“I am weak-eyed, am I? and my wings are leathery?  Catch me, and you will find my wings are like down, my eyes as bright as diamonds.  How much you know, writing yourselves down in books as Naturalists!  My name is Vespertila; my family are from Servia, at your service.  Could you offer me a fly, or a beetle?  I was chasing Judge Blue Bottle, or I should not have been trapped.  Go to sleep, dears, and leave me to fan you.  When you are asleep, I’ll bite a hole in your ear, and sup bountifully on your red blood.”

Flop went our towels, and down went Miss Vespertila behind the bed crying.  Polly crept up to her; and caught her in a towel.  What black beads of eyes had Miss Vespertila from Servia, where her grandfather, General Vampire, still commands a brigade of rascals!  Her teeth were sharp, and white as pearls.  Polly held her up, and she cunningly combed her furry wings with her hind feet, and said: 

“Polly, dear, I itch dreadfully; do you mind plain speaking?  I am full of bat lice.  Ariel caught them, and the folks say that Queen Mab often buys fine combs—­”

“Slanderer!” cried Polly, “fly to your witch home!”

She shook the towel out of the window, and the bat soared away.

“What’s coming next?” we all asked.  “There are the rabbits to hear from, the pigeons, the sparrows, the mole, and the striped snake who lives by the garden gate?”

Slap, Bang!  Fancie has pulled the door to.  The cunning Queen Imagin placed her in the closet, perhaps for this purpose.  But I have the key.  I shall unlock it to-morrow, for I must have the picnic over again, under the beech tree, where the brown thrush built her nest, and reared her young ones, who ate our crumbs, and chirped merrily when we laughed.—­Lolly Dinks’s Mother.

* * * * *

Doth a man reproach thee for being proud or ill-natured, envious or conceited, ignorant or detractive, consider with thyself whether his reproaches be true.  If they are not, consider that thou art not the person whom he reproaches, but that he reviles an imaginary being, and perhaps loves what thou really art, although he hates what thou appearest to be.  If his reproaches are true, if thou art the envious, ill-natured man he takes thee for, give thyself another turn, become mild, affable and obliging, and his reproaches of thee naturally cease.  His reproaches may indeed continue, but thou art no longer the person he reproaches.—­Epictetus.

LITERATURE.

“Of the making of many books there is no end,” said the Wise Man of old.  Of the making of good books there is frequently an end, say we.  The good books of one year may be counted on the fingers of one hand.  Among those of the present year none ranks higher than Taine’s “Art in Greece,” a translation of which, by Mr. John Durand, is published by Messrs. Holt & Williams.  The French are a nation of critics, and Taine is the critic of the French.