At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

  "'Twas said that far through the forest wild,
    And over the mountains bold,
  Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves
    Were gemmed with the rarest gold;
  Then my first-born turned from the oaken door,
  And I knew the shadows were only four.

  "Another went forth on the foaming waves
    And diminished the basket's store--
  But his feet grew cold--so weary and cold--
    They'll never be warm any more--
  And this nook in its emptiness, seemeth to me
  To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea.

  "Two others have gone towards the setting sun,
    And made them a home in its light,
  And fairy fingers have taken their share
    To mend by the fireside bright;
  Some other baskets their garments fill--
  But mine! Oh, mine is emptier still.

  "Another--the dearest--the fairest--the best--
    Was ta'en by the angels away,
  And clad in a garment that waxeth not old,
    In a land of continual day.
  Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light,
  While I mend the one pair of stockings to-night."

A LOVE OF A BONNET

(FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY.)

CHARACTERS.

  MRS. CLIPPER, a Widow.
  KITTY, her Daughter.
  AUNT JEMIMA HOPKINS, a leetle inquisitive.
  MRS. HORTENSIA FASTONE, very genteel.
  DORA, her Daughter.
  KATY DOOLAN, Irish Help.

SCENE.--_Room in_ MRS. CLIPPER'S _House. Lounge_, L.; _Chairs_, C.;
_Table and Rocking-chair, Looking-glass_, R.

_Enter_ MRS. CLIPPER _and_ KITTY, R.

_Mrs. C._ But really, Kitty, I cannot afford it.

_Kitty._ O, yes, you can, mother; just this once. It's such a love of
a bonnet! it's so becoming! and it only costs fifteen dollars.

_Mrs. C._ Fifteen dollars! Why, child, you are crazy! We cannot afford
to be so extravagant. The income derived from the property your dear
father left will only allow us to dress in the most economical manner.

_Kitty._ But this bonnet is not extravagant. Dora Fastone wears a
bonnet which cost twenty-five-dollars, and her father has failed five
or six times. I don't see why I can't have a new bonnet as well as
that proud, stuck-up--

_Mrs. C._ Hush, my child! never speak ill of our neighbors because
they dress better than we do. If they spend money foolishly, we should
endeavor to use ours to better purpose. I am sure I should be glad to
gratify you, but we have so many expenses. Your music lessons cost a
great deal of money; and your brother Harry, off at school, is really
suffering for a new suit of clothes. I must send him some money
to-day.

_Kitty._ O, he can wait; he's only a boy; and no one cares how he
looks; but young ladies must dress, or they are thought nothing of. O,
you must let me have the bonnet, mamma!

_Mrs. C._ If you have this bonnet, Kitty, Harry must go without his
new suit.

_Kitty._ If you could just see it! It's such a love of a bonnet! Do
let me run down and ask Miss Thompson to send it up for you to look
at.

_Mrs. C._ I've no objection to that; and if you think you need it more
than Harry does his new suit, why--

_Kitty._ You'll let me have it. That's a good, dear mother. I know you
wouldn't refuse. I'll run to Miss Thompson's. I won't be gone long. I
suppose I am selfish; but then, mother, it's such a love of a bonnet.
[_Exit_, L.

_Mrs. C._ (_Sits in a rocking-chair._) Dear child, it is hard to
refuse her! But one should be made of money to keep up with the
extravagant fashions of the day.

_Enter_ AUNT HOPKINS, R.

_Aunt H._ Angelina, what on airth have them air Joneses got for
dinner? I've sot and sot at that air front winder till I've got a
crick in my back a tryin' to find out whether it's lamb or mutton.
It's something roasted, anyhow.

_Mrs. C._ Aunt Hopkins, you are very inquisitive!

_Aunt H._ Inquisitive! Law sakes, do hear the child talk! Neow, what
harm kin there be in tryin' to find eout what your neighbors have got
for dinner? I mean to put on my bunnet and run acrost and see. I know
they've got apple dumplin's, for I see the hired gal throw the parin's
out into the yard.

_Mrs. C._ Run across! Don't dream of such a thing!

_Aunt H._ Well, I'm goin' up stairs to git my specs and have another
good look, anyhow; for I'm jest dyin' to know whether it's lamb or
mutton. Land sakes! what's the use of livin', ef you can't know how
other folks live? [_Exit_, R.

_Mrs. C._ Aunt Hopkins!--She's gone! Dear me, she does worry me
terribly! What will our neighbors think of us?

_Enter_ KATY DOOLAN, L.

_Katy._ If you plase, mam, may I coome in?

_Mrs. C._ Certainly, Katy. What's the matter?

_Katy._ If you plase, mam, I have a letther; and would you plase rade
it for me?

_Mrs. C._ (_Takes letter._) Certainly, Katy. From your lover?

_Katy._ Indeed, mam, I have no lover. It's my cousin, mam.

_Mrs. C._ O, your cousin. (_Opens letter._) "Light ov my sowl!" Why,
this cannot be your cousin.

_Katy._ Indade, indade, it be, sure! It's only the insinivatin' way he
has, mam!

_Mrs. C._ (_Reads._) "Bewitchin' Katy! and how are ye's onyhow? I take
my pin in hand to till ye's I am yurs, in good hilth and sphirits;
and it's hopin' ye's the same, truly! The pulsitations uv my heart
are batin' wid the love I bears ye's, darlin' Katy! the fairest
flower--niver mind the blot--that iver bloomed an the family tree uv
Phil Doolan uv Tipperary, dead and gone this siven years, bliss his
sowl,--and how are ye's? An' by the same token that I loves ye's much,
I sind by the ixpriss, freight paid, a new bunnit, which my cousin
Biddy Ryan, for my dear love, have made for ye's charmin' Katy Doolan!
Wear it nixt ye's heart! And if ye git it before this letther coomes
to hand, ye's may know it is from

  Your ever sighin',
  Wid love for ye's dyin',
  CORNALIUS RYAN.

