a princess in disguise, so
to speak,--that is, a young person of presentable connections as well as
pleasing looks and manners; that she has had an education of some kind,
as we suspected when she blushed on hearing herself spoken of as a
"gentille petite," why, then everything would be all right, the young
Doctor would have plain sailing,--that is, if he is in love with her,
and if she fancies him,--and I should find my love-story,--the one I
expected, but not between the parties I had thought would be mating with
each other.

Dear little Delilah! Lily of the valley, growing in the shade
now,--perhaps better there until her petals drop; and yet if she is all
I often fancy she is, how her youthful presence would illuminate and
sweeten a household! There is not one of us who does not feel interested
in her,--not one of us who would not be delighted at some Cinderella
transformation which would show her in the setting Nature meant for her
favorite.

The fancy of Number Seven about the witches' broomsticks suggested to
one of us the following poem:

THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN;
OR, THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES.

Lookout! Look out, boys! Clear the track!
The witches are here! They've all come back!
They hanged them high,--No use! No use!
What cares a witch for a hangman's noose?
They buried them deep, but they would n't lie, still,
For cats and witches are hard to kill;
They swore they shouldn't and wouldn't die,
Books said they did, but they lie! they lie!

--A couple of hundred years, or so,
They had knocked about in the world below,
When an Essex Deacon dropped in to call,
And a homesick feeling seized them all;
For he came from a place they knew full well,
And many a tale he had to tell.
They long to visit the haunts of men,
To see the old dwellings they knew again,
And ride on their broomsticks all around
Their wide domain of unhallowed ground.

In Essex county there's many a roof
Well known to him of the cloven hoof;
The small square windows are full in view
Which the midnight hags went sailing through,
On their well-trained broomsticks mounted high,
Seen like shadows against the sky;
Crossing the track of owls and bats,
Hugging before them their coal-black cats.

Well did they know, those gray old wives,
The sights we see in our daily drives
Shimmer of lake and shine of sea,
Brown's bare hill with its lonel