part.] Good-night, kind folks! May the money and the little cloak bring happiness to you all! [Exit.]

SCENE V. The BRIGUEZS's cottage. Enter MME. BRIGUEZ and PIERRE.

MME. B. [calling to JEANNE]. Jeanne! Jeanne! Come, my child, it is time to get up.

PIERRE. Why, wife, our visitor is gone. [Enter JEANNE.] MME. B. He might have waited to say good-bye and thank us, at least. [Going to cot and pulling off coverlet.] Why, Pierre! Jeanne! What is this? [PIERRE and JEANNE run to her. MME. BRIGUEZ lifts the blue cloak and reads:] "For Jeanne Briguez." [Gives cloak to JEANNE.]

PIERRE. But what is this, also? [Takes envelope and reads: "For Pierre Briguez." [Opens it.] "From Jean Noel."

MME. B. The good God has sent an angel to help us! PIERRE. Yes, yes, indeed; let us be thankful to Him. JEANNE. Oh, mother, mother, it is what the young Count said! It was really Jean Noel who came to visit us! He flew away in the night; I saw him go with his beautiful white wings, and I thought it was a dream.

MME. B. It seems to me as if we must be dreaming now. [JEANNE has busied herself in trying on the cloak. Enter BABETTE with basket.]

BABETTE. Good day. Madame la Comtesse arrived yesterday with Monsieur, and this morning Ma'm'selle Yolande comes running to the kitchen. "Dear Babette," says she, in her pretty way, which would make a stone do anything she wished, "Mamma says you are to get a big basket, and I may put in whatever I like, to send to those folks in the cottage there." "Very well, ma'am'selle," says I, "only please leave something for the dinner!" She flitted here and there, and would have filled half-a-dozen baskets with croquettes and sweet dishes, and such like. At last, I persuaded her to let me put in what I knew would be more useful, and here I am, and pretty heavy the basket is, I assure you. Ouf! [Sitting

down and wiping her face. JEANNE and her mother empty basket and exclaim at the good things.]

MME. B. But you must know what happened last night. Drink this coffee while I tell you. [Gives coffee to BABETTE.] Last night we heard someone singing a Christmas hymn outside, and Pierre put the light in the window. In a little while a tap came at the door and in came a shepherd lad asking to rest here. We gave him supper and he sang for us. I made him a bed by the fire and we left him to sleep. This morning he was gone, but on turning down the covers, we found a blue cloak marked "For Jeanne Briguez," and an envelope for Pierre with money enough to pay the rent, and marked "From Jean Noel." Did you ever hear of such a thing happening before, Babette?

BABETTE. Heard of it! Ay, many a time, but it's the first time I ever came across the fact.

PIERRE [who has been looking out of the window]. Here come the young Count and Countess Yolande! [Enter JEAN and YOLANDE.]

MME. B. May God bless you for your kindness, Countess, in sending the basket of good things to us.

YOLANDE. Well, little Jeanne, did not my brother speak truth when he told you that Jean Noel was expected?

JEANNE [eagerly]. Ah, ma'm'selle, did Tante Babette tell you? [YOLANDE laughs.]

MME. B. [who has been looking earnestly at JEAN]. Ah, I see now. It was the little Count himself who came, and not Jean Noel at all! How can we thank you, mcnsieur? [Seizing his hand and kissing it.] You have indeed brought happiness to us all, and you, too, ma'm'selle.

JEAN. But stay, my good woman, it was really Jean Noel; that is my name and to-day is my fête. [Laughing merrily.] MME. B. May you always be as happy as you have made us. But your parents, were they not alarmed?

JEAN. No, indeed, it was with their permission I acted my part. Good-bye now, little Jeanne, and do not forget Jean Noel. [Exit YOLANDE, then JEAN.]

MME. B. Just fancy, Pierre, the little Count himself! To eat our poor food and sleep on our hard bed!

PIERRE. It was the best we had, wife, and he knew that, and

took it as it was offered, bless his good heart! He will be a great man some day. And to sing as he did!

JEANNE [hesitating]. But, mother, then it was not an angel after all?

MME. B. I believe the child is quite disappointed! Why, little one, it was the good God put the kind thoughts in his heart, and sent him to us, the same as if he was an angel come down straight from heaven.

[CURTAIN.]

THE MORTIFYING MISTAKE

I

ANNA M. PRATT.

STUDIED my tables over and over,
And backward and forward, too;

But I couldn't remember six times nine
And I didn't know what to do,

Till sister told me to play with my doll
And not to bother my head.

"If you call her 'Fifty-four' for a while,
You'll learn it by heart," she said.

So I took my favorite, Mary Ann

(Though I thought 'twas a dreadful shame
To give such a perfectly lovely child
Such a perfectly horrid name),

And I called her 'my dear little Fifty-four'
A hundred times, till I knew

The answer of six times nine

As well as two times two.

Next day, Elizabeth Wigglesworth,
Who always acts so proud,
Said: "Six times nine is fifty-two,"

And I nearly laughed aloud!

But I wished I hadn't when teacher said,

66

'Now, Dorothy, tell, if you can,"

For I thought of my doll and-sakes alives 1-
I answered " Mary Ann!"

THE NEW WOMAN.

EMMA PLAYTER SEABURY.

[From the New England Magazine, by permission of the publishers.] HO is this little new woman—

WH

This end of the century one?

She is just as sweet and as human

As the oldest one under the sun.
She dotes on an Easter bonnet

And genuine sable and seal,

And she drives a span as well as a man,
And distances him on a wheel.

She sits on the floor demurely,
To button her shoes, in a lurch,
And keeps you waiting as surely
As the last bell is ringing for church.
She cooks your meal to perfection,
For she goes to a cooking school,
And the baby is fed and put to bed
By a mathematical rule.

She dips into sanitation

And the wary plumber outwits, And there's nothing under creation She hasn't studied by fits.

She talks of political treason,

Of rights and making of laws,
And she thinks she has plenty of reason

To vaunt of a woman's cause.

But her heart is not any colder,

And her love she'll never deny,

And she'll put her head on your shoulder
Any day for a genuine cry.

She is trying her wings a little,

She is looking where she would go; But the tenderness of your look or caress Is as sweet as ever, I know.

And she loves the home nest better,
Where its shelter and peace abide,

For the ruffle and wear and the worry and tear
Of the conflict left outside,

And she'd rather nestle into your arms

And hear your praise to-day

Than that of the crowd and the plaudits loud,

Though she's trying to have her way.

Fear not, for this little "new woman”.
This fin-de-siècle one-

Is just as sweet and as human
As the oldest one under the sun.

ON CRUTCHES.

WILLIAM RUSSELL ROSE.

[From the Criterion, by permission of the publishers.] HEN I listed, folks all said

WH

An' I guess they hit it right-
"Jim's so good at raisin' Ned,
Mebbe he's cut out to fight."
So I started, sore but proud—
All alone I took the train.

Say, that differed from the crowd
When they brung me home again
On crutches.

Lawyer Dobson grabbed my hand-
Never knew me 'fore I went;
Said I'd led the Spartan band-
Wonder what in sin he meant;

Then the folks, when they had yelled,
Set me in Josh Hooper's hack.
Tell ye what, my head was swelled
When I came a-limpin' back
On crutches.