P.S. If ye's don't resave this letther, sind me word uv mouth by the
man who fetches the bunnit."

_Mrs. C._ That's a very loving epistle.

_Katy._ Pistol, it is? Faith, I thought it was a letther.

_Mrs. C._ And so it is; and a very loving one! Your _cousin_ has sent
you a new bonnet.

_Katy._ Is it in the letther, mam!

_Mrs. C._ It is coming by express.

_Katy._ Sure, he might sind it in the letther, and save expinse. What
will I do?

_Mrs. C._ Wait patiently until the bonnet arrives.

_Katy._ Will Cornalius coome wid it?

_Mrs. C._ I think not. The expressman will bring it.

_Katy._ Sure, I don't want the ixpressman. It's Cornalius I want.

_Mrs. C._ This cousin of yours seems very affectionate. Are you going
to marry him some day?

_Katy._ Some day?--yis, mam. He tould me, Would I? and I axed him,
Yes. What will I do with the letther, mam?

_Mrs. C._ Keep it with your treasures. It should be precious to you.

_Katy._ Faith, thin I'll put it in the savings bank with my money. I'm
obliged, to ye's Mrs. Clipper, mam. If you plase, what was that last
in the letther?

_Mrs. C._

  "Your ever sighin',
  Wid love for ye's dyin',
  Cornalius Ryan."

_Katy._ O, don't, ma'am! Ye's make me blush wid the shame I fail. Och!
it's a quare darlin', wid all his sighin', is Cornalius Ryan! Och,
musha! it's an illigant lad he is, onyhow! [_Exit_, L.

_Mrs. C._ So we are to have another new bonnet in the family! Well,
Katy is a good girl, and I hope will get a good husband, as well as a
new bonnet.

[_Exit_, L.

_Enter_ AUNT HOPKINS, R., _with a bandbox._

_Aunt H._ It's mutton! I was determined to find eout, and I have! I
saw that air Jones boy a playin' in the street, and I asked him
what his folks had got for dinner, and he said mutton, and neow I'm
satisfied on that air p'int. I wonder what's in this 'ere bandbox!
I saw that express cart stop here, and the man said it was for Miss
Kitty somebody; of course, Angelina's darter. I do wonder what it is!
(_Opens box._) Well I declare! A spic span new bunnet! (_Takes out a
very large, gaudily-trimmed bonnet._) And sich a bunnet! Ribbons
and lace, flowers and feathers! Now that's jest what I call a tasty
bunnet! I mean to try it on. It'll jest suit my complexion. Law sakes!
here comes Kitty! 'Twon't do to let her know I've been at her things!
(_Puts bonnet back into box, and places it behind the table._)

_Enter_ KITTY, L.,

_Kitty._ O, aunt Hopkins! Where's mother?

_Aunt H._ Land sakes! I don't know no more than the child unborn!

_Kitty._ Dear me! Here are Mrs. Fastone and Dora coming up the steps!
What shall I do?

_Aunt H._ Why, let 'em in, of course!

_Kitty._ Has my new bonnet come yet?

_Aunt H._ Indeed it has! And sich a beauty!

_Kitty._ O, I'm so glad! But where is it?

_Aunt H._ Down there behind the table. I hain't teched it; only jest
took a peep.

_Kitty._ I'll let Miss Dora see that some people can dress as well as
some other people. Aunt Hopkins, you must manage to draw attention to
my new bonnet while the visitors are here, to give me an opportunity
to show it.

_Aunt H._ Why, I'll take it right eout the fust hing.

_Kitty._ No, no! that would be too abrupt. Manage to speak of bonnets;
but do not show it until they ask to see it.

_Aunt H._ Well, I guess I know heow to do it genteelly.

_Enter_ KATY, L.

_Katy._ Two ladies to see you, miss. (_Crosses to_ R.)

_Kitty._ Where's mother, Katy?

_Katy._ Gone to the butcher's, miss. [_Exit_ R.

_Aunt H._ Butcher's? Wal, I do hope she'll git some mutton, for the
Joneses has it; and we ought to be as genteel as our neighbours.

_Enter_ MRS. FASTONE _and_ DORA, L., _very elegantly attired_.

_Mrs. F._ My dear child, how do you do?

_Kitty._ (_Shaking hands with her, and afterwards with_ DORA.) I'm
delighted to see you! Hope you are quite well, and Dora.

_Mrs. F._ Quite well--aren't you, Dora?

_Dora._ Quite, mamma.

_Kitty._ Pray be seated, ladies. (_They sit on lounge._) Mrs. Hopkins,
Mrs. Fastone.

_Aunt H._ (_Steps over and shakes hands._) Hope you are pretty well,
ma'am, and you, too, miss, though you do look awful delicate! And
how's your husband? He's a broker--ain't he? (_Sits in rocking-chair,
and keeps it in motion._)

_Mrs. F._ Yes, Mrs. Hopkins, Mr. Fastone is a broker, engaged day
after day in the busy vortex of fluctuating enterprises.

_Aunt H._ Well, I never hearn tell of that business afore; but I
s'pose it's profitable, or you couldn't afford to dress so. Is that a
silk or a poplin you've got on?

_Kitty._ (_Brings her chair; sits_, C.) Aunt Hopkins!--Mother has
stepped out to make a call.

_Aunt H._ No, she hain't; she's only gone to the butcher's.

_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--Mrs. Fastone, what is the news?

_Mrs. F._ Well, really nothing. I am dying of _ennui_, the world is
so quiet; no excitement to move the placid waters of fashionable
society--is there, Dora?

_Dora._ Nothing, mamma.

_Mrs. F._ Nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to wear,--is there,
Dora?

_Dora._ Nothing, mamma.

_Aunt H._ Nothing to wear! Yes, there's bunnets.

_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--Mrs. Fastone, you are quite correct.

_Mrs. F._ Mrs. Hopkins spoke of bonnets. I have been so disappointed!
Thompson had a perfect love of a bonnet that I had quite set my
heart upon for Dora; but it is gone, and the poor child is almost
broken-hearted--ain't you, Dora?

