Rekindling each a hidden spark,
Unquenched by buried ages dark,
Nor dimmed beneath the jewelled skies,
Save by the sunlight of thine eyes.

JOHN B. TABB.





IN A SALT-MINE.


There were five of us. The little New-Yorker, plump, blonde, and pretty,
I call Cecilia: that is not her name, but if she suggested any saint it
was the patron saint of music. Her soul was full of it, and it ran off
the ends of her fingers in the most enchanting manner. Elise, half
French, as you would see at a glance, was from the Golden Gate,--as
dainty and pretty a bit of femininity as ever wore French gowns with the
inimitable American air. Elise could smile her way straight through the
world. All barriers gave way before her dimples, and with her on board
ship we never feared icebergs at sea, feeling confident they would melt
away before her glance. Thirdly, there was myself, and then I come to
the masculine two-fifths of our party. First, the curate. He was young
in years and in his knowledge of the great world. His parish had sent
him to the Continent with us to regain his somewhat broken health. He
sometimes spoke of himself as a shepherd, and he liked to talk of the
Church as his bride: he always blushed when he looked straight at Elise.
Cecilia liked him because his clerical coat gave tone to the party, and