length, proudly bending to fate, the governor surrendered, and Rey and his heroic garrison, reduced to one-third of their original number, and leaving 500 wounded behind 1 them, were fain to march out with the honours of war after a desperate eight days' struggle.

Yes, they were terrible days, those days of the sieges of St. Sebastian. Think of gallant Campbell (afterwards Major-General Sir Colin Campbell, and subsequently Lord Clyde), mounting the main breach at the first storming, but in vain; 'breaking through the tumultuous crowd with the survivors of his chosen detachment, . . . . twice he ascended, twice he was wounded, and all around him died.' Think of brave Lieut. Macguire, of the 4th, leading the forlorn hope at the second siege, 'conspicuous from his long white plume, his fine figure, and his swiftness, bounding far ahead of his men in all the pride of youthful strength and courage,' but at the foot of the great breach falling dead, and the stormers sweeping like a dark surge over his body. Think of Macdonald fording the river Urumea alone at the dead of the night; and Macadam and his seventeen men of the Royals leading that desperate false attack to make the enemy spring his mines, on which occasion 'the French musketry laid the whole party low with the exception of their commander.' Think of the many unknown heroes that went to their death in those fair summer days of July and August 1813, undistinguished and unrecorded, lost in the crowd of brave men that died for duty in those stirring times.

dark, old

On again,

will go in

And so we turn away from Monte Yorullo and all its many memories of strife and bloodshed, and winding down the opposite side of the hill, find ourselves at the same point from whence we started-passing groups of peaceful soldiers-down by grey walls covered with the pink snap-dragon, through whose blossoms the sun shines gaily; down again into the streets, past the ugly cathedral. past the fish-market, where we and look round. Rather late it is for any display of such wares, but there is a basket of rock-fish which would send a colourist distracted, and the people in their costumes of bright yet faded colours, are a sight of themselves. Look at that woman holding a baby pillowed against her breast, with its little hand falling so gently and helplessly in its sleep-how like the attitude to some of the old pictures of the Madonna and child! Everywhere there are pretty children, black-eyed boys with pale olive complexions, not quite laughing enough methinks for Murillo, but still thoroughly Spanish-looking. Be it remembered, however, that the people of St. Sebastian were originally Basques of Navarre, and as such, entitled to much beauty both of face and figure, and truly it has not yet died out amongst them.

The old people are here, as everywhere in southern climes, sadly and hideously ugly. It is quite melancholy never to see, either here or in France, what we see so often in England, even amongst our hard-worked

peasants—a fine old age; never to see a stalwart old man, wearing his grey hairs as 'a crown of glory,' nor, by any chance, a sweet, aged woman's face, with eyes still bright, and apple cheeks, such as you might see under one of our dear old cotton bonnets in the midland counties. Certainly age is unlovely in the south, but the old folks seem very contented all the same, especially the old women, who are always hard at work, knitting or spinning. Just see that old fishwoman sitting with her back to the wall, at the entrance to the market; she is knitting now with two knitting-pins, and has stuck two more behind her ears under her curious little black head-gear-comical she looks truly, but quite unconcerned.

Many and quaint are the groups that pass before us ere we reach our hotel; and as we take our way home next day in the slowest of slow trains to modern but delightful Biarritz, we look back with pleasure to all the scenes we have looked upon in the tall narrow streets of St. Sebastian, and with regret that we cannot carry away any better sketch of them than 'a picture in print.'

M. E. T.

The Child's Wish in June. MOTHER, mother! the winds are at play;

Prithee let me be idle to-day.
Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie
Languidly under the bright blue sky.

See, how slowly the streamlet glides;
Look, how the violet roguishly hides;
Even the butterfly rests on the rose,
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.

Poor Tray is asleep in the noonday sun,
And the flies go about him, one by one;

And Pussy sits near with a sleepy grace,
Without ever thinking of washing her face.
There flies a bird to a neighbouring tree,
But very lazily flieth he;

And he sits and twitters a gentle note,
That scarcely ruffles his little throat.

You bid me be busy; but, mother, hear
How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near;
And the soft west wind is so light in its play,
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.

I wish, oh! I wish I were yonder cloud,
That sails about with its misty shroud:
Books and work I no more should see,
But I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee.
MRS. GILMAN.

"Head Cook and Bottle Washer;'

OR,

Homely Needs and Comforts.

No. III.-GREAT RESULTS FROM SMALL MEANS.

WW

ELL, pay-day has come and gone again, but with fresh hope and spirit I have begun a new leaf in my housekeeping book. I thought my father looked rather doleful as he put the 245. into my hand, but his tone was kindly as he said, "Try and be careful of it from the first, Nelly.'

Early in the afternoon my mistress came down and sent me shopping while she chatted with mother. She praised me for having everything so neat and clean, and I know how very par ticular she is. She said the cottage was a bright, cheery, little home, and asked me to make her just such another posy of wild flowers as she found in poor mother's room. Wasn't I proud?

I paid the bread bill and purchased the groceries for a fortnight, then I went on to the butcher's, as she had told me, and bought four pounds of neck of beef at sixpence per pound; she had called and told the man what to give me as she came down.

When I returned she came to me. Nelly,

child, I have brought you a present,-see here!' and she uncovered a bright tin saucepan, which would hold about three pints. Inside this was another tin saucepan, without a handle, and with a close-fitting flat lid; this was about half the size of the other.

