"Very well, you know best. All I want is that she shall have a good time, a very good time. She's such a good mother."

"Jack," said Susy, "you make me think of some verses I saw in a book the other day. Let me read them to you." And Cousin Susy, who had a way of copying favorite poems and keeping them, fished out this one from her basket:

LITTLE HANS.

Little Hans was helping mother Carry home the lady's basket; Chubby hands of course were lifting One great handle--can you ask it?

As he tugged away beside her, Feeling oh! so brave and strong, Little Hans was softly singing To himself a little song:

"Some time I'll be tall as father, Though I think it's very funny, And I'll work and build big houses, And give mother all the money, For," and little Hans stopped singing, Feeling oh! so strong and grand, "I have got the sweetest mother You can find in all the land."

Now, some people couldn't do very much with the funds at Cousin Susy's disposal, but she could, and when Jack's money was spent for refreshments what do you think they had? Why, a great big pan of gingerbread, all marked out in squares with the knife, and raisins in it; and a round loaf of cup cake, frosted over with sugar, with thirty-six tiny tapers all ready to light, and a pitcher of lemonade, a plate of apples, and a big platter of popped corn.

Jack danced for joy, but softly, for mother had come home from her day's work and was tired, and the party was to be a surprise, and she was not to be allowed to step into the little square parlor.

That parlor was the pride of Jack and his mother. It had a bright rag carpet, a table with a marble top, six chairs, and a stool called an ottoman. On the wall between the windows hung a framed picture of Jack's dear father, who was in heaven, and over the mantelpiece there was a framed bouquet of flowers, embroidered by Jack's mother on white satin, when she had been a girl at school.

"Seems to me, Jack," said Mrs. Hillyard as she sat down in the kitchen to her cup of tea, "there is a smell of fresh gingerbread; I wonder who's having company."

Jack almost bit his tongue trying not to laugh.

"Oh!" said he grandly, "gingerbread isn't anything, mamma. When I'm a man you shall have pound-cake every day for breakfast."

By and by Mrs. Maloney and Patsy dropped in.

"I thought," said Mrs. Maloney, "it was kind o'lonesome-like at home, and I'd step in and see you and Jack to-night, ma'am."

"That was very kind," replied Mrs. Hillyard.

"Why, here comes Mr. Ralph," she added. "Well the more the merrier!"

Tap, tap, tap.

The neighbors kept coming, and coming, and Jack grew more and more excited, till at last when all were present, Cousin Susy, opening the parlor door, displayed the marble-top of the table covered with a white cloth, and there were the refreshments.

"A happy birthday, mother."

"Many returns."

"May you live a hundred years."

One and another had some kind word to say, and each gave a present, a card, or a flower, or a trifle of some sort, but with so much good will and love that Mrs. Hillyard's face beamed. All day she stood behind a counter in a great big shop, and worked hard for her bread and Jack's, but when evening came she was a queen at home with her boy and her friends to pay her honor.

"And were you surprised, and did you like the cake and the thirty-six candles, dearest, darling mamma?" said Jack, when everybody had gone home.

"Yes, my own manly little laddie, I liked everything, and I was never so surprised in my life." So the birthday party was a great success.

A Coquette.

BY AMY PIERCE.

I am never in doubt of her goodness, I am always afraid of her mood, I am never quite sure of her temper, For wilfulness runs in her blood.

She is sweet with the sweetness of springtime-- A tear and a smile in an hour-- Yet I ask not release from her slightest caprice, My love with the face of a flower.

My love with the grace of the lily That sways on its slender fair stem, My love with the bloom of the rosebud, White pearl in my life's diadem!

You may call her coquette if it please you, Enchanting, if shy or if bold, Is my darling, my winsome wee la.s.sie, Whose birthdays are three, when all told.

Horatius.[1]

_A Lay Made About the Year of the City CCCLX._

By T.B. MACAULAY.

I.

Lars Porsena of Clusium By the Nine G.o.ds he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more.

By the Nine G.o.ds he swore it, And named a trysting-day, And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west, and south and north, To summon his array.

II.

East and west, and south and north, The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet's blast.

Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome!

III.

The hors.e.m.e.n and the footmen Are pouring in amain, From many a stately market-place, From many a fruitful plain; From many a lonely hamlet, Which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest Of purple Apennine;

IV.

From lordly Volaterrae, Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants For G.o.dlike kings of old; From sea-girt Populonia, Whose sentinels descry Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops Fringing the southern sky;

V.

From the proud mart of Pisae, Queen of the western waves, Where ride Ma.s.silia's triremes Heavy with fair-haired slaves; From where sweet Clanis wanders Through corn and vines and flowers; From where Cortona lifts to heaven Her diadem of towers.

VI.

Tall are the oaks whose acorns Drop in dark Auser's rill; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Of the Ciminian hill; Beyond all streams c.l.i.tumnus Is to the herdsman dear; Best of all pools the fowler loves The great Volsinian mere.

VII.