Volume 147 — THE PRIZE.

With ivy wreathed, a hundred lights Shone out; the Convent play was finished; The waning term this night of nights To a few golden hours diminished. Again the curtain rose. Outshone The childish frocks and childish tresses Of the late cast that had put on Demureness and its party dresses. Rustled a-row upon the stage Big girls and little, ranged in sizes, All waiting for the Personage To make the speech and give the prizes. And there, all rosy from her rôle, Betsey with sturdy valiance bore her, Nor did she recognize a soul But braved the buzzing room before her With such resolve that guest on guest, And many a smiling nun behind them, Met her eyes obviously addressed To proving that she did not mind them. (So might a kitchen-kitten see— Whose thoughts round housemaids' heels are centred— The awful drawing-room's company He inadvertently has entered.) Swift from her side the girlish crowd, With lovely smiles and limber graces, Went singly, took their prizes, bowed, Returning sweetly to their places. Then "Betsey-Jane!" and all the rout (Her hidden mother grown romantic) Beheld that little craft put out Upon the polished floor's Atlantic. The Personage bestowed her prize, And Betsey, lowly as the others, Bowed o'er her sandals, raised her eyes Alight with pride—and met her mother's! She thrust between the honoured row Before her in her glad elation; Her school-mates gasped to see her go; The nuns divined her destination; The guests made way. Clap following clap Acclaimed Convention's overleaping As Betsey gained her mother's lap And gave the prize into her keeping.