thyself, and meant nothing. Thou shalt have a hundred such
set phrases, and five hundred to the boot of them. And now, darling, I
have taken so much pains with thee, and thou art so beautiful, that, by my
troth, I love thee better than any witch's puppet in the world; and I've
made them of all sorts--clay, wax, straw, sticks, night-fog, morning-mist,
sea-foam, and chimney-smoke! But thou art the very best. So give heed to
what I say!"

"Yes, kind mother," said the figure, "with all my heart!"

"With all thy heart!" cried the old witch, setting her hands to her sides,
and laughing loudly. "Thou hast such a pretty way of speaking! With all
thy heart! And thou didst put thy hand to the left side of thy waistcoat,
as if thou really hadst one!"

So now, in high good humor with this fantastic contrivance of hers, Mother
Rigby told the scarecrow that it must go and play its part in the great
world, where not one man in a hundred, she affirmed, was gifted with more
real substance than itself. And, that he might hold up his head with the
best of them, she endowed him, on the spot, with an unreckonable amount of
wealth. It consisted partly of a gold mine in Eldorado, and of ten
thousand shares in a broken bubble, and of half a million acres of
vineyard at the North Pole, and of a castle in the air and a chateau in
Spain, together with all the rents and income therefrom accruing. She
further made over to him the cargo of a certain ship, laden with salt of
Cadiz, which she herself, by her necromantic arts, had caused to founder,
ten years before, in the deepest part of mid-ocean. If the salt were not
dissolved, and could be brought to market, it would fetch a pretty penny
among the fishermen. That he might not lack ready money, she gave him a
copper farthing, of Birmingham manufacture, being all the coin she had
about her, and likewise a great deal of brass, which she applied to his
forehead, thus making it yellower than ever.

SMILES AND TEARS.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY RICHARD COE.

"Art thou happy, little child,
On this clear bright summer's day,
In the garden sporting wild,
Art thou happy? tell me, pray!"
"If I had that pretty thing,
That has flown to yonder tree,
I would laugh, and dance, and sing--
Oh! how happy I should be!"
Then I caught the butterfly,
Placed it in his hands securely,
Now, methought, his pretty eye
Never more wi