this withered rosebud on the grave of her who gathered it, little thinking it would travel so far and keep fresh so long:

"God bless the dews that fed, the winds that rocked thee,

And may her sweet and sacred counsels win me
Eternity!"

It is not every day that graves are made for which so rich a chaplet of flowers can be gathered; and this not arbitrarily or merely by way of apposite quotation, such as would be these lines from the "Holy Grail," which must be the last of our mosaic :

"A woman," answered Percivale, "a nun,
And one no further off in blood from me
Than sister; and if ever holy maid
With knees of adoration wore the stone,
A holy maid."

A FEW CHRISTMAS GIFTS.

THE only Christmas gifts of which there can be question here are, of course, books. We have already brought under the notice of our readers two books entitled to be registered as A 1 for Christmas purposes-"The First Christmas," and "The Mystical Flora of St. Francis de Sales." The former is overrunning the Great Republic, if we may judge from the prominent place it holds in several American journals which have crossed our path. The name of the translator of "The Mystical Flora" appears on the title-page of "The Little Hunchback" (M. H. Gill & Son), from the French of the Countess de Ségur, who bears a name already distinguished in Catholic literature by her husband and by Monseigneur de Ségur. It strikes us that in some places Miss Mulholland might wisely have improved and unfrenchified the tale a little more. There is plenty of incident, and character, and lively conversation; but the nice people are a little too good, and the bad people a little too atrocious. The pictures will amuse the youthful constituency for whom the Countess

caters.

As a pious Christmas gift, we can heartily recommend a dainty little tome which may be had under one of two names- -"Memorial of our Lady of Sion," or "Memorial of our Lady of the Rosary" (Brown & Nolan, Dublin). Under the latter name it is intended as a prayer-book for the use chiefly of convent-pupils. For younger children still, nothing nearly so good has ever been published as the

little book that is already dear to very many-" Holy Childhood" (Eason, Abbey-street, Dublin). We have before given our opinion of this delightful and most original little work; and we shall now only add, with our full assent, the opinion of the Universe :

"The very perfection of a prayer-book for children. Without being puerile it is adapted to the intelligence of the youngest. It talks to the child without waiting to be spelt out with difficulty. We should wish to see "Holy Childhood" in the hands of all our children. It is the work of one who has evidently made herself familiar with the whole soul of the young."

Here, if anywhere-and why not somewhere ?-into this quiet corner must we crush our Christmas greetings for all the kind friends of our Magazine, wishing to them and to ourselves (including it) many a Happy New Year.

NOTES IN THE BIG HOUSE.

AFTER a long silence, we find that we have a great deal to tell our little friends at a distance, of all that has been going on lately within the walls of the Big House. In the first place, we had, on the Feast of the Presentation, a great meeting of the "Little Children of Mary,' held in the new chapel. We think we told our young readers before that the Sisters of Charity, who have now care of the house, have turned the front room downstairs into a pretty chapel, where visitors to the wards, old or young, may slip in to say a prayer and ask a blessing upon the act of charity they have come to perform.

It was pretty to see the little creatures trooping in and taking their seats in the benches before the altar; some were almost babies, who, after having lisped a prayer, under the direction of mother or elder sister, gazed around with grave awe and wonder, waiting to hear about Holy Mary and the sick little children upstairs in the beds.

The reverend chaplain has a wonderful knack of attracting the attention of even the youngest to his earnest suggestions of charity and love. He so weaves in pretty stories, and bright, childlike fancies with the noble lesson he is bent on teaching, that he completely fascinates his little hearers. All the rosy faces beamed on him untiringly, and we believe each understood his meaning perfectly, except one tiny creature, who, turning her wide open wondering eyes upon her mother, was heard to say aloud in her baby's treble: "Mamma, what is the man saying ?”

After talking to the little ones for some time, the good father produced a bunch of bright silver medals hanging from blue silk cords, and proceeded to place one round the neck of each of the aspirants to the title of "Little Child of Mary." There have long been many sodalities of "Children of Mary" in the Church, but none has ever been instituted before for actual children. Let it be understood that all who now join do so as aspirants, and cannot be finally

"received" till they have made their First Communion. Every mother will feel that the beautiful instructions of our chaplain, and the early lessons in visiting the sick, will do much towards preparing her child for this great event, and the little girl will meanwhile wear her white medal at each meeting, and look upon herself as a predestined Child of Mary.

From time to time receptions will be held in the chapel for those who have made their First Communion. We cannot at this moment say when the first reception will take place, but due notice will be given.

The opening meeting of our brave Knights of the Brigade for the winter season, which was held on the return of members from their summer excursions, was really a splendid one, the ranks being well represented, and a vast number of brigadiers answering to the rollcall. And now, as we feel that a peep into our letter bag will be more entertaining, and really give more information than anything we have to tell, we shall say no more on our own part, but allow some of our good fairies to speak for themselves.

The following letters have been lately received :

"DEAR MR. WOODLOCK,-I send you a post-office order for £1 6s. 9d., which we have collected since we last wrote. I am very glad to be able to send it for the next meeting of the boys.

near the sea. But

"We got our holidays, too, for we were six weeks at S for that we would have sent the money sooner. I hope there will be a great many boys at the meeting. Tell them that we would be very glad to go but that we live too far away.

"Give them our love, and also to the Sisters of Charity, and all the sick children in the Big House.-Believe me, dear Mr. Woodlock, your little brother knight, "RICHARD F. J. M. L."

"DEAR REV. MOTHER,-We have received your kind letter and the two medals. Katie and I will try to be as good as we can be, that we may be made real Children of Mary. Mamma has promised that if we be very good she will take us to Dublin to be received in your little chapel. Katie sends her love.--Believe me to remain your fond little friend,

"JANIE O'F.”

