led sob was heard at the door, which stood partly open. Mrs.
G---- stepped softly out, and leading WILLIAM to the bed-side,
pointed to his dying sister. He threw himself upon her bosom, and
pressing his lips to her pale cheek, prayed for forgiveness. EMMA
did not heed him; but looking again in her mother's face, and
pointing upward, said softly: 'I shant be so _there!_--shall I,
mother?'

'No, my poor child!' replied the weeping parent; 'I hope not. But
don't talk _so_, EMMA. Forgive your poor brother, or you'll break
his heart.'

'EMMA tried to gasp something; but whatever it was, whether of
love or hate, it never reached a mortal ear. In a few moments she
was no more.'

* * * * *

WE take your amiable hint, good 'P.' of S----, and shall venture the
forfeit. That our own 'humor is no great shakes,' we very cheerfully
admit--so that there is an end to _that_ 'difference of opinion.' 'P.'
reminds us of an anecdote which we had not long since from a friend.
'There, take that!' said a would-be facetious doctor to a patient, whom he
had been boring almost to extinction with what he fancied to be humor;
'take it; 't will do you good, though it _is_ nauseous.' 'Don't say a word
about _that_,' said the patient, swallowing the revolting potion; 'the man
who has endured your _wit_, has nothing to fear from your _physic!_' . . .
'C. M. P.'s parody on '_Oh no, I never mention Him_,' is a very
indifferent affair, compared with HOOD'S transcript of that well-known
song. We remember a stanza or two of it:

'OH, no, I never mentioned it,
I never said a word;
But lent my friend a five-pound note,
Of which I've never heard.
He said he merely borrowed it
To pay another debt;
And since I've never mention'd it,
He thinks that I forget!

'Whene'er we ride, I pays the 'pike;
I settles every treat;
He rides my horse, he drives my cab,
But cuts me when we meet.
My new umbrell' I lent him too,
One night--'t was very wet;
Though he forgets it ne'er came back,
Ah, me! _I_ don't forget!'

* * * * *

THE kite-season has opened with great activity. Did you ever remark,
reader, when Nature begins to waken from her winter-sleep; when the woods
'beyond the swelling floods' of the rivers begin to redden; when the first
airs of spring assume their natural blandness; when ladies are