ordered in the Clerk. Mr. Slaney appeared,
trembled a little, and thought he had done
something dreadful. The following dialogue
ensued:—

   Chairman. Did you open the window, Mr.
Slaney?

   Clerk. Yes, my lord.

   Chairman. Did you order the chimney to
be swept?

   Clerk. Yes, my lord.

   Chairman. Be pleased to state, briefly, your
reasons for these proceedings.

   Clerk. The chimney was very foul, and the
rooms not having been recently used, the window
had apparently not been opened for some
time. The sash line was broken, and there
is a little difficulty about opening it.

   Chairman. You may withdraw.

Blushing to the very forehead, and feeling
as if his ears were setting his hair on fire,
Mr. Slaney retired.

After some discussion at the Board, the
following minute to the Lords of the Treasury,
was dictated to the Secretary.

ROTTEN ROW COMMISSION.

The fourth day was occupied in receiving
counter instructions from the Lords
Commissioners of Her Majesty's Treasury in
accordance with the Rotten Row Board's
minute, No. 2—and in communicating with
the official carpenter. The result was, that
this humble individual superseded in half an
hour the threatened six months' labour of the
Ventilator-General.

At its fifth meeting, the Royal Commission
drew up a list of witnesses to be examined.
The sixth day was wholly occupied in granting
the summonses, and as the Board has not yet
finished examining its first witness, the
report will not, it is expected, be ready for
the Exhibition of the Works of Industry of
All Nations in May, 1851.

A VILLAGE TALE.

THE rooks are cawing in the elms,
    As on the very day—
That sunny morning, mother dear,
    When Lucy went away;
And April's pleasant gleams have come,
    And April's gentle rain—
Fresh leaves are on the vine—but when
    Will Lucy come again?

The spring is as it used to be,
    And all must be the same;
And yet, I miss the feeling now,
    That always with it came;
It seems as if to me she made
    The sweetness of the year—
As if I could be glad no more,
    Now Lucy is not here.

A year—it seems but yesterday,
    When in this very door
You stood; and she came running back,
    To say good bye once more;
I hear you sob—your parting kiss—
   The last fond words you said—
Ah! little did we think—one year,
    And Lucy would be dead!

How all comes back—the happy times,
    Before our father died;
When, blessed with him, we knew no want,
    Scarce knew a wish denied—
His loss, and all our struggles on,
    And that worst dread, to know,
From home, too poor to shelter all,
    That one at last must go.

How often do I blame myself,
    How often do I think,
How wrong I was to shrink from that
    From which she did not shrink;
And when I wish that I had gone,
    And know the wish is vain;
And say, she might have lived, I think,—
   How can I smile again.

I dread to be alone, for then,
    Before my swimming eyes,
Her parting face, her waving hand,
    Distinct before me rise;
Slow rolls the waggon down the road—
   I watch it disappear—
Her last "dear sister," fond "good-bye,"
    Still lingering in my ear.

Oh, mother, had but father lived
    It would not have been thus;
Or, if God still had taken her,
    She would have died with us;
She would have had kind looks, fond words,
    Around her dying bed—
Our hands to press her dying hands,
    To raise her dying head.

I'm always thinking, mother, now,
    Of what she must have thought;
Poor girl! as day on day went by,
    And neither of us brought;—
Of how she must have yearned, one face,
    That was not strange, to see—
Have longed one moment to have set
    One look on you and me.