house, and the children entering an inner
apartment find a store of toys and delicacies.
Compare La Sante Arie, whose very name
denotes a light etherial nature, and whose
kindly face is one of her essential
characteristics, with the moody Klaas, who will
not deign to look engaging, even when he
comes to perform a friendly action, but is
invariably black and repelling! Aunt Arie is
a declared enemy of idleness, but her method
of correcting is widely remote from the rude
corporeal chastisement inflicted by the
Suabian masterpiece of morals. When the
carnival has arrived, a notable damsel is
expected to have all the flax spun off her distaff;
and when any is left, Aunt Arie testifies her
displeasure by entangling the threads. She
can do mischief, but she cannot become
frightful.

Such is the graceful courtly manner in
which fiend fancy exerts itself in influencing
the juvenile mind. Possibly our younger
readers may like to be informed, that in the
nursery legends of France there appears a
whole family, composed of such delicacies as
appeal to the infantine palate. Possibly they
may even like to drop a tear over the tragical
history of Madame Tartine, the head of the
family in question, which we thus freely do
into English:—

  The mighty Lady Bread-and-Butter
        Dwelt in a tow'r of dainties made;
   The walls of pudding-crust were fashion'd,
        The floors with cracknels overlaid.
            Sponge-cake was her mattress
                Well soften'd with milk;
            Her bed had for curtains
                 Spun sugar like silk.

  Great Master Muffin did she marry,
        Whose cloak was made of toasted cheese;
   His hat was framed of nicest fritters;
        In pie-crust coat he walk'd at ease;
              In chocolate waistcoat
                   He look'd very funny,
             With stockings of candy
                   And slippers of honey.

  The fair Angelica, their daughter,—
         Ah me! what sweets the maid compose!—
   For truth she was the choicest comfits—
         Of hardbake is her lovely nose.
               I see her arraying
                     Her gown with such taste;
              She decks it with flowers
                     Of best pippin-paste.

  Young Lemonade—that stately sov'reign
          Once came the lady to adore,
   Large pendant gems of roasted apples
          Twin'd in his marm'lade locks he wore.
                With diadem royal
                       Of cakes he was deck'd;
                The circlet of raisins
                       Commanded respect.

  A guard of cucumbers and capers
         Accompanied the mighty lord;
  Their muskets were all charg'd with mustard,
         Of onion-peel was every sword.
   Upon a throne sublime of pancakes
         The royal couple proudly sat!
   Bonbons were flowing from their pockets
         From morn till eve—and after that.
   But wicked fairy Carabossa,
         Inspired, no doubt, by jealous spite,
   Just lifted up her ugly hump—and
        Upset the palace of delight.

   MORALITÉ.—(Spoken by the children).
                 Some sugar pray give us,
                       Dear father and mother,
                 And we'll do our utmost
                       To build up another.

                    CHIPS.

           DEADLY SHAFTS.

WE have been calling attention lately to
the preventible accidents arising out of
unfenced shafts; and the last words we said
upon the subject were in reference to the
misstatement of a Bradford newspaper, by
which we were accused of serving up the
tumbles and kicks falling to the lot of boys
at play, as cases of death and mutilation in
the mills. Our comment had been but a few
days before the world, when we were favoured
by a Bradford correspondent with a specimen
of the degree of attention which a newspaper
of that town (our censor, if we mistake not)
thinks that those little incidents of factory
life—the deaths and mutilations—ought to
get from the public. It devotes two lines
and a half—one sentence—eight-and-twenty
words of small type, in an out-of-the-way
column, to the narration of the latest tragedy.
To another correspondent, who sends us a
slip from a Leeds paper relating to the same
event, we are indebted for some published
particulars of this extremely inconsiderable
little accident. A young man of eighteen,
the only son of his father, was bookkeeper to
a firm owning a certain mill. On the last
Saturday in May the weaving-rooms were
white-washed; and, on the succeeding Tuesday,
this young man—whose position of trust is
evidence that he was not an idle fellow, of
whom Manchester may argue that he
deserved to be smashed alive—this young man
was helping others who were engaged in
clearing off the marks of lime that had been
left by the whitewashers upon some parts of
the machinery. While he was so doing, in
stepping from one loom to another, "his foot
accidentally slipped; he attempted to seize the
gas-pipe to preserve his balance, but instead
of the pipe he grasped the side shaft which
drove the loom. His loose dress was immediately
caught, and he was then drawn up and
twisted round, the shaft revolving a hundred
and twenty-five times per minute, and his
head and feet with every revolution coming
in contact with the ceiling." We are further