—Yes, lovely flower, 'tis not thy virgin glow,
Thy petals whiter than descending snow,
Nor all the charms thy velvet folds display;
'Tis the soft image of some beaming mind,
By grace adorn'd, by elegance refin'd,
That o'er my heart thus holds its silent sway.
The Winter's Wreath.
PIGS.
One day when Giotto, the painter, was taking his Sunday walk, in his best attire, with a party of friends, at Florence, and was in the midst of a long story, some pigs passed suddenly by, and one of them, running between the painter's legs, threw him down. When he got on his legs again, instead of swearing a terrible oath at the pig on the Lord's day, as a graver man might have done, he observed, laughing, "People say these beasts are stupid, but they seem to me to have some sense of justice, for I have earned several thousands of crowns with their bristles, but I never gave one of them even a ladleful of soup in my life."—Lanzi.