_Dora._ Quite, mamma.

_Kitty._ I am very sorry, for bonnets are so hard to find. I have been
very much perplexed about them myself. They are so very commonplace;
no air of refinement about them.

_Mrs. F._ None, whatever--is there, Dora?

_Dora._ None, mamma.

_Kitty._ I've just had a new one sent home, but it doesn't suit me.

_Aunt H._ Why, Kitty, how you talk! It's a regular beauty!

_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--It is not what I wanted, but Thompson said it
was the most stylish she had.

_Mrs. F._ Thompson! Did you get it of Thompson?

_Kitty._ Yes, all my bonnets come from Thompson.

_Mrs. F._ Do let me see it!

_Aunt H._ (_Jumps up._) I'll show it to you right off. It's an eligunt
bunnet. (_Gets bandbox._)

_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!

_Aunt H._ Neow don't aunt Hopkins me! for I'm going to show 'em jest
how it looks on yer; set still; for if there's anything I pride myself
on, it's showin' off a bunnet. (_Stands behind_ KITTY, _puts the
bonnet on her head, and ties it._) There! ain't that a beauty?

_Mrs. F._ Why! what a hor--a handsome bonnet! Did you ever see
anything like it, Dora?

_Dora._ Never, mamma!

_Aunt H._ That's the style, marm.

_Mrs. F._ Really! I want to know! And this is Thompson's most stylish
bonnet! Really, how the fashions do change! Did you ever, Dora!

_Dora._ Never, mamma!

_Kitty._ (_Aside._) I do believe they are laughing! Aunt Hopkins, I
cannot get it off! You've tied it in a hard knot!

_Mrs. F._ It's very becoming--isn't it, Dora?

_Dora._ O, very, mamma.

_Mrs. F._ (_Aside to_ DORA.)--What a horrid fright!

_Dora._ Frightful, mamma!

_Mrs. F._ I believe we must be moving, for I must hurry to Thompson's
and order just such a bonnet for Dora. Good day. You have such a
charming taste--hasn't she, Dora?

_Dora._ Charming, mamma! (_They bow, and exeunt_, L., _with their
handkerchiefs to their mouths, endeavouring to conceal their
laughter._)

_Kitty._ Good day. Call again.--The hateful things! They are laughing
at me. What ails this bonnet. (_Goes to glass._) Goodness gracious;
what a fright! This is not my bonnet. Aunt Hopkins, you've ruined me!
I shall be the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood. (_Tears off
the bonnet._)

_Enter_ MRS. CLIPPER, R.

_Mrs. C._ Have the Fastones gone?

_Kitty._ I hope so. O, mother, send aunt Hopkins home; she's made me
look ridiculous!

_Aunt H._ Well, I declare! this comes of trying to please folks!

_Mrs. C._ Is _that_ your love of a bonnet, Kitty?

_Kitty._ No, indeed! Aunt Hopkins, where did you get this hateful
thing?

_Aunt H._ Out of that bandbox.

_Kitty._ (_Takes up the cover._) It's marked "Miss Katy Doolan."
You've made a pretty mess of it!

_Aunt H._ Sakes alive! It's the hired gal's! Well, I never!

_Mrs. C._ But where's the bonnet you sent from Thompson's?

_Katy._ (_Outside._) O, murder! that iver I should say this day!

_Enter_ KATY, R., (_holding in her hand an elegant bonnet._)

The mane, stingy blackgurd has sint me this whisp of a bunnet, that
I'll niver git on my head at all at all!

_Kitty._ That's my bonnet!

_Katy._ Is it, indade? and perhaps ye's be afther claiming the letther
Cornalius Ryan sint wid it.

_Mrs. C._ No, no, Katy; there's a little mistake here. This is your
bonnet.

_Katy._ Faith, now, isn't that a darling, jist! I'll wear it to church
to-morrow, sure.

_Kitty._ Put it on now, Katy; and then take this wisp of a bonnet, as
you call it, to Miss Thompson, with my best compliments and tell her I
have decided not to keep it.

_Mrs. C._ Why, Kitty, I thought your heart was set upon having it.

_Kitty._ So it was, mother; but I shall never dare to wear it, after
the ridiculous appearance I have just made. It's too fine for me. My
conscience gave me a little twinge as I was coming home. Send Harry
the money for his new suit. My old bonnet is quite good enough for me.

_Aunt H._ Neow that's what I call a self-denyin' gal. I'll fix it up
for you; for if there's anything I pride myself on doin', it's fixing
up old bunnets.

_Kitty._ And trying on new ones! No, I thank you, aunt Hopkins.
Hereafter I'll look after my bonnets myself. I think our acquaintance
with Mrs. Fastone will be broken off by this adventure; and so I will
make a merit of necessity, abandon fashionable society, and be more
humble in my demeanor and in my dress.

_Mrs. C._ Ah, my child, you will be better satisfied with your
decision, as you grow older, and see how frivolous are the demands of
fashion, and how little happiness can be obtained by lavish display.
And I think this little adventure, though a severe lesson, will be far
more profitable than the possession of that "love of a bonnet."

DRAFTED.

MRS. H.L. BOSTWICK.

    The opening stanzas of this poem should be recited in an
    agitated, broken voice, as though the fond mother could not
    fully realize the fact of her boy being drafted:--in the end
    the voice changes to a firmer and gentler tone, as a spirit of
    resignation fills the mother's heart:

  My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books;
  No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie--as delicate, too, in his
          looks.
  Why, it seems but a day since he helped me girl-like, in my
          kitchen at tasks;
  He drafted! Great God, can it be that our President knows what he
          asks?

  He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the
          best;
  Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been
          at rest.
  Too slender for over much study--why, his master has made him to-day
  Go out with his ball on the common--and you have drafted a child
          at his play!

  "Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I wimper when Robert stood up with his
          gun,
  And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of
          Bull Run?
  Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall,
  "There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert,
          "if I am to fall."

