("The general has lost his ticket!")—is
somebody's suggestion.

The carriage draws away. The general has
been detained; will come by the second boat.

By the second boat he does come, and the
frenzy of welcome that meets him, though
he has only been absent since the morning,
baffles all description. The air darkens with
hats, caps, handkerchiefs, and flowers. Women
who have nothing else wavable at hand, toss up
their children, and the "evvivas" of the boyish
soldiery are absolutely deafening.

Here he comes—the grand brave face—
singular compound of lion and angel, bowing
gently and sweetly to the crowded balconies,
and occasionally giving a hand to the crowd
below. He looks fresh and well, and, to all
appearance, the only individual perfectly cool and
at his ease, among us. There is something in
the face of this glorious soldier that seems at
once to give assurance of a soul so great and
constant as to be beyond the power of any human
eventuality whatever to injure or subdue.

His son, Ricciotti—less warlike than his
martial brother, but not less worthy of his sire—
accompanies him, and Canzio, the general's son-
in-law. There, too, are Medici, Corti, Bezzi,
and others, in brilliant staff-uniforms; and aides-
de-camp, splendidly mounted, accompany the
chief; for this is a very different affair from the
scanty, ragged, and half-armed band with which
he won his Sicily. Garibaldi is at the head of
forty thousand of the choicest youths of
regenerated Italy. Forty thousand more await
his single word. He holds them in leash, as
only he could hold such troops, and they will
not disappoint him when he cries "Avanti!—
spring!"

THE VINES.

WINTER was dead, and all the torpid earth
Was throbbing with the pulses of the Spring,
And cold was gone, and suffering and dearth,
And the glad fruit-trees at the blossoming:
And meads were green, and all the stalwart woods
Felt the sap rising from their mossy roots
To their proud crowns, whose coronet of buds
Burst with the morning into tender shoots
Of living verdure. Hid among the leaves
Of early foliaged shrubs and ivied bushes,
And in warm crannies of the sheltering eaves
Sat on their nests the patient mother thrushes.

A cottage stood upon a south hill-side,
The sun looked down on it through the glad days,
Without, within, the mellow golden tide
Flowed in bright floods or penetrating rays,
And made a glory in each little chamber.
All reds warmed into rubies for the minute,
And every bit of yellow became amber,
The while the rays in passing lingered in it.
Beside the porch there grew a sturdy vine,
Rugged and knotted was the tough brown stem,
About the rustic pillars did he twine,
With garlands in the summer dressing them.
Proud was he of his beauty and his vigour,
And of his fragrant blossoms and sweet fruit,
He feared no bight, nor winter's sharpest rigour
To work him harm in stem, or branch, or root.

About his foot the little children played,
The sunbeams glinted through him on their hair,
Above, the sparrows twittered as they made
Their ragged nests, or fed their nestlings bare:
And all the household loved him. He had seen
Three generations born; the babes that lay
Cooing on mothers' laps i' the shadow green
Of his cool boughs he'd watched from day to day
Growing to well-knit youths and maidens comely,
Whispering and listening to lovers' vows,
Thence to staid men and quiet matrons homely,
And hoary elders white with age's snows.
A very patriarch of vines he flourished,
Tended by all with reverence and love,
As much by human care and tendance nourished
As by the showers from the skies above.

But now a change had come. Last autumn-tide,
When all his clusters were in ripest splendour,
A young man with a young wife by his side
Sat watching from the porch the moonlight
tender;
His arm was round her; on his shoulder lay
Her fair young head in perfect, blissful rest,
Softly around them stole the shadows grey,
While the last lustre faded from the west.
He raised his arm to the o'erhanging bough,
And plucked a cluster: "Dear old vine,'' he
said,
"Strong as he is, and hale and hearty now,
Can he outlive us? Will he not be dead
Before the baby-angel every day
Brings to us near and nearer, shall be grown,
A sturdy youth, or maiden fair and gay—
Before our budding flower shall be blown?
Here, then, beside him let us plant and rear
A shoot that may in course of time succeed him,
That, as he wanes, shall flourish, year by year,
Reaching to ripeness as our children need him."
And so 'twas done: the venerable vine
No longer stood alone; his vigorous age
Was thus despised! his haleness called decline!—
Through all his fibres thrilled a jealous rage.

And now the Spring was come with all its dews
And all its tender showers and smiling lights,
And vivid earthly greens and skyey blues,
Its long sweet days, its brief and perfumed nights;
And the young vine, more forward than the old,
Was waking with the spring, each downy bud
Was softly swelling, ready to unfold
A rosy shoot, mantling with youthful blood.
The old vine looked upon it: all the hate
Winter had paralysed now quick awoke;
Must he then yield to this ignoble fate?
Was there not time yet for a final stroke?
Yes; like a serpent should his limbs enlace
His feeble rival, crushing out his breath;
With hideous semblance of a love embrace
Consigning him to slow and certain death.
Yes, such should be his vengeance. With that
thought
He drew from tender dews and balmy showers
All nourishment, and from the rich soil sought
Increasing strength to renovate his powers.
And, day by day, he near and nearer drew
To his young rival stretching a baleful arm,
Whose real aim the other never knew,
But deemed that kindness which was meant for
harm.
"Truly," he said, "O patriarch, I need
The aid thou offerest: my feebleness
So sorely presses on me that, indeed,
I bless the arm that seeks to make it less.