stone,
On city street, or prairie lone,
A building plain, or fair.

But now the name once honest, stands
For one who has not feared
To seek to level with the sands
The glorious structure, by the hands
Of Washington upreared.

II.

The stealthy fox, the prowling rat,
The serpent, Heaven-accursed,
The cruel tiger, and the cat,
The weasel, and the vampyre bat,
Have all been called my _first_.

My _second_ is a shadowed place
Of forest bloom and song,
Where mosses creep o'er the rock's stern face,
Vines climb and swing in wildest grace,
And a streamlet laughs along.

My _whole_ upbore the traitor's crest,
And gloried in his crime;
Yet England took him to her breast,
Which once received a like brave guest,--
Our Arnold, of old time.

BESSIE RAEBURN'S CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE.

CHAPTER I.

Bessie Raeburn was a very nice little girl indeed, truthful, trustful,
generous, and affectionate. But she was by no means without some spicy
little faults of her own. She was impulsive to rashness, and decidedly
self-willed. She was given to odd little romantic fancies and secret
schemes, which sometimes got her into trouble, when she attempted to
carry them out. She was an only child, and much petted and indulged in
a happy and luxurious home, having everything which a reasonable little
lady in short frocks and long curls could ask for. Yet she was not
contented; having a foolish ambition to distinguish herself by doing
something quite out of the ordinary line of little girls,--something
that would make people stare, and say "wonderful!" "surprising!" "a
most extraordinary child!" She liked to say "I dare!" and "I 'm not
afraid!" "I don't _fear_ anything there is," she would say, "not even
lions, or spiders, or bears, or bumblebees,--but I don't like them near
me; they are disagreeable."

She learned to read when very young, and took most eagerly to books of
travel and adventure. She passionately longed for adventures of her
own, and often planned out exploits of a most perilous and surprising
character.

One Christmas-eve, when Bessie was between seven and eight years of
age, a wild little scheme came into her head, as she sat curled up on a
sofa in the library, listening to her father, while he read to her
sweet young mother a very sad account of the poor of New York,
especially of the poor children, and of the noble efforts that were
be