MALIBRAN AND THE YOUNG MUSICIAN. IN [N a humble room, in one of the poorest streets of London, little Pierre, a fatherless French boy, sat humming by the bedside of his sick mother. There was no bread in the closet; and for the whole day he had not tasted food. Yet he sat humming, to keep up his spirits. Still, at times, he thought of his loneliness and hunger; and he could scarcely keep the tears from his eyes; for he knew nothing would be so grateful to his poor invalid mother as a good sweet orange; and yet he had not a penny in the world. The little song he was singing was his own,-one he had composed with air and words; for the child was a genius. He went to the window, and looking out saw a man putting up a great bill with yellow letters, announcing that Madame Malibran would sing that night in public. 66 Oh, if I could only go!" thought little Pierre; and then, pausing a moment, he clasped his hands; his eyes lighted with a new hope. Running to the little stand, he smoothed down his yellow curls, and, taking from a little box some old stained paper, gave one eager glance at his mother, who slept, and ran speedily from the house. 66 "Who did you say is waiting for me?" said the lady to her servant. I am already worn out with company." "It is only a very pretty little boy, with yellow curls, who says if he can just see you, he is sure you will not be sorry, and he will not keep you a moment." "Oh! well, let him come," said the beautiful singer, with a smile; "I can never refuse children." Little Pierre came in, his hat under his arm; and in his hand a little roll of paper. With manliness unusual for a child, he walked straight to the lady, and bowing, said: "I came to see you, because my mother is very sick, and we are too poor to get food and medicine. I thought that, perhaps, if you would only sing my little song at some of your grand concerts, maybe some publisher would buy it, for a small sum; and so I could get food and medicine for my mother." The beautiful woman rose from her seat; very tall and stately she was;-she took the little roll from his hand, and lightly hummed the air. "Did you compose it?" she asked,—“you, a child! And the words ?-Would you like to come to my concert?" she asked, after a few moments of thought. 66 "O yes!" and the boy's eyes grew bright with happiness,- "but I could n't leave my mother." "I will send somebody to take care of your mother, for the evening; and here is a crown, with which you may go and get food and medicine. Here is also one of my tickets: come to-night; that will admit you to a seat near me." Almost beside himself with joy, Pierre bought some oranges, and many a little luxury besides, and carried them home to the poor invalid, telling her, not without tears, of his good fortune. When evening came, and Pierre was admitted to the concert-hall, he felt that never in his life had he been in so grand a place. The music, the myriad lights, the beauty, the flashing of diamonds and rustling of silks, bewildered his eyes and brain. At last she came; and the child sat with his glance riveted upon her glorious face. Could he believe that the grand lady, all blazing with jewels, and whom everybody seemed to worship, would really sing his little song? Breathless he waited,-the band, the whole band struck up a little plaintive melody; he knew it, and clapped his hands for joy. And oh, how she sung it! It was so simple, so mournful, so soul-subduing;-many a bright eye dimmed with tears; and naught could be heard but the touching words of that little song,-Oh, so touching! Pierre walked home as if he were moving on the air. What cared he for money now? The greatest singer in all Europe had sung his little song, and thousands had wept at his grief. The next day he was frightened at a visit from Madame Malibran. She laid her hand on his yellow curls, and turning to the sick woman said, "Your little boy, madam, has brought you a fortune. I was offered this morning, by the best publisher in London, three hundred pounds for his little song: and after he has realized a certain amount from the sale, little Pierre, here, is to share the profits. Madam, thank God that your son has a gift from heaven." The noble-hearted singer and the poor woman wept together. As to Pierre, always mindful of Him who watches over the tried and tempted, he knelt down by his mother's bedside, and uttered a simple but eloquent prayer, asking God's blessing on the kind lady who had deigned to notice their affliction. The memory of that prayer made the singer even more tender-hearted; and she who was the idol of England's nobility went about doing good. And in her early, happy death, he who stood by her bed, and smoothed. her pillow, and lightened her last moments by his un dying affection, was the little Pierre of former days,— now rich, accomplished, and the most talented composer of the day. All honor to those great hearts who, from their high stations, send down bounty to the widow, and to the fatherless child. ROBERT OF LINCOLN. MERR ERRILY swinging on brier and weed, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is this nest of ours, Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; Spink, spank, spink; Look what a nice new coat is mine! Sure there was never a bird so fine; Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Broods in the grass while her husband sings, Bob o' link, bob o' link, Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Modest and shy as a nun is she; Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man : Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can; Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight; There, as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might, Bob o' link, bob o' link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me; |