and the foot of the Madonna-faced nun was in the open mouth of one of
Lucca della Robbia's singing-boys that hung on the wall about five feet
from the floor!

"Can any of the signorine do _that_?" she crowed triumphantly. "I can
knock off a man's hat or black his eye with my foot."

All the Leatherstonepaughs groaned in doleful chorus, "A-a-a-h-h!"

And it was not until young Cain, ostracised from the studio during the
seance, whistled in through the keyhole sympathetic inquiries concerning
the only woe his little soul knew, "Watty matter in yare? Ennybuddy dut
e tummuck-ache?" that they chorused with laughter at their
"Giovanni-Bellini Madonna."

MARGARET BERTHA WRIGHT.

SHELLEY.

Shelley, the wondrous music of thy soul
Breathes in the cloud and in the skylark's song,
That float as an embodied dream along
The dewy lids of Morning. In the dole
That haunts the west wind, in the joyous roll
Of Arethusan fountains, or among
The wastes where Ozymandias the strong
Lies in colossal ruin, thy control
Speaks in the wedded rhyme. Thy spirit gave
A fragrance to all Nature, and a tone
To inexpressive Silence. Each apart--
Earth, Air and Ocean--claims thee as its own,
The twain that bred thee, and the panting wave
That clasped thee like an overflowing heart.

J. B. TABB.

PARADISE PLANTATION

[Illustration: "THE SPLENDID SADDLE-HOSS."]

"Of course you will live at the hotel?"

"Not at all. The idea of leaving one's work three times a day to dress
for meals!"

"May I ask, then, where you _do_ propose to reside?"

"In the cottage on the place, to be sure."

The Pessimist thrust his hands into his pockets and gave utterance to a
long, low whistle.

"You don't believe it? Come over with us and look at it, and let us tell
you our plans."

"That negro hut, Hope? You never can be in earnest?"

"She is until she has seen it," said the Invalid, smiling. "You had
better go over with her: a sight of the place will be more effectual
than all your arguments."

"But she _has_ seen it," said Merry. "Two years ago, when we were here
and old Uncle Nat was so ill, we went over there."

"And I remember the house perfectly," added Hope--"a charming long, low,
dark room, with no windows and a great fireplace, and the most
magnificent live-oak overhanging the roof."

"How enchanting! Let us move in at o