  "Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day
  When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot
          for Clay.
  Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, "A new morsel of fame
  We'll lay on the candidate's altar"--and christened the child with
          his name.

  Oh, what have I done, a weak woman, in what have I meddled with
          harm,
  (Troubling only my God for the sunshine and rain on my rough
          little farm,)
  That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and whetted before my
          eyes,
  That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice?

  Oh, 'tis true there's a country to save, man, and 'tis true there
          is no appeal,
  But did God see my boy's name lying the uppermost one in the wheel?
  Five stalwart sons has my neighbour, and never the lot upon one;
  Are these things Fortune's caprices, or is it God's will that is
          done?

  Are the others too precious for resting where Robert is taking his
          rest,
  With the pictured face of young Annie lying over the rent in his
          breast?
  Too tender for parting with sweet hearts? Too fair to be crippled
          or scarred?
  My boy! Thank God for these tears--I was growing so bitter and hard!

  Now read me a page in the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack
          to-night,
  Of the eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in
          flight;
  Talk of something that's nobler than living, of a Love that is
          higher than mine,
  And faith which has planted its banner where the heavenly
          camp-fires shine.

  Talk of something that watches us softly, as the shadows glide
          down in the yard;
  That shall go with my soldier to battle, and stand with my picket
          on guard.
  Spirits of loving and lost ones--watch softly with Harry to-night,
  For to-morrow he goes forth to battle--to arm him for Freedom and
          Right!

AN ERUPTION OF MOUNT VESUVIUS.

BULWER.

    The following magnificent description of perhaps the most
    awful phenomenon in nature, gives full scope for almost every
    tone and gesture. Care should, however, be taken that the
    natural grandeur of the subject be not marred by a stilted,
    pompous, or affected delivery. Let the speaker try to realize
    the thought and feelings of a spectator of the dark scene of
    desolation, and he cannot go amiss:

The eyes of the crowd beheld, with ineffable dismay, a vast vapour
shooting from the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic
pine-tree; the trunk, blackness; the branches, fire, that shifted and
wavered in its hues with every moment: now fiercely luminous, now of
a dull and dying red, that again blazed terrifically forth with
intolerable glare.

Then there arose on high the universal shrieks of women; the men
stared at each other, but were dumb. At that moment they felt the
earth shake beneath their feet; the walls of the theatre trembled;
and beyond, in the distance, they heard the crash of falling roofs. An
instant more, and the mountain-cloud seemed to roll toward them, dark
and rapid like a torrent; at the same time it cast forth from its
bosom a shower of ashes, mixed with fragments of burning stone! Over
the crushing vines, over the desolate streets, over the amphitheatre
itself,--far and wide,--with many a mighty splash in the agitated sea,
fell that awful shower!

The cloud advanced, darker, disgorging showers of ashes and pumice
stones; and, amid the other horrors, the mighty mountain now cast
up columns of boiling water. Blent and kneaded with the half-burning
ashes, the streams fell like seething mud over the streets, in
frequent intervals.

The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the day, at
length settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. But in proportion
as the blackness gathered did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase
in their vivid and scorching glare.

Nor was their horrible beauty confined to their hues of fire. Now
brightly blue, as the most azure depth of a southern sky; now of a
livid and snake-like green, darting restlessly to and fro, as the
folds of an enormous serpent; now of a lurid and intolerable crimson,
gushing forth through the columns of smoke far and wide, and lighting
up all Pompeii; then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the
ghost of its own life!

In the pauses of the showers were heard the rumbling of the earth
beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea; or, lower still,
and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and
hissing murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant
mountain.

The ashes, in many places, were already knee-deep; and in some places
immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house-roofs, bore down
along the streets masses of confused ruin, which yet more and more,
with every hour, obstructed the way; and, as the day advanced, the
motion of the earth was more sensibly felt; the footing seemed to
slide and creep, nor could chariot or litter be kept steady, even on
the most level ground.

Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each other as they fell,
broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught
whatever was combustible within their reach; and along the plains
beyond the city the darkness was now terribly relieved, for several
houses and even vineyards had been set on flames; and at various
intervals the fire rose fiercely and sullenly against the solid gloom.
The citizens had endeavoured to place rows of torches in the most
frequented spots; but these rarely continued long; the showers and the
wind extinguished them.

Suddenly arose an intense and lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through
the darkness which closed around it, the mountain shone, a pile of
fire! Its summit seemed riven in two; or rather, above its surface,
there seemed to rise two monster-shapes, each confronting each, as
demons contending for a world. These were of one deep blood-red hue
of fire, which lighted up the whole atmosphere; but below, the nether
part of the mountain was still dark and shrouded, save in three
places, adown which flowed serpentine, and irregular rivers of molten
lava. Darkly red through the profound gloom of their banks, they
flowed slowly on, as towards the devoted city. And through the still
air was heard the rattling of the fragments of rock, hurling one upon
another, as they were borne down the fiery cataracts, darkening for
one instant the spot where they fell, and suffused the next in the
burnished hues of the flood along which they floated!

Suddenly a duller shade fell over the air; and one of the two gigantic
crests into which the summit had been divided, rocked and waved to and
fro; and then, with a sound, the mightiness of which no language can
describe, it fell from its burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of
fire, down the sides of the mountain. At the same instant gushed
forth a volume of blackest smoke, rolling on, over air, sea and earth.
Another, and another, and another shower of ashes, far more profuse
than before, scattered fresh desolation along the streets, and
darkness once more wrapped them as a veil.

The whole elements of civilization were broken up. If in the darkness,
wife was separated from husband, or parent from child, vain was the
hope of reunion. Each hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing was
left save the law of self-preservation.

A PLEA FOR THE OX.

DUGANNE.

    This beautiful poem should be recited with a calm, even devout
    dignity; occasionally rising into energetic expression as the
    poet apostrophizes the Deity in behalf of the down-trodden:

  Of all my Father's herds and flocks,
  I love the Ox--the large-eyed Ox!
  I think no Christian man would wrong
  The Ox--so patient, calm, and strong!

