close to where he was standing, and the foreman attempted to hinder Philip from speaking. But his necessity made him bold. 'He himself appointed me this morning,' he said, and pressed forward.

Directly Sir Christopher's eye caught him, he called him to him. Bowing low, Philip undid the apron, and presented his carving to him. He held it for a moment, and then said, 'I engage you, young man; attend at my office to-morrow, at twelve.' He walked on then with his party, still holding the carving of the group of pigs in his hand. At a little distance he looked back, saying, 'Wait till I return.'

When the archi

"So Philip stood and waited. tect had made the round of the building, and came again to where Philip stood: 'Here, my man,' he said, ' my friend here wishes to keep your carving; he will give you ten guineas for it.' You may think how fast Philip flew back to tell his aged friend his good news, and how heartily she rejoiced with him. His work is still to be seen in St. Paul's, and the story went on to say how he at last returned to his native town, married the daughter of his first employer, and took his name."

From The Wood Carvers (by kind permission of R. T.S.).

X.

THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE.

COME, let us plant the apple-tree.
Cleave the tough greensward1 with the spade;
Wide let its hollow bed be made;
There gently lay the roots, and there
Sift the dark mould with kindly care,
And press it o'er them tenderly,
As, round the sleeping infant's feet
We softly fold the cradle-sheet;
So plant we the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?
Buds, which the breath of summer days

Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;

Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,

Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest;

We plant, upon the sunny lea,

A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer shower,
When we plant the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs
To load the May-wind's restless wings,
When, from the orchard-row, he pours
Its fragrance 2 through our open doors;
A world of blossoms for the bee,
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room,
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,
We plant with the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
And redden in the August noon,
And drop, when gentle airs come by,
That fan the blue September sky,

While children come, with cries of glee
And seek them where the fragrant grass
Betrays their bed to those who pass,
At the foot of the apple-tree.

And when, above this apple-tree, The winter stars are quivering bright And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth,

And guests in prouder homes shall see,
Heaped with the grape of Cintra's 3 vine
And golden orange of the line,
The fruit of the apple-tree.

The fruitage of this apple-tree
Winds and our flag of stripe and star
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,
Where men shall wonder at the view,
And ask in what fair groves they grew;
And sojourners beyond the sea.
Shall think of childhood's careless day,
And long, long hours of summer play,
In the shade of the apple-tree

Each year shall give this apple-tree
A broader flush of roseate bloom,
A deeper maze of verdurous 5 gloom,
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower:

The years shall come and pass, but we
Shall hear no longer, where we lie,
The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh,
In the boughs of the apple-tree.

And time shall waste this apple-tree.
Oh, when its aged branches throw
Thin shadows on the ground below,
Shall fraud and force and iron will
Oppress the weak and helpless still?

What shall the tasks of mercy be,
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears
Of those who live when length of years
Is wasting this little apple-tree?

"Who planted this old apple-tree?
The children of that distant day
Thus to some aged man shall say;
And, gazing on its mossy stem,
The grey-haired man shall answer them:
"A poet of the land was he,

Born in the rude, but good old times;
'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes
On planting the apple-tree."

Bryant.

XI.

A JEALOUS CAT.

My constant companion at meal-times, and very good company she is, is a tabby cat, five years of age, with a remarkably short face, which is, however, capable of a wonderful variety of expression. She follows me about like a little dog. When she

E

hears me coming downstairs humming a tune, she makes strange sounds expressive of sympathy.

The other day, while I was speaking, she watched my face so long and so intently as to excite the astonishment of a lady who was present. All that evening poor Tabitha lay in a dead sleep, the consequence, as I feel persuaded, of her desperate mental efforts, and consequent great loss of nerve force in endeavouring, poor thing, to understand what I was talking about. She is very irritable, and I am afraid I tease her too much now and then. On such occasions she fiercely shoots out her claws and strikes at me as if she intended to give me scrawls I should remember long and deeply. But by the time the claws touch my hand her tender heart prevents their doing me mischief. The same when she offers to bite me, the teeth never enter the skin. No matter how angry she is, a soft word and a gentle stroking of her head and chest with my forefinger, smooth down instantaneously1 her ruffled temper. I have never hurt her or frightened her in any way, always treating her as George Combe, on a notable occasion, did the little street urchins, permitting them to gratify their natural propensities 2 in his presence, in order that he might look on and learn. The moment I advance to the breakfast-table, Tabitha springs upon it, sits down near my cup and saucer, and anxiously awaits the arrival of "the eatables and drinkables." When they come she glances admiringly at the meat, and otherwise expresses her satisfaction by repeated sniffings and winkings at it. Then, before I have