’I looked at him steadily in the eyes, as I gravely took up my
     spatula, (I knew he thought it some deadly kind of dagger,) and
     answered: 

     ’’I don’t paint animals.

     ’He gave me a parting look, and ‘abscondulated.’  When I saw him
     last, he was among the City Fathers!  GALLI VAN T.’

* * * * *

A SONG OF THE PRESENT.

BY EDWARD S. RAND, JR.

  Not to the Past whose smouldering embers lie,
   Sad relics of the hopes we fondly nursed,
  Not to the moments that have hurried by,
   Whose joys and griefs are lived, the best, the worst.

  Not to the Future, ’tis a realm where dwell
    Fair, misty ghosts, which fade as we draw near,
  Whose fair mirages coming hours dispel,
    A land whose hopes find no fruition here.

  But to the Present:  be it dark or bright,
    Stout-hearted greet it; turn its ill to good;
  Throw on its clouds a soul-reflected light;
    Its ills are blessings, rightly understood.

  Prate not of failing hopes, of fading flowers;
    Whine not in melancholy, plaintive lays,
  Of joys departed, vanished sunny hours;
    A cheerful heart turns every thing to praise.

  Clouds can not always lower, the sun must shine;
    Grief can not always last, joy’s hour will come;
  Seize as you may, each sunbeam, make it thine,
    And make thy heart the sunshine’s constant home.

  Nor for thyself alone, a sunny smile
    Carries a magic nothing can withstand;
  A cheerful look may many a care beguile,
    And to the weary be a helping hand.

  Be brave—­clasp thy great sorrows in thy arms;
   Though eagle-like, they threat, with lifted crest,
  The dread, the terror which thy soul alarms,
   Shall turn a peaceful dove upon thy breast.

* * * * *

A STRANGE STORY—­ITS SEQUEL.

PREFACE.

The often expressed wish of the American Press for an explanation of the meaning of ‘A Strange Story,’ shall be complied with.  It is purely and simply this:  Many novels, most of them, in fact, treat of the World; the rest may be divided into those vaguely attempting to describe the works of the Flesh and the Devil.  This division of subjects is fatal to their force; there was need to write a novel embracing them all; therefore ’A Strange Story’ was penned.  Mrs. Colonel Poyntz personated the World, Doctor Fenwick the Flesh, and Margrave, alias Louis Grayle, certainly, I may be allowed to say, played the Devil with marked ability.  To give a fitting morale to all, the character of Lilian Ashleigh was thrown in; the good genius, the conqueror of darkness, the positive of the electrical battery meeting the negative and eliciting sparks of triumphant light—­such was the heroine.