Tarbell, with a little
effusion.

"My dear, I'm delighted. I hope that in five years' time you will be
supporting me and my family. Your sister-in-law will be speechless with
jealousy. I congratulate you. Hum--The Blank and Dash Avenues Company?
Well, you won't have to send John very far with your copies of the
pleadings. Pope was appointed attorney for the company last week, in
place of old Slyther, who resigned, you know."

"Pope?" said Mrs. Tarbell.

"Yes,--the Honorable Franklin."

"Goodness!" said Mrs. Tarbell, in a tone of inexpressible disgust.

"By jingo; you are not fond of him, are you? Hem! Well, as a general
rule, I should advise you to put personal feelings entirely out of the
question; but, as this is your first case, perhaps it would be just as
well for you to have me with you, and let me--hum--well, let me take the
jury."

"Alexander! do you think I am _afraid_ of Mr. Pope?"

"N-no; but Pope is a blackguard, and very shady, and, it might be
unpleasant for you; and I'd do that, if I were you."

Mrs. Tarbell's spirits rose. "I will do nothing of the sort, Alexander,"
she said; "though it is very kind of you to suggest it; and I will--I
will bet you,"--determinedly,--" I will bet you a copy of the new
edition of Baxter's Digest that I beat him."

THOMAS WHARTON.

A CARCANET.

I give thee, love, a carcanet
With all the rainbow splendor set,
Of diamonds that drink the sun.
Of emeralds that feed upon
His light as doth the evergreen,
A memory of spring between
This frost of whiter pearls than snow,
And warmth of violets below
A wreath of opalescent mist,
Where blooms the tender amethyst.
Here, too, the captives of the mine--
The sapphire and the ruby--shine,
Rekindling each a hidden spark,
Unquenched by buried ages dark,
Nor dimmed beneath the jewelled skies,
Save by the sunlight of thine eyes.

JOHN B. TABB.

IN A SALT-MINE.

There were five of us. The little New-Yorker, plump, blonde, and pretty,
I call Cecilia: that is not her name, but if she suggested any saint it
was the patron saint of music. Her soul was full of it, and it ran off
the ends of her fingers in the most enchanting manner. Elise, half
French, as you would see at a glance, was from the Golden Gate,--as
dainty and pretty a bit of femininity as ever wore French gowns with the
inimitable American air. Elise could smile her way straight through the
world. All barriers gave way before her dimples, and wi