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Now he looked forth again, and behold! there suddenly appeared three snow-white swans upon the lake. With proud and graceful mien they sailed here and there, and at length towards the child. He was quite enraptured with their beauty, sought for some crumbs in his pocket and fed them. They seemed so tame, looked so kindly at him, and came so close to the shore, that he thought he should be able to catch them, but although he bowed himself as low as possible towards them, and in order to reach the farther, bent the young poplar which he clasped ever so low down, they always escaped.

The more tame they appeared, and the less he was able to reach them, the higher arose his desire to obtain at least one of them. He therefore seized the plank that lay near him, let himself down from the shore, ventured upon it and it bore him. Crying "joy! hurrah!" he pushed off, using his hands as oars,

so moving himself forwards. The swans were always before him, still he never reached them. Now he was in the midst of the lake, a fear and faintness came over him and he was obliged to let his arm sink down and rest. Whichever way he turned his eyes a broad expanse of water surrounded him, and he trembled for fear, lest he should be unable to regain the shore. Meanwhile the swans had approached as if to comfort him. Then the boy forgot the danger, eagerly stretched out his hand to the most beautiful-but alas! his frail bark gave way, and he sank in the blue waters.

When he recovered his senses, he found himself lying on a couch in a magnificent palace, and standing before him were three wonderfully beautiful maidens" How comest thou here?" said one of them taking his hand affectionately.

"I know not what has happened to me," said he, "I was endeavouring to reach three white swans on the lake, and in doing so fell into the water."

"Wilt thou stay with us ?" said one of the maidens, "thou shalt be welcome if thou wilt, know however, that if thou remainest here three days thou canst never re-visit thy home; if thou wouldst again return to earth, thou must die."

The kindness of the sisters gave confidence to the boy. His childish heart knew no mistrust-he sprang quickly from his couch and cried joyfully-" Oh yes, I will stay with you."

Now the graceful sisters led him through their fairy palace. They showed him the beauty and magnificence with which each room was adorned, and the child who had grown up in rustic simplicity could not satisfy himself with gazing on their

splendour. All was glittering! All was sparkling! There were pearls as large as walnuts, diamonds like hen's eggs-gold lay around in massy bars and the walls and floors were covered with silver. In the garden grew fruits more costly than he had ever seen. Apples as large as a child's head, plums like ostriche's eggs, cherries the size of billiard balls, and grapes like those that Joshua bore from Canaan, and many other fruits all adorned with the most beautiful colors. The boy had often read of Paradise. he, "must be that land."

"This certainly," said

Weeks and months passed by, and he perceived it not, for new objects ever attracted his attention and occupied his senses. He often walked under the richly laden trees and enjoyed their luscious fruit. He thought of his home no more.

At length, when about a year had passed away, an irresistible desire to return to his own little village suddenly seized him. Nothing delighted him more. But he recollected the words that he might never more dwell on earth; he hid his secret sorrow in his heart, and only when the thick bushes of the garden surrounded him, wept bitterly.

When the three sisters saw him, he forced himself to appear happy, but the traces of sorrow on his countenance, his pale cheeks and eyes, red with weeping, betrayed at last the strug gle in his heart. They often affectionately asked what ailed him, but he alway's concealed the true cause of his sorrow, and sought by all kinds of excuses and pretences of illness to deceive them. One evening he lay at sunset on the soft turf near a brook-all nature around him was joyous, lovely, luxurious— all invited to happiness. Fragrancy filled the air, the birds were singing their evening song, and in the meadow before him sported a mixed crowd of happy laborers. Then arose in his mind the image of his home, his beloved little village, the circle of his play-fellows his mother and how she wept for him -the boy sobbed aloud and wept bitterly-the feeling of his unfortunate situation, though in the enjoyment of riches and plenty, had never before afflicted him so deeply. He covered his face with his hands and hid it in the long grass. Large tears moistened the earth beneath him, and he lamented and mourned aloud.

Whilst in this state of the greatest sorrow and depression, he heard his name called, he looked up, and behold! there stood before him an old hump-backed woman, hideous and disgusting, her face was brown and deeply wrinkled, and she supported her

withered body with a thick staff. Never had the boy seen so frightful a mortal, he tried to shriek for help to run away, but could not.

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"What wouldst thou?" said he at length with a trembling voice, "Hi! hi! hi!" grinned the monster-" If thou, dear child, wilt go with me, I will take thee back to thine own land." "Away thou monster," replied the boy full of wrath, Away! never will I leave my benefactors without their will-and rather would I die and never see my home again, than follow thee!" Scarcely had he spoken the last words, when the hideous figure dissolved in mist, and before him stood the three sisters.

He could not utter a word for astonishment. Then said one of the sisters," Because thou thinkest so justly in regard to us, thy secret wish shall be gratified, thou shalt return to thine home.'

