y hide-and-seek," Gertrude would answer
again, "Oh! but that would never do for a princess; I should leave my
train hanging on the thorns, and my coronet would be tumbling off my
head."

Then if Gertrude asked Walter to bring in some venison for the table,
the boy would bring her a mouse instead; and if a bull or a mad dog came
after them, Gertrude must snatch Walter up in her arms, and run off with
him, for she was so much bigger than he, and could run a great deal
quicker. Meanwhile he remained in the castle, and the boy became very
dear to the old queen.

Another year passed by, and one morning Gertrude sat under a tree in the
garden with her embroidery, whilst Walter played at her feet. Then, as
before, a voice called out of the tree, "Walter! Walter!" And when the
boy looked up, the raven was sitting on a branch, who said: "Now once
more you may wish, and it shall be granted; but this is the last time,
therefore think it well over."

But Walter did not think long before he answered: "Ah! let us both be
children all our lives long."

And as he wished so it happened. They both became children as before,
played together more happily than ever, and were of one heart and of one
soul.

But when another year had passed by, and the children sat plucking
flowers and singing together in the garden, an angel flew down from
heaven, who took them both in his arms and carried them away--away to
the celestial gardens of Paradise, where they are yet together,
gathering the flowers that never fade, and singing songs so wondrously
beautiful, that even the blessed angels hear with joy.

WAR AND THE DEAD.

A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE.

(_From the French of Jean Mace._)

Dramatis Personae.

Peace.
War.
A French Grenadier.
A German Hussar.
A Scotch Highlander.
A Cossack.
A Russian Peasant Woman.
A French Peasant Woman.
A German Peasant Woman.
An English Peasant Woman.

Soldiers _are lying on the ground._ Peace _is seated
at the back, leaning her elbow on one knee, her head resting on her
hand_.

_Enter_ War.

War. To-day is the 18th of June, the anniversary of the battle
of Waterloo, the day of a wrath which still mutters, and of a hatred yet
unappeased. Let us employ it in re-animating this torpid century, which
succumbs to the coward sweetness of an inglorious peace. After forty
years of forced repose brighter days seemed at last to have returned to
me. Twice did I unfurl the old colours in the breeze; tw