A WONDERFUL VIOLIN.

Wandering through the Italian quarter of New York lately, I came across a copy of Dante's Inferno. It was bound in very thick covers, and in looking it over a few days ago, I was much surprised to find a sort of pocket, partially disguised, in the under cover. It contained some sheets of manuscript written in a fine Italian hand. I had the manuscript translated, and found that it was a sort of diary of a young lad whose whole life must have been wrapped up in violins, for the records of his day-book are liberally interspersed with memorandums on that instrument. After reading the pages through, I found a little story among them, and for its curious interest, I give it herewith.

It seems the boy's family was of noble origin, and had grand designs for the future of their son, whose name was Paolo. Paolo, however, was averse to their ideas, as his only desire was violins, either to make them or play them, and ofttimes, in defiance of his father's orders, he would steal into a distant part of the house, and indulge in his love of playing. This had happened so frequently, and Paolo was fast growing to be a manly fellow, that his father rebuked him very strongly one day. He touched the sensitive chords of the musician's soul too much, and Paolo responded with hot words that led to his father's banishing him forever from the house.

Paolo went forth with his valuable violin, his one friend, as he thought, and passed on from town to town, city to city, playing for his living. He changed his name, and as time went by, his father, who sat brooding in sadness over his hasty action, never recognized in the name of a new brilliant maestro his banished son. A violin hung in front of his chair in the large hall, and he was accustomed to sitting there before it and dreaming of Paolo. One day, as the light of the afternoon was fast waning, he sat with eyes wandering over the instrument. Suddenly, almost like fairy music, the low sweet melody of a favorite piece of Paolo's came from the violin. He started back, fearing that he was mad; but no, the music was certainly coming from the violin. What could it mean? He seized it, and the moment he did so the music stopped. He dropped down in his chair again, and waited. Softly the strains came from the strings, and with a cry of grief the father called aloud for his son, only to hear a voice, and, turning, he found Paolo standing before him with outstretched arms. They were reconciled at last.

Paolo accounted for the wonderful music by leading his father to the other end of the hall and pointing to a small alcove behind a pillar, explained that everything spoken or played in that spot would cast the sound directly over to where the violin hung, and that as a boy he had discovered the wonderful echo, and experimented with it more than once. He had driven the nail in the wall years ago, and when he entered the hall upon his return, and saw his father sitting there before the violin, he resolved to try his love by use of that boyish experiment.

It would be hard to credit this story, were it not for the fact that such an echo is one of the show-cards of the guides in the Capitol at Washington, and several others are more or less famous through the world.

Hubert Earl.

This Department is conducted in the interest of Girls and Young Women, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor.

I have been putting in order my top drawer. Do you keep yours in perfect order, girls? I have the greatest respect for you if you do. Mine gives me more trouble than I can begin to tell you about. However, if you could peep into it this morning you would admire it as much as I do, what with the boxes all closed, and the gloves smoothed out and laid lengthwise, and the handkerchiefs in small white piles, and the veils folded, and everything else spick and span, and beautiful to see! It will stay so, too—at least I hope it will—for at least a fortnight, that wonderful upper bureau drawer into which so many things go, and out of which so many things come. I'm afraid, though, that one of these days when I'm hurrying to catch a train, or somebody is waiting to speak to me, I'll dive down among the laces and boxes and gloves and cards and handkerchiefs, upsetting this and overturning that, and woe is me! the top drawer will be in a whirl of confusion once more. When I was a little girl I shared a drawer with my sister, who had a great deal of system and a natural talent for arrangement and compactness which I did not have, and therefore had to cultivate. We divided our territories by a pasteboard fence, and on her side there were always beauty and peace and harmony; a place for everything, and everything in its place. But I would rather not tell you very much about my side. I used to have clearing-up days then, and I have them still.

Now don't imagine for a moment that I began this talk just to let you know that I often have to fight against an inclination to be a little bit disorderly in my arrangement of my various things. I had something else in view. We are many-sided beings, you and I, and our top drawers are not the only parts of our belongings which are now and then the better for being gone over and straightened out and set right. Think about it, girls. Can you not, looking back across the last month, or the last week, or even over this very last hour, see that in something you did or said or thought you were mistaken, you were not quite unselfish, or you had not the fair point of view? Aren't you often sorry, after a hasty word, that you had not waited before you spoke? And, again, are there not times when you did not speak out bravely and strongly in defence of an absent friend? Clearing-up seasons are good for the soul, and one's mind and heart are the better for the taking one's top drawer in hand—one's top drawer where she does not keep ribbons and roses and belts and buckles only, but fancies and resolves and notions and dispositions and prejudices.

Speaking of clearings up, there are moods when we are frank and open with ourselves, and when we confess that we are not so sweet and amiable as we might be. Perhaps we are not so just as we might be. What fusses and frictions are caused by the sort of temper in the top drawer that explodes like a fire-cracker the instant a match of irritation comes within touching distance! What a disagreeable thing a certain sort of smile is, the hateful smile that comes out of the top drawer where vanity and jealousy lurk! When we are about it, we might as well, in our clearing up, burn and get rid of the bad tempers, the crossness, and the suspiciousness which help to make us and others wretched. To be happy ourselves and to make others happy should be our constant aim and effort. Above everything else, do not let us be contrary, like little Miss Mary in Mother Goose. Many people are so, and they make others very unhappy.

There is one little corner of the top drawer which is more important than any other. It ought to be labelled "Conscience." Here we should be careful that we never leave a single thing in confusion. Where we are in doubt whether an action is right or wrong we must settle it by the light of conscience, and our decision will be influenced by our general habits of thinking and doing, and by our every-day habit of asking our Heavenly Father's guidance for each hour of life.

Muriel.—Your letter interested me very much, and I will soon devote one of these talks to the subject you speak of so sensibly.

Anne T.—Why worry about your height? It is beautiful to be tall, if you carry yourself gracefully, head up, shoulders back, as a tall girl ought.

Louise S. M.—If you are tired of story-books, try biography. Have you read Miss Edgeworth's life, or that of Miss Alcott? Or take up a course of English history.

STARVED TO DEATH

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