“Alexander! do you think I am afraid of Mr. Pope?”

“N-no; but Pope is a blackguard, and very shady, and, it might be unpleasant for you; and I’d do that, if I were you.”

Mrs. Tarbell’s spirits rose.  “I will do nothing of the sort, Alexander,” she said; “though it is very kind of you to suggest it; and I will—­I will bet you,”—­determinedly,—­” I will bet you a copy of the new edition of Baxter’s Digest that I beat him.”

THOMAS WHARTON.

A CARCANET.

I give thee, love, a carcanet
With all the rainbow splendor set,
Of diamonds that drink the sun. 
Of emeralds that feed upon
His light as doth the evergreen,
A memory of spring between
This frost of whiter pearls than snow,
And warmth of violets below
A wreath of opalescent mist,
Where blooms the tender amethyst. 
Here, too, the captives of the mine—­
The sapphire and the ruby—­shine,
Rekindling each a hidden spark,
Unquenched by buried ages dark,
Nor dimmed beneath the jewelled skies,
Save by the sunlight of thine eyes.

JOHN B. TABB.

IN A SALT-MINE.

There were five of us.  The little New-Yorker, plump, blonde, and pretty, I call Cecilia:  that is not her name, but if she suggested any saint it was the patron saint of music.  Her soul was full of it, and it ran off the ends of her fingers in the most enchanting manner.  Elise, half French, as you would see at a glance, was from the Golden Gate,—­as dainty and pretty a bit of femininity as ever wore French gowns with the inimitable American air.  Elise could smile her way straight through the world.  All barriers gave way before her dimples, and with her on board ship we never feared icebergs at sea, feeling confident they would melt away before her glance.  Thirdly, there was myself, and then I come to the masculine two-fifths of our party.  First, the curate.  He was young in years and in his knowledge of the great world.  His parish had sent him to the Continent with us to regain his somewhat broken health.  He sometimes spoke of himself as a shepherd, and he liked to talk of the Church as his bride:  he always blushed when he looked straight at Elise.  Cecilia liked him because his clerical coat gave tone to the party, and his dignity was sufficient for us all, thus saving us the trouble of assuming any.  Lastly, there was Samayana, which was not his name either, from Bombay,—­a real, live East-Indian nabob.  In his own country he travelled with three tents, a dozen servants, as many horses, and always carried his laundress with him.  Yet he never seemed lonely with us,—­which we thought very agreeable in him.  Crawford had just created Mr. Isaacs, and we fancied there was a resemblance,—­barring the wives,—­and he told us such graphic stories of life in India that we were not always sure in just which quarter of the