dawn
You find your favorite palfrey gone,
Don't lock the door, and don't
Sit down and cry. To chase the thief
Despatch my _whole_: it's my belief
He 'll catch him, or--he won't.

_Con-stable._

ABOUT SOME IRISH CHILDREN

THE TRUE LORD.

Philip Alfred Reginald, Lord Alverley, only son and heir of the Earl of
Ellenwood, was taking a morning walk in the park of Alverley Castle, in
the beautiful county of Wicklow, Ireland. He was a very little lord
indeed, only about six years old, and he was accompanied by a very
stout nurse, Mrs. Marsham, quite a dignified and important personage.
The family had but the day previous arrived from London, after an
absence of four years.

Philip was an only child, fondly beloved by his parents, and, as the
heir to a great estate, much petted and flattered by all about him. He
was a pretty child, always richly and daintily dressed, and had much
the air of a little courtier, or the pet page of some gay young queen.

This morning, as Mrs. Marsham led him down one of the broad walks of
the park, they encountered a little peasant lad, who looked a good deal
impressed, but saluted the small nobleman with a bashful bow, and was
about hurrying on, when the lordling asked, condescendingly, "What is
your name, little boy?"

"Arty O'Neill, may it please your lordship," was the reply.

"What, a son of Norah O'Neill?" asked Mrs. Marsham.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Why, then, my lord, he is your foster-brother. Norah O'Neill, the
lodge-keeper's wife, was your first nurse, and a very good creature she
is, I believe," said Mrs. Marsham, attempting to move on.

But Philip, who had always, in spite of his grandeur, felt a little
lonely, was caught by the term "foster-brother," and held back to
examine the boy more attentively, and to ask him several childish
questions.

In spite of his uncouth dress, Arthur or Arty was a fine-looking little
fellow, and though modest, was by no means awkwardly shy; so the small
folk got along very well together. The next day Philip insisted on
making a visit to the lodge, where he was greeted by his old nurse
Norah with an exhibition of true Irish emotion,--tears, laughter, and
passionate caresses, that rather annoyed than gratified him. "What a
fine little gentleman he has grown, bless God," she exclaimed, wiping
her eyes with her apron.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Marsham, "and your Arty is also a fine, sturdy
little lad. Was he not a deli