  How huge his strength! and yet, with flowers
  A child can lead this Ox of ours;
  And yoke his ponderous neck, with cords
  Made only of the gentlest words.

  By fruitful Nile the Ox was Lord;
  By Jordan's stream his blood was poured;
  In every age--with every clan--
  He loves, he serves, he dies for MAN!

  And, through the long, long years of God,
  Since labouring ADAM delved the sod,
  I hear no human voice that mocks
  The _hue_ which God hath given His Ox!

  While burdening toils bow down his back,
  Who asks if he be _white_ or _black?_
  And when his generous blood is shed,
  Who shall deny its common _red?_

  "Ye shall not muzzle"--God hath sworn--
  "The Ox, that treadeth out the corn!"
  I think no Christian law ordains
  That _Ox_ or _Man_ should toil in chains.

  So, haply, for an Ox I pray.
  That kneels and toils for us this day;
  A huge, calm, patient, large-eyed Ox,
  Black-skinned, among our herds and flocks.

  So long, O righteous Lord! so long
  Bowed down, and yet so brave and strong--
  I think no Christian, just and true,
  Can spurn this poor Ox for his _hue!_

  I know not why he shall not toil,
  Black-skinned, upon our broad, free soil;
  And lift aloft his dusky frame,
  Unbranded by a bondman's name!

  And struggling still, for nobler goal,
  With wakening will and soaring soul,
  I know not why his great free strength
  May not be our best wealth at length:

  That strength which, in the limbs of _slaves_--
  Like Egypt's--only piles up graves!
  But in the hands of _freemen_ now
  May build up states, by axe and plough!--

  And rear up souls, as purely white
  As angels, clothed with heavenly light;
  And yield forth life-blood, richly red
  As patriot hearts have ever shed.

  God help us! we are veiled within--
  Or white or black--with shrouds of skin;
  And, at the last, we all shall crave
  Small difference in the breadth of grave!

  But--when the grass grows, green and calm,
  And smells above our dust, like balm--
  I think our rest will sweeter be,
  If over us the Ox be--_free!_

HERE SHE GOES, AND THERE SHE GOES.

JAMES NACK.

  Two Yankee wags, one summer day,
  Stopped at a tavern on their way,
  Supped, frolicked, late retired to rest,
  And woke, to breakfast on the best.
  The breakfast over, Tom and Will
  Sent for the landlord and the bill;
  Will looked it over:--"Very right--
  But hold! what wonder meets my sight?
  Tom! the surprise is quite a shock!"
  "What wonder? where?" "The clock, the clock!"

  Tom and the landlord in amaze
  Stared at the clock with stupid gaze,
  And for a moment neither spoke;
  At last the landlord silence broke,--

  "You mean the clock that's ticking there?
  I see no wonder, I declare!
  Though maybe, if the truth were told,
  'Tis rather ugly, somewhat old;
  Yet time it keeps to half a minute;
  But, if you please, what wonder in it?"

  "Tom, don't you recollect," said Will,
  "The clock at Jersey, near the mill,
  The very image of this present,
  With which I won the wager pleasant?"
  Will ended with a knowing wink;
  Tom scratched his head and tried to think.
    "Sir, begging your pardon for inquiring,"
  The landlord said with grin admiring,
    "What wager was it?"

                       "You remember
  It happened, Tom, in last December:
  In sport I bet a Jersey Blue
  That it was more than he could do
  To make his finger go and come
  In keeping with the pendulum,
  Repeating, till the hour should close,
  Still--'_Here she goes, and there she goes._'
  He lost the bet in half a minute."

  "Well, if I would, the deuce is in it!"
  Exclaimed the landlord; "try me yet,
  And fifty dollars to be bet."
    "Agreed, but we will play some trick,
  To make you of the bargain sick!"
    "I'm up to that!"

                      "Don't make us wait,--
  Begin,--the clock is striking eight."
  He seats himself, and left and right
  His finger wags with all its might,
  And hoarse his voice and hoarser grows,
  With--"Here she goes, and there she goes!"

  "Hold!" said the Yankee, "plank the ready!"
  The landlord wagged his finger steady,
  While his left hand, as well as able,
  Conveyed a purse upon the table,
  "Tom! with the money let's be off!"
  This made the landlord only scoff.
  He heard them running down the stair,
  But was not tempted from his chair;
  Thought he, "The fools! I'll bite them yet!
  So poor a trick sha'n't win the bet."
  And loud and long the chorus rose
  Of--"Here she goes, and there she goes!"
  While right and left his finger swung,
  In keeping to his clock and tongue.

  His mother happened in to see
  Her daughter: "Where is Mrs. B----?"
    "When will she come, do you suppose?"
  Son!--"
      "Here she goes, and there she goes!"
  "Here!--where?"--the lady in surprise
  His finger followed with her eyes;
  "Son! why that steady gaze and sad?
  Those words,--that motion,--are you mad?
  But here's your wife, perhaps she knows,
  And--"
      "Here she goes, and there she goes!"

  His wife surveyed him with alarm,
  And rushed to him and seized his arm;
  He shook her off, and to and fro
  His finger persevered to go,
  While curled his very nose with ire
  That _she_ against him should conspire;
  And with more furious tone arose
  The--"Here she goes, and there she goes!"

  "Lawks!" screamed the wife, "I'm in a whirl!
  Run down and bring the little girl;
  She is his darling, and who knows
  But--"
      "Here she goes, and there she goes!"
  "Lawks! he is mad! What made him thus?
  Good Lord! what will become of us?
  Run for a doctor,--run, run, run,--
  For Doctor Brown and Doctor Dun,
  And Doctor Black and Doctor White,
  And Doctor Grey with all your might!"

