_To bestow upon an older person I know
Who has more than one eye_.

She is brave and intelligent
Too. She is witty and wise.
She'll accomplish more now than _another person_ I know
Who has _two_ eyes.

Ah, you need not pity _her_!
_She_ needs not your tear and sigh.
She'll make good use, I tell you,
Of her _one_ remaining eye.

In the home where we are hastening,
In our eternal Home on High,
See that _you_ be not rivalled
By the girl with only _one_ eye.[*]

[*]Miss Sylvia could not have been speaking seriously when she wrote
that she had "composed" this poem. It is known to be the work of
another hand, though Sylvia certainly tampered with the original and
produced a version of her own. J. L. A.

Having thus dealt a thrust at Georgiana, Sylvia seems to have turned in
the spirit of revenge upon her mother; and when she came home some days
ago she brought with her a distant cousin of her own age--a boy,
enormously fat--whom she soon began to decoy around the garden as her
mother had been decoyed by the general. Further to satirize the
similarity of lovers, she one day pinned upon his shoulders rosettes of
yellow ribbon.

Sylvia has now passed from Scott to Moore; and several times lately she
has made herself heard in the garden with recitations to the fat boy on
the subject of Peris weeping before the gates of Paradise, or warbling
elegies under the green sea in regard to Araby's daughter. There is a
real aptness in the latter reference; for this boy's true place in
nature is the deep seas of the polar regions, where animals are coated
with thick tissues of blubber. If Sylvia ever harpoons him, as she
seems seriously bent on doing, she will have to drive her weapon in
deep.

Yesterday she sprang across to me with her hair flying and an open
letter in her hand.

"Oh, read it!" she cried, her face kindling with glory.

It turned out to be a letter from the great Mr. Prentice, of the
Louisville _Journal_ accepting a poem she had lately sent him, and
assigning her a fixed place among his vast and twinkling galaxy of
Kentucky poetesses. The title of the poem was, "My Lover Kneels to
None but God."

"I infer from this," I said, gravely, "that your lover is a Kentuckian."

"He is," cried Sylvia. "Oh, his peerless, haughty pride!"

"Well, I congratulate you, Sylvia," I continued, mildly, "upon having
such an editor and such a love