"DEAR MR. WOODLOCK,-I feel much pleasure in sending my small subscription, which I saved from my pocket-money, to St. Joseph's Infirmary, and regret not being able to attend the past meetings, the distance being so far. But I hope the little children will remember me in their prayers.-I am, dear sir, yours,

"DEAR BROTHER KNIGHTS,-I regret very much that I shall be unable to attend the meeting on Sunday next, as I am still staying at B I have not collected any subscriptions lately; but when I go into town I shall commence doing so again; but I find it very hard to get any money.-Believe me to remain yours truly,

AUTHOR OF "FREDERIC OZANAM," "THE BELLS OF THE SANCTUARY," "A WOMAN'S TRIALS," &C.

THE

IN TWO PARTS.-PART I.

HE cottage stood upon the brow of the hill, and looked out over a landscape fair to see. Meadows, gay with flowers and spotted with heads of short-horned cattle, stretched down to the river, and across the river the castle stood upon a rising slope, girdled with a forest of pine, and beech, and oak. Corn-fields and vineyards spread out on every side, and away to the west a low line of hills appeared, and ran like a purple wave along the horizon. In the centre of the lawn, before the cottage, there was a rose tree; not a bush, but a tree, a veritable tree that was the pride of Fleurel. It rose upon a single stem without prop or buttress, and carried on its slender pillar a weight of roses, the like of which was never seen anywhere out of Cashmere. The branches sprang up in beautiful curves, and fell round the parent stem in masses of pink foam, for they were thick-set with roses from end to end; while the slow June breeze swayed the pink cascade this way and that, fluttering the loose petals over the grass, and wafting their scent through the garden.

But something more than the soft summer breeze is moving the rosy bower now; a sound of laughter and an infantine bark issues from under the heavily-laden boughs, and a marabout feather is pushed out from amongst the roses, wagging pugnaciously. Liline and Cliquot are at war. Liline is the Curé's adopted child, and Cliquot is Liline's dog. A tiny creature of pure Pomeranian breed, milk-white, with black marks on his head, and a pair of ears to drive a connoisseur wild with delight. But Cliquot's crowning beauty in Liline's eyes was his paws. These were for all the world like four rose leaves stuck on the tips of his fluffey white stockings, so delicate, so dainty, such a lovely shade of pink. The resemblance is so striking that it suggested to Liline, just now, the idea that a rose-leaf would make a very becoming slipper for Monsieur Cliquot, and she proceeded at once to try the experiment. But the owner of the small pink paw is refractory, and the slipper can't be made to hold on. This is the casus belli of the moment. Cliquot won't stand to let himself be shod, but kicks out lustily under the operation, brushing his mistress's nose with his bushy white tail all the while. The Curé is watching the progress of the battle from his chair under the verandah, and seeing how it goes, cheers the weaker party with a gruff "Bravo, Cliquot! Bravo, my little man! Hold out to the last!" A moral violation of the laws of neutrality which causes Liline to shift her tactics. Cliquot breaks loose and flies to his new ally, but he is seized quickly again, as he tumbles across the lawn,

looking for all the world like a swansdown muff set spinning on the grass.

So, mon Capitaine, this is how you encourage insubordination; you who are always preaching obedience to other people! Now, you shall hold him while I make him slipper," and Liline planted the refractory Cliquot on his knee, and clutched the little pink paws. How the struggle would have ended it is hard to say, had not Fanchon come out at this crisis and announced that M. le Curé was served. Upon which, the party, including Cliquot, rose and went in to supper.

The Curé had formerly been a captain in the Old Guard, had followed the "Little Corporal" in all his campaigns until there were no more battles to be fought, and Napoleon and the Old Guard fell together. Then Capitaine Ravoc came back to his native Fleurel, laid his sword upon the altar-step, and vowed that he would henceforth serve France with another weapon that would never fail him, and need never be surrendered. He was still little more than a boy in years. In due course he was ordained a priest, and after ten years' missionary labour in the south, he was sent as Curé to Fleurel. Hither a few old companions in arms followed him, and continued to call him, as in old days of glory and slaughter, mon Capitaine. By degrees, most of his parishioners came to call him by the same title, a strange one for a pastor of souls, but not out of harmony with the man; for, though heart and soul a priest, he was still a soldier, every inch of him. A most unconventional type of Curé in truth to look at. Tall as a grenadier, he strode out with a step that ought to have marched to the roll of the drum; he carried a colossal head on a colossal pair of shoulders; his dark-gray eyes flashed at you from under a jungle of tawny brow, with a fire that seventy odd years had not dimmed. Yet these same twinkling stars of the old Guardsman could fill with melting tenderness when they fell upon the face of a little child, or upon sorrow in any shape; but when they looked upon sin their tenderness brimmed over in tears. His head bristled all over with fierce steel points, and looked as if it might have done no mean service as a cannon ball, while an irrepressible beard sprouted out of his chin in spite of all his endeavours to eradicate the unpriestly feature.

The Curé was fond of his pipe, too. He often took it of an evening to the bedside of a sick parishioner, and cheered him with the ever new story of Austerlitz, Marengo, or Jena, while he puffed the fragrant weed. He had a wonderful power of charming away the terrors of a death-bed. The people said this partly came of his having seen the King of Terrors himself so often and so near. Anyhow they loved to have his ministry at the last.

Once, an old comrade of his was dying at Fleurel; leaving a little grandchild behind him, all he had to leave, and the thought was maddening him. He cared nought about his own soul, and when the Curé spoke of repentance, he thrust him angrily aside. "I would barter my own old soul willingly for hers," he cried, doggedly; "what matters it where such as I am go, or how I fare? I did my