had played in childhood amid these very scenes, she whom he had rescued
upon the waters of the ocean, she who had loved and reformed him.

THE END.






LA TARANTULA.

BY GIDDINGS H. BALLOU.





IT was scarce past the meridian of a warm ummer's day, when from the inn
of old Gaspar Varni, underneath the heights of Sorento, might have been
heard the sound of viols, and the deep notes of the bassoon ringing
clear from amidst the clash of merry voices. Music and careless mirth,
the never failing concomitants of an Italian holiday, were here in full
ascendency; for the birthday of the portly host happening to fall on the
anniversary of St. Geronimo, the yearly festival which served to
celebrate the two in one, was a matter of no small interest to the
villagers. The dining room was filled almost to suffocation, and it were
a matter admitting of doubt, whether the chagrined few who chanced by
lateness of arrival, or other causes, to be excluded from seats at
table, were not to be envied rather than pitied in the endurance of