arrived, he told him to look at his coat, and at the jacket of the boy, and say whether both are not made of one and the same piece. The tailor having affirmed the fact, Bessel told him that the boy belonged to the tailor who actually made him the coat,—“And, now, I ask you, my good fellow,” continued the professor, in a serious tone,—“how comes it, that you thought the quantity insufficient even for my own coat, while your brother-tailor found it even enough to spare something for his boy, how do you explain that, man?” “In the most simple way, your honour; my Fritz, is by several inches taller and bigger than this boy.”
M.
TWILIGHT.
Dewfall—and I sat and read
A letter wet with tears she shed:
First grief like a blight-wind blows,
Blistering life's summer-rose.
Gun-fire—and I tried to weep
O’er a face that seemed to sleep—
Far away from home and those
Who saw our love grow like a rose.
Sun-down—and a grey-haired man
Pores o’er life’s torn chart and plan;
Traces lines almost erased,
Traces letters half defaced:
By his side a faded rose,
Yellow, withered,—“one of those.”
Walter Thornbury.
