myrtle has
become an old tree, and I become a yet older woman; and when it faded
at last, I took the last green shoot, and planted it in the ground,
and it has become a great tree; and now at length the myrtle will
serve at the wedding--as a wreath for your daughter."

There were tears in the eyes of the old maid. She spoke of the beloved
of her youth, of their betrothal in the wood; many thoughts came to
her, but the thought never came, that quite close to her, before the
very window, was a remembrance of those times; the neck of the bottle
which had shouted for joy when the cork flew out with a bang on the
betrothal day. But the bottle-neck did not recognize her, for he was
not listening to what this old maid said--and still that was because
he was thinking of her.

GOOD HUMOUR.

My father left me the best inheritance; to wit--good humour. And who
was my father? Why, that has nothing to do with the humour. He was
lively and stout, round and fat; and his outer and inner man were in
direct contradiction to his calling. And pray what was he by
profession and calling in civil society? Yes, if this were to be
written down and printed in the very beginning of a book, it is
probable that many wh