  The doctors came, and looked, and wondered,
  And shook their heads, and paused and pondered.
  Then one proposed he should be bled,--
    "No, leeched you mean," the other said,--
    "Clap on a blister!" roared another,--
    "No! cup him,"--"No! trepan him, brother."
  A sixth would recommend a purge,
  The next would an emetic urge;
  The eighth, just come from a dissection,
  His verdict gave for an injection.
  The last produced a box of pills,
  A certain cure for earthly ills:
  "I had a patient yesternight,"
  Quoth he, "and wretched was her plight,
  And as the only means to save her,
  Three dozen patent pills I gave her;
  And by to-morrow I suppose
  That--"
      "Here she goes, and there she goes!"

  "You are all fools!" the lady said,--
  "The way is, just to shave his head.
  Run! bid the barber come anon."
  "Thanks, mother!" thought her clever son;
  "You help the knaves that would have bit me,
  But all creation sha'n't outwit me!"
  Thus to himself, while to and fro
  His fingers perseveres to go,
  And from his lips no accent flows
  But--"Here she goes, and there she goes!"
  The barber came--"Lord help him! what
  A queerish customer I've got;
  But we must do our best to save him,--
  So hold him, gemmen, while I shave him!"
  But here the doctors interpose,--
    "A woman never--"
                    "There she goes!"

  "A woman is no judge of physic,
  No even when her baby is sick.
  He must be bled,"--"No, no, a blister,"--
  "A purge, you mean,"--"I say a clyster,"--
  "No, cup him,"--"Leech him,"--"Pills! pills! pills!"
  And all the house the uproar fills.

  What means that smile? what means that shiver?
  The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver,
  And triumph brightens up his face,
  His finger yet shall win the race;
  The clock is on the stroke of nine,
  And up he starts,--"'Tis mine! 'tis mine!"
  "What do you mean?"

                    "I mean the fifty;
  I never spent an hour so thrifty.
  But you who tried to make me lose,
  Go, burst with envy, if you choose!
  But how is this? where are they?"
                                   "Who?"

  "The gentlemen,--I mean the two
  Came yesterday,--are they below?"
    "They galloped off an hour ago."
    "O, purge me! blister! shave and bleed!
  For, hang the knaves, I'm mad indeed!"

DAVID AND GOLIATH.

    Goliath gives vent to his arrogance in a bombastic style. This
    should be borne in mind by the speaker. David, on the other
    hand, expresses himself with modesty, but in a tone of
    confident courage:

  _Goliath._ Where is the mighty man of war, who dares
  Accept the challenge of Philistia's chief?
  What victor-king, what general drenched in blood,
  Claims this high privilege? What are his rights?
  What proud credentials does the boaster bring
  To prove his claim? What cities laid in ashes,
  What ruined provinces, what slaughtered realms,
  What heads of heroes, or what hearts of kings,
  In battle killed, or at his altars slain,
  Has he to boast? Is his bright armory
  Thick set with spears, and swords, and coats of mail,
  Of vanquished nations, by his single arm
  Subdued? Where is the mortal man so bold,
  So much a wretch, so out of love with life,
  To dare the weight of this uplifted spear?
                              Come, advance!
  Philistia's gods to Israel's. Sound, my herald,
  Sound for the battle straight!

  _David._                Behold thy foe.

  _Gol._ I see him not.

  _Dav._                  Behold him here.

  _Gol._                             Say, where?
  Direct my sight. I do not war with boys.

  _Dav._ I stand prepared; thy single arm to mine.

  _Gol._ Why, this is mockery, minion; it may chance
  To cost thee dear. Sport not with things above thee:
  But tell me who, of all this numerous host,
  Expects his death from me? Which is the man
  Whom Israel sends to meet my bold defiance?

  _Dav._ The election of my sovereign falls on me.

  _Gol._ On thee! on thee! by Dagon, 'tis too much!
  Thou curled minion! thou a nation's champion!
  'Twould move my mirth at any other time;
  But trifling's out of tune. Begone, light boy!
  And tempt me not too far.

  _Dav._               I do defy thee,
  Thou foul idolator! Hast thou not scorned
  The armies of the living God I serve!
  By me he will avenge upon thy head
  Thy nation's sins and thine. Armed with his name,
  Unshrinking, I dare meet the stoutest foe
  That ever bathed his hostile spear in blood.

  _Gol._ Indeed! 'tis wondrous well! Now, by my gods!
  The stripling plays the orator! Vain boy!
  Keep close to that same bloodless war of words,
  And thou shalt still be safe. Tongue-valiant warrior!
  Where is thy sylvan crook, with garlands hung,
  Of idle field-flowers? Where thy wanton harp,
  Thou dainty-fingered hero?
                           Now will I meet thee,
  Thou insect warrior; since thou dar'st me thus,
  Already I behold thy mangled limbs,
  Dissevered each from each, ere long to feed
  The fierce, blood-snuffing vulture. Mark me well,
  Around my spear I'll twist thy shining locks
  And toss in air thy head all gashed with wounds.

  _Dav._ Ha, say'st thou so? Come on, then; Mark us well.
  Thou com'st to me with sword and spear, and shield;
  In the dread name of Israel's God, I come;
  The living Lord of Hosts, whom thou defi'st;
  Yet though no shield I bring; no arms, except
  These five smooth stones I gathered from the brook
  With such a simple sling as shepherds use;
  Yet all exposed, defenceless as I am,
  The God I serve shall give thee up a prey
  To my victorious arm. This day, I mean
  To make the uncircumcised tribes confess
  There is a God in Israel. I will give thee,
  Spite of thy vaunted strength and giant bulk,
  To glut the carrion-kites. Nor thee alone;
  The mangled carcasses of your thick hosts
  Shall spread the plains of Elah; till Philistia,
  Through all her trembling tents and flying bands,
  Shall own that Judah's God is God indeed!
  I dare thee to the trial!

  _Gol._             Follow me.
  In this good spear I trust.

  _Dav._             I trust in Heaven!
  The God of battles stimulates my arm,
  And fires my soul with ardor not its own.