The child knew not what to reply for joy and thankfulness. He wept that he had leave to go-he wept at the thought of parting from the kind sisters. He longed to go, and yet desired to stay. Restlessly he turned upon his couch and only late in the night he fell asleep.

When he awoke in the morning, he lay on the shore of the well-known lake. He looked forth, saw the three swans, and stretched out his arms towards them, they nodded kindly to him, dived beneath the waters, and he never saw them again.

There was joy and wonder in the little village at his re-appearance. All assembled around the child, and listened with astonishment to what he related, but nobody believed a word of

it.

After the first joy of seeing his home again had passed away, he felt a soft desire for the unknown land, it increased with every day. In vain he ran to the lake, the swans came no more. He wept anew, he languished, nowhere found he rest. He sighed ever, for that lost Eden, and ever in vain. Then his cheeks grew pale, still he wandered slowly by the lake, sank down wearily on the shore, slumbered, and never woke again. ELLEN PLUmley.

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On meeting Colonel Graham, he was overwhelmed with expressions of gratitude from himself and daughter for the service he had rendered them. The entrance of the servants with dinner interrupted the conversation, and they all sat down to the plain and simple fare, with more gaiety and pleasure than they would have done to the richest banquet.

Čolonel Graham was a man of gentlemanly appearance and address, past the prime of life, and looking perhaps still older from his long residence in India. He had quite recovered from the accident of yesterday, and was in excellent spirits; his many reminiscences of oriental life, and of his military career, rendered his conversation exceedingly amusing.

"By the bye," said the Colonel, "Are you any relation to the Dorsetshire Fanshaws? young De Lacy Fanshaw was a great friend of mine."

"Indeed, Sir," cried Fanshaw, "that is singular; for I am his son."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the Colonel; "Now that is very, very singular. It will be a gratification to you to know that you have saved the life of your father's old friend: and only think," he added musingly, "only think of Fanshaw having a son of his own. Well, it is very strange. If you were to mention young Graham, the Welshman, he would remember me well enough many were the pranks we had together, and many the scrapes we both got into; he was one of the best of fellows I ever met with, full of fun and frolic, is he like that now at all?"

Fanshaw smiled with astonishment at this description of his father and replied, "He, indeed, retains nothing of this character now, Colonel Graham; he is now a sedate and dignified courtier, polite, and I must add, somewhat formal withal, perhaps you are not aware that he holds a situation at court."

"Bless me, is it possible," repeated the Colonel; "I was not aware of that, indeed we have lost sight of each other for so many years; we promised to keep up a correspondence, but I do not know how, it fell to the ground. But only think of Fanshaw turning courtier! Well, we none of us know what we shall turn to, but poor fellow, I pity him; and he too, of all others, who I used often to fancy was half a republican, he used to talk so much of liberty and of ancient Rome and Greece. If there

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had been a revolution, I should never have been surprised at his becoming a popular leader; but to turn courtier, well, there is no wonder that philosophers disbelieve, or at least dispute about personal identity,' in truth such metamorphoses are astounding I cannot say that I like these changes, though perhaps it is that we dont like to see things altered from what we knew them in youth, still it is sad, to return to one's native country after the absence of many long years, and then to look in vain for the warm-hearted friends you left; some dead, and how many changed, at least they seem changed from what we once knew them, but perhaps if we could clear away the surface, we might still find beneath the rust of years, a warm heart still beating, though there be no outward manifestation of its existence."

"Your remarks are very true, Sir," said Fanshaw; and thinking of his father he continued, "You must not forget that the court and the camp are, indeed, very different parts on the stage of life; the one, I fear, narrows all the sympathies of the heart, makes self-interest the touchstone of action, takes away truth from the lips, and gives the varnish of flattery to falsehood and deception, and the man, who sees deeper than the fair, smooth surface, and beholds the inward corruption, too soon learns to distrust all men. The soldier's life, on the contrary, seems to me likely to promote candour and good feeling, their necessary intercourse with the stern, rude, and even fierce realities of human nature, brings them into close acquaintance with the real character of men and things, and though the vices of the many are not concealed, and the virtues of the few not paraded, yet I should think the soldier was less distrustful of his fellow man, than those who regard 'speech as the means of disguising thought.'

"You are right, quite right," said the Colonel, evidently pleased with the deductions of the young philosopher; "It is indeed a noble profession, and yet one seldom meets with a civilian, who regards it with proper feeling and respect, I suppose it is a sort of jealousy and then again we cannot expect them to understand what honor is, it is as much as they can do to understand and practise common honesty, it is a curious fact that I never was cheated, that is to say, downright cheated but once in my life, and that was by a civilian, I lent him a hundred pounds and he never paid me, I did not care so much for the money, though I could not exactly afford to lose it then, but I could never forgive or forget the rascally way in which the fellow abused my confidence, I vowed from that time, I

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