We next entered a room where there was another work of the sculptor in process of formation.  Mr. Powers and myself were engaged in an animated and, to me, very agreeable conversation, which was constantly interrupted by these ill-bred women, who kept all the time mistaking the plaster for the marble, and asked the artist the most pestering questions on the modus operandi of sculpturing.  I was astonished at the marvelous temper of Mr. Powers, who politely and patiently answered all their queries.  By some lucky chance these women got out of the way during our slow progress back to the outer rooms, and I enjoyed Mr. Powers’s conversation uninterruptedly.  He showed me the beautiful baby hand in marble, a copy of his daughter’s hand when an infant, and had just returned it to its shrine when the two women reappeared, and we all proceeded together.  In the outer room there were several admirable busts, upon which these women passed comment freely.  One of these busts was that of a lady, and they attacked it spitefully.  “What an ugly face!” “What a mean expression about the mouth!” “Isn’t it ’orrible?”

“Who is it?” asked one of them, addressing Mr. Powers.

“That is a portrait of my wife,” said the artist modestly.

“Your wife!” repeated one of the women, and then, nothing abashed, added, “Who are you?”

“My name is Powers, madam,” he answered very politely.  This discovery evidently disconcerted the impudence even of these visitors, and they immediately left the studio.

As the day approached for my departure I visited all my old haunts, and dwelt fondly upon scenes which I might never see again.  My dear old music-master cried when I bade him farewell.  Povero maestro!  He used to think me so good that I was always ashamed of not being a veritable angel.  I left Florence when

        All the land in flowery squares,
    Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind,
    Smelt of the coming summer.

My last visit was with the maestro to the Cascine, where he gathered me a bunch of wild violets—­cherished souvenir of a city I love, and of a friend whose like I “ne’er may look upon again.”

MARIE HOWLAND.

THE SOUTHERN PLANTER.

While Philadelphia hibernates in the ice and snow of February, the spring season opens in the Southern woods and pastures.  The fragrant yellow jessamine clusters in golden bugles over shrubs and trees, and the sward is enameled with the white, yellow and blue violet.  The crocus and cowslip, low anemone and colts-foot begin to show, and the land brightens with waxy flowers of the huckleberry, set in delicate gamboge edging.  Yards, greeneries, conservatories breathe a June like fragrance, and aviaries are vocal with songsters, mocked outside by the American mocking-bird, who chants all night under the full moon, as if day was too short for his medley.