    In this dialogue, the first speech of Goliath is simple
    vaunt. Confident in his huge bulk and strength, he strides
    occasionally from side to side while speaking, elevating his
    arms and throwing his limbs about as if anxious to display his
    powerful sinews and muscular proportions. He speaks very loud,
    as if willing to terrify all Israel with his voice.

    In this second speech, Goliath partly stoops, half shuts his
    eyes like a person endeavouring to discern some diminutive
    object, and, after looking intently a short time, suddenly
    straightens himself up to his full height, and says
    arrogantly: "I see him not."

    In his third speech, Goliath maintains the same ground, till,
    in the conclusion, he seems, at last, to have perceived David,
    and, turning away contemptuously, adds: "I do not war with
    boys."

    In the latter part of the dialogue, Goliath becomes really
    furious, and is in haste to transfix David with his spear;
    while David, on the other hand, becomes more calm, collected,
    and observant as the critical moment approaches, thus denoting
    his firm and unwavering trust in the God of Israel. David
    makes but few gestures, but always assumes a reverential
    attitude when he mentions the name of God--not puritanical
    by any means, but expressive of humble hope and smiling
    confidence.

THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY.

FRANCES M. WHITCHER.

Yes,--he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband
was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 't was Poll Bingham), _she_ says,
I never found it out till after he died, but that 's the consarndest
lie, that ever was told, though it 's jest a piece with everything
else she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I
writ to his memory, nobody wouldn 't think I dident set store by him.
Want to hear it? Well, I 'll see if I can say it; it ginerally affects
me wonderfully, seems to harrer up my feelin's; but I'll try. Dident
know I ever writ poitry? How you talk! used to make lots on 't; hain't
so much late years. I remember once when Parson Potter had a bee,
I sent him an amazin' great cheese, and writ a piece o' poitry, and
pasted on top on 't. It says:--

  Teach him for to proclaim
    Salvation to the folks;
  No occasion give for any blame,
    Nor wicked people's jokes.

And so it goes on, but I guess I won't stop to say the rest on now,
seein' there's seven and forty verses.

Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it; used to
sing it to the tune o' Haddem. But I was gwine to tell the one I made
in relation to husband; it begins as follers:--

  He never jawed in all his life,
    He never was unkind,--
  And (tho' I say it that was his wife)
    Such men you seldom find.

(That's as true as the Scripturs; I never knowed him to say a harsh
word.)

  I never changed my single lot,--
    I thought 't would be a sin--

(though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a chance.) Now 't
ain't for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o' chances or
not, but there 's them livin' that _might_ tell if they wos a mind to;
why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon,
three year after husband died. I guess the ginerality o' folks knows
what was the nature o' Major Coon's feelin's towards me, tho' his wife
and Miss Jinkins _does_ say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, Miss
Coon feels wonderfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her
"Jack at a pinch,"--seein' he couldent get such as he wanted, he took
such as he could get,--but I goes on to say--

  I never changed my single lot,
    I thought 't would be a sin,--
  For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott,
    I never got married agin.

  If ever a hasty word he spoke,
    His anger dident last,
  But vanished like tobacker smoke
    Afore the wintry blast.

  And since it was my lot to be
    The wife of such a man,
  Tell the men that's after me
    To ketch me if they can.

  If I was sick a single jot,
    He called the doctor in--

That's a fact,--he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me.
Now only jest think,--widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she
'twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great
store by me, or he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was
down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him
no way. Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin', and when he
wa' n't there, who was ther, pray tell, that knowed enough to take the
lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and
Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all come on Deacon
Bedott,--and he was always ready and willin' to do his duty, you know;
as long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to
confrence meetin'; why, I've knowed that man to go when he couldent
scarcely crawl on account o' the pain in the spine of his back. He had
a wonderful gift, and he wa' n't a man to keep his talents hid up in
a napkin,--so you see 't was from a sense o' duty he went when I was
sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was I?
Oh!--

  If I was sick a single jot,
    He called the doctor in--
  I sot so much by Deacon Bedott
    I never got married agin.

  A wonderful tender heart he had,
    That felt for all mankind,--
  It made him feel amazin bad
    To see the world so blind.

  Whiskey and rum he tasted not--

That's as true as the Scripturs,--but if you'll believe it, Betsy Ann
Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house,
how 't she 'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! did you ever!
Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything _she_ says. I've
knowed Poll Bingham from a gall, and she never knowed how to speak the
truth--besides she always had a pertikkler spite against husband and
me, and between us tew I 'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for
I make it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well she was
a ravin'-distracted after my husband herself, but it's a long story. I
'll tell you about it some other time, and then you'll know why widder
Jinkins is etarnally runnin' me down. See,--where had I got to? Oh, I
remember now,--

  Whiskey and rum he tasted not,--
    He thought it was a sin,--
  I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott
    I never got married agin.

  But now he's dead! the thought is killin',
    My grief I can't control--
  He never left a single shillin'
    His widder to console.

But that wa' n't his fault--he was so out o' health for a number
o' year afore he died, it ain't to be wondered at he dident lay up
nothin'--however, it dident give him no great oneasiness,--he never
cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she
heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his
back,--begrudged folks their vittals when they came to his house! did
you ever! why, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born
days. If I'd such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I'd hold my tongue
about my neighbors' husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to git
drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper,--used to
swear like all posset when he got mad,--and I've heard my husband
say, (and he wa' n't a man that ever said anything that wa' n't
true),--I've heard _him_ say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father
out of his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! "His widder
to console,"--ther ain't but one more verse, 't ain't a very lengthy
poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he,--What
did you stop so soon for?"--but Miss Jinkins told the Crosbys _she_
thought I'd better a' stopt afore I 'd begun,--she 's a purty critter
to talk so, I must say. I 'd like to see some poitry o' hern,--I guess
it would be astonishin' stuff; and mor'n all that, she said there wa'
n't a word o' truth in the hull on 't,--said I never cared two cents
for the deacon. What an everlastin' lie!! Why, when he died, I took it
so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell, they was afraid
they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal. But that's a
painful subject, I won't dwell on 't. I conclude as follers:--

  I'll never change my single lot,--
    I think 't would be a sin,--
  The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott
    Don't intend to get married agin.