'This is a contrivance of mine to help you to cook nicely for your sick mother, not a very costly gift, child, it was only two shillings, but it will be very useful. Now I am going to give you three golden rules of cookery. Learn them by heart.

'1st. Coarse parts of meat contain as much real nourishment as the choicest joints.

'2nd. The skill of a good cook is shown in making the very coarsest and roughest partsjust the odds and ends-into dainty and delicate dishes.

'3rd. Those qualities found in the meat, which make it nourishing, are found also in many vegetables, so that we may get the nourishment without ever tasting meat.

'Now here is a table drawn out to prove this, Nelly. I will read it to you.' And she read :

'Comparison of the Nutritive Properties of

'Yes, ma'am, generally two, because we have so much garden stuff to spare. And we have some bacon left. I should have used more of it, but father stopped me, saying we must make it last until Christmas.'

'Well, a little will be a wonderful help, as you will see. Study your papers and get to work. When I come next time, I expect to be astonished at your results.'

And then and there I went into a brown study over these papers. I will copy them here exactly:

:

How to get breakfast, dinner, and supper for a week for eight people, with 125., the garden stuff, some skimmed milk, and a little cut from the bacon. Purchases to be made of groceries, bread and meat, as per lists already given. Set aside 1lb. of sugar, and commence by dividing

Your 2 lbs. of sugar-into 16 portions of 2 oz. each, 7 for each morning and evening, and 2 for a reserve fund.

Your tea-into quarter ounce lots. A quarter ounce will run to three ordinary tea-spoonsful. Make 16 lots, not 14, in case mother needs an extra cup at any time.

Your rice-into four lots of lb. each. Your hominy, or oatmeal-into six lots of lb. each. It is best to use these alternately for the sake of change.

'Make all these things into little packets; write the names on all of them, and stow them away. It is best to keep the tea in a closecovered tin or canister. The 1 lb. of sugar you have not divided is to be your reserve for puddings and sweet dishes.'

Dur Friends.

GOOD friends are like the shrubs and trees that grow on a steep ascent; while we toil up and our eyes are fixed on the summit, we unconsciously grasp and lean upon them for support and assistance on our way.-FANNY A. KEMBLE

A Pair of Mittens;

OR,

Miss Merton's Story.

་

By the Author of Hold the Fort.'

OES anybody remember 'Hold the Fort?"" and how Miss Merton promised that she would some day tell Susan Otway the history of her youth, and of the lesson by which she had been taught the value of a good temper ?

It was a long time before this promise could be fulfilled, and it was quite by accident that the opportunity came at last.

One winter afternoon, Miss Merton found herself at the little station of Ashford. She had been to see a friend off, and was now waiting for the London train to come in, that she might go home in the omnibus which conveyed passengers to and fro between the station and the little town two miles off. Miss Merton was never idle, and she sat now knitting diligently in the waiting-room, till she heard the bell give notice of the approaching train. She then put up her work, a pair of warm mittens, which she had just been able to finish, and proceeded to take her place in the omnibus.

Four or five passengers soon appeared, who all got outside except one. This one was Susan Otway herself, on her way home for a short holiday.

Susan and Miss Merton had not met for a

long time, and the girl was most cordially greeted by her friend, and many inquiries were made as to how she was getting on, all of which were satisfactorily answered.

They had not, however gone very far, when the rain began to fall heavily, and the omnibus stopped, to allow some of the outside passengers to take shelter from the storm.

Two young men, evidently belonging to the army, got in. One of them, in the dim light, looked curiously at Miss Merton, who was beginning to wonder whether she ought to know him, when he spoke.

See Friendly Leaves for June, 1877.

'You do not remember me, Miss Merton,' he said. I knew you again directly, but I have been away so long that I cannot wonder you should forget me.'

'I fancy I know your voice, but yet, can it be-are you

'Harry Jermyn,' said the young man, with a pleasant look and smile.

'Of course it is. How could I be so stupid? I remember you perfectly now, though a few years make a great difference at your age;' and Miss Merton shook hands with him cordially, and then went on in her quick, sudden way-'Where are you from, and how long do you stay? How pleased your mother will be to see you-what regiment are you in now-tell me all about everything.'

Harry Jermyn gave his history, and then turning to his companion, who had not yet spoken, asked him whether he had got at all

wet.

'No,' answered his friend; 'I am not wet, I am only horribly cold.'

'We were stupid enough to lose our luggage,' exclaimed young Jermyn; that is, not to lose it, but to lose sight of it. Somebody's most

zealous servant was so anxious to leave none of his master's things behind, that I believe he took ours to make sure; anyhow our wraps were not forthcoming when we got out of the train; and I hope my friend who has been ill may not be the worse for our careless

ness.'

Miss Merton instantly offered her railway rug, which Harry Jermyn insisted upon wrapping round his friend's shoulders, in spite of his remonstrances; and then perceiving that he still shivered with cold, Miss Merton produced the pair of mittens which she had just finished, and persuaded him to put them on.

'Let me introduce my friend and senior officer-Captain Arthur Musgrave,' said young Jermyn.

It was too dark in the omnibus for any one to see Miss Merton's face, but Susan Otway, who was sitting next her, felt her start as the young