She climbed and climbed till she reached the place, and found the Twelve Months each seated on his stone, motionless and silent. Without asking their permission, she approached the fire.

66

Why have you come here? What do you want? Where are you going?" asked old January gruffly.

"What matters it to you, old fool?" answered Katinka. "It is none of your business where I came from or whither I am going." She plunged into the forest. January frowned, and raised his staff above his head. In the twinkling of an eye the sky was overcast, the fire went out, the snow fell, and the wind blew. Katinka could not see the way before her. She lost herself, and vainly tried to retrace her steps. The snow fell and the wind blew. She called her mother, she cursed her sister, she cursed God. The snow fell and the wind blew. Katinka froze, her limbs stiffened, and she fell motionless. The snow still fell and the wind still blew.

The mother went without ceasing from the window to the door, and from the door to the window. The hours passed and Katinka did not return.

"I must go and look for my daughter," said she. "The child has forgotten herself with those hateful apples." She took her fur cloak and hood and hastened to the mountain. Everything was covered with snow; there was not even a footpath. She plunged into the forest, calling her daughter. The snow fell and the wind blew. She walked on with feverish anxiety, shouting at the top of her voice. The snow still fell and the wind still blew.

Dobrunka waited through the evening and the night, but no one returned. In the morning she took her wheel and spun a whole distaff full; there was still no news. "What can

have happened?" said the good girl, weeping. The sun was shining through an icy mist, and the ground was covered with snow. Dobrunka prayed for her mother and sister. They did not return; and it was not till spring that a shepherd found the two corpses in the forest.

Dobrunka remained the sole mistress of the house, the cow, and the garden, to say nothing of a piece of meadow adjoining the house. . . . Dobrunka lived to a good old age, always virtuous and happy, having, according to the proverb, winter at the door, summer in the barn, autumn in the cellar, and spring in the heart.

MARIE R. LACOSTE.

MARIE R. LACOSTE, an American poet, of whose life we know nothing beyond a brief sketch in Epes Sargent's "Cyclopædia of British and American Poetry." This biographical sketch reads. thus: "Miss Lacoste was born about the year 1842, was a resident of Savannah, Georgia, at the time (1863) she wrote the poem, 'Somebody's Darling.' Without her consent it was published, with her name attached, in the Southern Churchman. Her residence in 1886 was Baltimore, and her occupation that of a teacher. In a letter of that year she writes: 'I am thoroughly French, and desire always to be identified with France; to be known and considered ever as a Frenchwoman. I cannot be considered an authoress at all, and resign all claim to the title.' The marvel is that the vein from which came the felicitous little poem has not been more productively worked."

SOMEBODY'S DARLING.

INTO a ward of the whitewashed walls,
Where the dead and dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's Darling was borne one day: -
Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet, on his pale, sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow,
Pale are the lips of delicate mold:

Somebody's Darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful, blue-veined brow
Brush all the wandering waves of gold,
Cross his hands on his bosom now: —
Somebody's Darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once more for somebody's sake;
Murmur a prayer soft and low;

One bright curl from its fair mates take-
They were somebody's pride, you know:

Somebody's hand has rested there:

Was it a mother's soft and white? And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in those waves of light?

God knows best. He was somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above

Night and morn on the wings of prayer; Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay; Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's waiting and watching for him, Yearning to hold him again to the heart; And there he lies, with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling childlike lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead,

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve on the wooden slab at his head,

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE.

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE, a noted French fabulist and poet, was born in Champagne, July 8, 1621; died in Paris, April 13, 1695. In his early youth he learned almost nothing, and at the age of twenty was sent by his father to the Oratory at Rheims, in a state of extreme ignorance. Here, however, he began to exhibit a decided taste for the classics and for poetry. Though selfish and vicious to the last degree, he possessed withal a certain childlike bonhommie; it was not grace, or vivacity, or wit, but a certain soft and pleasant amiability of manner, so that he never wanted friends. He successively found protectors in the Duchess de Bouillon, who drew him to Paris; in Madame de Sablière, and in M. and Madame Hervert. He enjoyed the friendship of Molière, Boileau, Racine, and other contemporary celebrities; and even the saintly Fénelon lamented his death in extravagant strains. In 1693, after a dangerous illness, he carried into execution what a French critic characteristically terms his projet de conversion, and spent the brief remainder of his life in a kind of artificial penitence, common enough among licentious men and women in those sensual days. His best, which, however, are also his most immoral, productions are "Contes et Nouvelles en Vers" (1665; 2d part, 1666; 3d part, 1671). His "Fables Choisies mises en Vers" (1668-1693), in this respect are without blemish, while as works of literary art they stand in the foremost rank. He wrote some dramas, of little worth; also a version in prose and verse of "The Loves of Psyche" (1669).

THE WOLF AND THE DOG.

A PROWLING Wolf, whose shaggy skin
(So strict the watch of dogs had been)
Hid little but his bones,

Once met a mastiff dog astray.
A prouder, fatter, sleeker Tray
No human mortal owns.

Sir Wolf, in famished plight,
Would fain have made a ration
Upon his fat relation :

But then he first must fight;

And well the dog seemed able
To save from wolfish table

His carcass snug and tight.
So then in civil conversation

The wolf expressed his admiration
Said Tray politely,

Of Tray's fine case.

"Yourself, good sir, may be as sightly;
Quit but the woods, advised by me:
For all your fellows here, I see,
Are shabby wretches, lean and gaunt,
Belike to die of haggard want.

With such a pack, of course it follows,
One fights for every bit he swallows.
Come then with me and share
On equal terms our princely fare."
"But what with you

Has one to do?"

Inquires the wolf. "Light work indeed,"
Replies the dog: "you only need

To bark a little now and then,
To chase off duns and beggar-men,
To fawn on friends that come or go forth,
Your master please, and so forth;

For which you have to eat

All sorts of well-cooked meat

Cold pullets, pigeons, savory messes-
Besides unnumbered fond caresses."

The wolf, by force of appetite,
Accepts the terms outright,
Tears glistening in his eyes;

But faring on, he spies

A galled spot on the mastiff's neck.

"What's that?" he cries. "Oh, nothing but a speck." "A speck?" "Ay, ay; 'tis not enough to pain mə; Perhaps the collar's mark by which they chain me." "Chain! chain you! What! run you not, then, Just where you please and when?" "Not always, sir; but what of that?" "Enough for me, to spoil your fat! It ought to be a precious price Which could to servile chains entice; For me, I'll shun them while I've wit." So ran Sir Wolf, and runneth yet.