ld separate from
any wave, yet there are birds who become grossly fat on no other
nourishment. The storm petrel, or, in the Faroese phrase, Mother Carey's
chicken, skims the surface of the troubled water, till the feathers of
its breast are charged with oil; and then feeds heartily on the
provision so collected. A vast number of her Majesty's subjects dart
over the debater and the discussor of the newspaper, like storm petrels,
and thrive upon what skimmings they retain.

Since the press in England has been actually free (and many of us can
remember when it was not so), one fact has become every year more
prominent amidst the din of parties. We have begun to see that, however
much we are convinced of any one thing, those are not all and always
fools who think the opposite. We get a strong suspicion of our
individual fallibility, new facts come out, and display old opinions in
an unexpected light. We respect our opponents, when they deserve
respect, and on the whole are teachable.

Of course, our views in politics are often guided by our sense of
private interest, but there is nothing very wonderful in that; nature
intends man to cry out, when a shoe pinches him. But, there is now
abroad, concerning social questions, a desire to hear all that can be
said about them; to tolerate, if not to respect, conclusions that oppose
our own; a readiness to seek for the right course and a desire to follow
it.--_Household Words_.

THE DUMB CHILD.

She is my only girl:
I ask'd for her as some most precious thing,
For all unfinish'd was Love's jewel'd ring,
Till set with this soft pearl;
The shade that Time brought forth I could not see;
How pure, how perfect seem'd the gift to me!

Oh, many a soft old tune
I used to sing unto that deaden'd ear,
And suffer'd not the lightest footstep near,
Lest she might wake too soon;
And hush'd her brothers' laughter while she lay--
Ah, needless care! I might have let them play!

'Twas long ere I believ'd
That this one daughter might not speak to me;
Waited and watched God knows how patiently!
How willingly deceived:
Vain Love was long the untiring nurse of Faith,
And tended Hope until it starved to death.

Oh! if she could but hear
For one short hour, till I her tongue might teach
To call me _mother_, in the broken speech
That thrills the mother's ear!
A