AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.-ALICE CARY.

O good painter, tell me true,

Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw?
Ay? Well, here is an order for you.

Woods and cornfields, a little brown,-
The picture must not be over-bright,
Yet all in the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.
Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn
Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
When the wind can hardly find breathing-room
Under their tassels,-cattle near,
Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around,-

(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)
These, and the house where I was born,

Low and little, and black and old,
With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows, open wide,—
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush:

Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the self-same way,

Out of a wilding, wayside bush.

Listen closer. When you have done

With woods and cornfields and grazing herds,

A lady, the loveliest ever the sun

Looked down upon, you must paint for me;
Oh, if I only could make you see

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman's soul, and the angel's face
That are beaming on me all the while,
I need not speak these foolish words:
Yet one word tells you all I would say,—
She is my mother: you will agree

That all the rest may be thrown away.

Two little urchins at her knee

You must paint, sir; one like me,

The other with a clearer brow,

And the light of his adventurous eyes
Flashing with boldest enterprise:
At ten years old he went to sea,--

God knoweth if he be living now;

He sailed in the good ship "Commodore,"-
Nobody ever crossed her track

To bring us news, and she never came back.
Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay

With my great-hearted brother on her deck:
I watched him till he shrank to a speck,
And his face was toward me all the way.
Bright his hair was, a golden brown,

The time we stood at our mother's knee:
That beauteous head, if it did go down,
Carried sunshine into the sea!

Out in the fields one summer night
We were together, half afraid

Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,Loitering till after the low little light

Of the candle shone through the open door, And over the haystack's pointed top,

All of a tremble, and ready to drop,

The first half-hour, the great yellow star,
That we, with staring, ignorant eyes,

Had often and often watched to see

Propped and held in its place in the skies By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree,

Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew, Dead at the top,-just one branch full

Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,
From which it tenderly shook the dew

Over our heads, when we came to play
In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day.
Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs;
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,
Not so big as a straw of wheat:

The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat,
But cried and cried, till we held her bill,"
So slim and shining, to keep her still.

At last we stood at our mother's knee.
Do you think, sir, if you try,
You can paint the look of a lie?
If you can, pray have the grace
To put it solely in the face
Of the urchin that is likest me:

I think 'twas solely mine, indeed:
But that's no matter,-paint it so;

The eyes of our mother-(take good heed)—
Looking not on the nestful of eggs,

Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs,
But straight through our faces down to our lies,
And oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise!
I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though
A sharp blade struck through it.

You, sir, know
That you on the canvas are to repeat

Things that are fairest, things most sweet,-
Woods and cornfields and mulberry tree,-

The mother, the lads, with their bird, at her knee:
But, oh, that look of reproachful woe!

High as the heavens your name I'll shout,
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.

MR. PERKINS BUYS A DOG.-JAMES M. BAILEY.

It is a little singular, as fond as I am of dogs, that I never enjoyed an undisputed title to one until the other day. I have frequently, to be sure, had a dog in my possession when I was a boy, but the possession was acquired by persuasiveness, and was but temporary, as my parent on my father's side entertained morbid prejudice against dogs, and never missed an opportunity to show his aversion.

The dog I refer to as being strictly my own, was one I bought of a man named Robbins, who lives some distance down town. I gave him two dollars for the dog, on his own representations. He said it was a good animal, but had a little more of life and energy than were proper in a dog where there were hens on the premises. I don't keep hens, so this was no objection in my case.

In the evening, I went down to his place after my purchase. It was a tall dog, with a long body, long legs, a long neck, and a very short tail. The color was a dirty yellow. His body was lank as well as long, which gave the impression that he had missed meals when he did not design to. I was a little disappointed in his general appearance, but there

was a good frame, and time, with plenty of wholesome food, would undoubtedly complete a gratifying metamorphosis.

Robbins gave me a good supply of rope, with which I made my animal fast, and started for home. We jogged along very nicely together. Occasionally I paused to pat him affectionately, adding some remark of a confidential nature. In this way we progressed until we reached the business part of the town. I don't know how to account for it, but he suddenly stopped, in a dogged manner, and commenced to rear back and cut up variously. Perhaps the glare of the lights confused his mind,—perhaps he may have got the impression I was a butcher, or something of that sort. Whatever it may have been, he was certainly acting in a strange manner. He pulled back with wonderful vigor, bracing his feet, and vibrating his head swiftly. The skin lopped over his eyes, while the joints in my body seemed to turn completely around in their sockets.

He pulled back like this, until I thought his entire hide would slip over his head, then he abruptly came forward, and I struck the pavement on my back with a velocity that threatened to destroy my further usefulness in this world.

He did this three or four times within the distance of a block, and finally I suggested if he did it again I should feel tempted to kick in some of his ribs as an experiment.

At this time three boys gave an unexpected variety to the performance by getting in the animal's rear, and enlivening him with a pointed stick.

He very soon got the impression that the boys were not actuated by friendly designs, and he came up nearer to meand, eventually, went past.

It may be well to remark just here that, when he went past, he carried a portion of my pantaloon leg with him,a circumstance many would not mention, perhaps, but it struck me as being a very singular proceeding, especially as my leg was next to, and in close proximity with the cloth.

He went ahead so fast that it was nearly impossible to restrain him, and went the entire length of the rope, before I succeeded in checking him. As there were quite a number of people on the street at the time, it naturally increased my interest in his movements.