FEEDING THE KITTENS.

Och! cusha! and where is the nade for ye, sure,
Of poor pusheen's buttermilk doon on the floor?
'Tis she and her young ones that nade it, machree;
So, arrah! be afther now letting it be!

Avourneen, now was n't ye slaping the while
Old pusheen sat mousing fornent the old stile?
With no one at all for a comrade, forbye
Herself and the old brindle winny pet kye?

Don't ye mind, now, ye wee bitty spalpeen yer milk
Ye jist had in the douce pewter porringer whilk
Yer dear good old granny brought hoom from the toon,
When she went there to buy her the grane striped
goon?

Och, hinney! and is it to see them ate, jist

That ye afther contriving to do? Musha! whist Then! and don't pull the coat of the crather but kape The sale on yer mouth till they breakfast and slape.

C. M. S.

THE BACHELOR.

BY MRS. M. A. LIVERMORE.

It was a miserably dull, wet afternoon in November. A cold, drizzling rain was falling, water was dripping from the eaves and spouts of houses with a continuous plash, the pavements were slippery with mud, and the drenched streets were wholly deserted except by those whose business imperatively called them forth. The wind wailed about the doors and windows like a lost spirit, the leafless trees, whose bare branches were like the withered arms of a crone, rocked wildly to and fro, piles of dead leaves were heaped here and there by the fitful gusts, and the gardens, lately so gay with the beauty of summer, were now unsightly enclosures of decaying vegetation.

The Ashleys sat together in their pleasant family parlor, their usual vivacious spirits somewhat damped by the dreariness of the day. Mrs. Ashley, seated in her comfortable fauteuil, and busy with her needle-work, Mary, interested in copying in crayons the head of a St. Cecilia, and Ellen, absorbed in crochet, managed to pass away the time tolerably well; but Harry, kept within doors by a

sprained foot, which he busied himself in nursing, and Bessie and Bertrand, the younger children, kept from school by the bad weather and their mother's over-carefulness, were dying of ennui, and yawned forth their weariness with an unction that was most infectious.

While all were inwardly, if not audibly praying for some occurrence that would break In upon the monotony of the house, the door-bell rang, and immediately Uncle Phil entered, with his tall, spare figure, and his genial, benevolent face.

There was an instantaneous lighting up of all faces; an electric thrill of life ran along all pulses, for Uncle Phil's presence and happiness were synonymous, and one was always the sure concomitant of the other. The children ran to him, in an ecstacy of joy, Harry's distorted face became beautiful with pleasure, while Mrs. Ashley and the "girls" welcomed him in a most hearty manner. As usual, he had come not empty-handed. There was music for Mary, the latest magazine for Ellen, a famous lotion for Harry's foot, a new geographical puzzle for Bertrand, a juvenile annual for Bessie, his pet and plaything, while for Mrs. Ashley he had a letter from a dear sister at the far West.

There was no ennui now; all was life and animation; and dear Uncle Phil, always a welcome guest, was blest over and over again for his present opportune call.

"What a thousand pities it is you are a bachelor,

Uncle Phil!" said Mary:

"you would make a

How has it happened

capital husband and father!
that you have never married?"

"Yes, I have often thought of it,” chimed in Ellen; "why are you a bachelor, Uncle? You must have been a fine-looking man at twenty-five, for now, at fifty, the ladies call you handsome." "Ah! do they?" quietly replied Uncle Phil. "Yes," pursued Ellen, "and I have often heard. it asked why Mr. Philip Ashley did not marry, and now I should like to know myself."

You are so pleasant and social," continued Mary, "that it seems still more mysterious to me why you are unmarried; no one is kinder to woman, or fonder of children. Come now, Uncle Phil, just sit down here between Ellen and me, and answer this question; Why are you a bachelor?"

And "why are you a bachelor?" was echoed by the whole bevy of nephews and nieces.

"But suppose no one would marry me?" laughingly asked the good-natured uncle.

"Oh, pshaw! now, uncle, you know better; I can name a dozen, who would, to-night, take you for better or worse, richer or poorer, and so on; " was Mary's reply.

"Oh, woman, thy name is curiosity!' You are the true daughters of mother Eve!" and Uncle Phil shook his head, roguishly.

"Please don't wander from the question, uncle; we are in a state of expectancy, you see, and are patiently waiting to hear unriddled the mystery of your bachelorship; so please begin, we are all attention."

“Oh, never mind about their question," now interposed little Bessie, with the air of a spoiled favorite, climbing to her uncle's knee: "I want you to answer mine; say, will you 1?”

"Let me hear it first, my little lady."

"Well, then; I heard mother say, the other day, that there was a history connected with this ring;" and the child lifted his left hand, the third finger of which was circled by a plain gold ring: now I want to know what it is; will you tell me?"

An expression of pain passed over Uncle Phil's features, and he remained looking steadfastly at the ring, but made no reply. It was evident that a painful memory had been awakened. A shadow rested on his brow, and a check was for a moment given to the loquaciousness of the group.

Harry was the first to speak. "A plague take the history of the ring, and the secret of your bachelorship, I say. Now, uncle, hear my request; just give us a good story — a regular love-storysuch as we read in the books, and we shall all like that."