Excuse me cryin'--my feelin's always overcomes me so when I say that
poitry--O-o-o-o-o-o!

THE TWO WEAVERS.

HANNAH MORE.

    This piece should be spoken in a simple, unaffected
    conversational manner; still it admits of much quiet emphasis,
    and subdued irony:

  As at their work two weavers sat,
  Beguiling time with friendly chat,
  They touched upon the price of meat,
  So high, a weaver scarce could eat.

  "What with my brats and sickly wife,"
  Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tired of life;
  So hard my work, so poor my fare,
  'Tis more than mortal man can bear.

  "How glorious is the rich man's state
  His house so fine, his wealth so great!
  Heaven is unjust, you must agree;
  Why all to him? Why none to me?

  "In spite of what the Scripture teaches
  In spite of all the parson preaches,
  This world (indeed I've thought so long)
  Is ruled methinks extremely wrong.

  "Where'er I look, howe'er I range,
  'Tis all confused and hard and strange;
  The good are troubled and oppressed,
  And all the wicked are the blest."

  Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause
  Why thus we blame our Maker's laws;
  _Parts of his ways_ alone we know;
  'Tis all that man can see below.

  "See'st thou that carpet, not half done,
  Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun?
  Behold the wild confusion there,
  So rude the mass it makes one stare!

  "A stranger, ignorant of the trade,
  Would say, no meaning's there conveyed;
  For where's the middle? where's the border?
  Thy carpet now is all disorder."

  Quoth Dick, "My work is yet in bits,
  But still in every part it fits;
  Besides, you reason like a lout--
  Why, man, that _carpet's inside out_."

  Says John, "Thou say'st the thing I mean,
  And now I hope to cure thy spleen;
  This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt
  _Is but a carpet inside out_.

  "As when we view these shreds and ends,
  We know not what the whole intends;
  So, when on earth things look but odd,
  They're working still some scheme of God.

  "No plan, no pattern, can we trace;
  All wants proportion, truth, and grace
  The motley mixture we deride,
  Nor see the beauteous upper side.

  "But when we reach that world of light,
  And view those works of God aright,
  Then shall we see the whole design,
  And own the workman is divine.

  "What now seem random strokes, will there
  All order and design appear;
  Then shall we praise what here we spurned,
  For then the _carpet shall be turned_."

  "Thou'rt right," quoth Dick; "no more I'll grumble
  That this sad world's so strange a jumble;
  My impious doubts are put to flight,
  For my own carpet sets me right."

MISS MALONEY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION.

MARY MAPES DODGE.

Och! don't be talkin'. Is it howld on, ye say? An' did n't I howld
on till the heart o' me was clane broke entirely, and me wastin' that
thin you could clutch me wid yer two hands? To think o' me toilin'
like a nager for the six year I 've been in Ameriky,--bad luck to the
day I iver left the owld counthry! to be bate by the likes o' them
(faix an' I'll sit down when I 'm ready, so I will, Aunt Ryan, an' yed
better be listnin' than drawin' yer remarks)! an' is it mysel, with
five good characters from respectable places, would be herdin' wid the
haythens? The saints forgive me, but I 'd be buried alive sooner 'n
put up wid it a day longer. Sure an' I was the granehorn not to be
lavin' at onct when the missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver
about the new waiter man which was brought out from Californy.

"He 'll be here the night," says she, "and, Kitty, it 's meself looks
to you to be kind and patient wid him, for he 's a furriner," says
she, a kind o' lookin' off.

"Sure an it 's little I 'll hinder nor interfare wid him nor any
other, mum," says I, a kind o' stiff, for I minded me how these French
waiters, wid their paper collars and brass rings on their fingers,
isn 't company for no gurril brought up dacint and honest.

Och! sorra a bit I knew what was comin' till the missus walked into me
kitchen smilin', and says kind o' shcared: "Here 's Fing Wing, Kitty,
an' you 'll have too much sinse to mind his bein' a little strange."

Wid that she shoots the door, and I, misthrusting if I was tidied up
sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper collar, looks up, and--Howly
fathers! may I niver brathe another breath, but there stud a rale
haythen Chineser a grinnin' like he'd just come off a tay-box. If
you'll belave me, the crayture was that yeller it ud sicken you to
see him; and sorra stitch was on him but a black nightgown over his
trousers, and the front of his head shaved claner nor a copper biler,
and a black tail a-hangin' down from behind, wid his two feet stook
into the heathenestest shoes you ever set eyes on.

Och! but I was up stairs afore you could turn about, a givin' the
missus warnin', an' only stopt wid her by her raisin' me wages two
dollars, and playdin' wid me how it was a Christian's duty to bear wid
haythins and taitch 'em all in our power,--the saints have us!

Well, the ways and trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I
couldn't be tellin'. Not a blissed thing cud I do but he'd be lookin'
on wid his eyes cocked up'ard like two poomp-handles, an' he widdout
a speck or smitch o' whiskers on him, an' his finger-nails full a yard
long. But it 's dyin' you'd be to see the missus a' larnin' him, and
he grinnin' an' waggin' his pig-tail (which was pieced out long
wid some black stoof, the haythen chate), and gettin' into her
ways wonderful quick, I don't deny, imitatin' that sharp you'd be
shurprised, and ketchin' an' copyin' things the best of us will do
a-hurried wid work, yet don't want comin' to the knowledge of the
family,--bad luck to him!

Is it ate wid him? Arrah, an' would I be sittin' wid a haythen an' he
a-atin' wid drum-sticks,--yes, an' atin' dogs an' cats unknownst to
me, I warrant you, which it is the custom of them Chinesers, till
the thought made me that sick I could die. An' did n't the crayture
proffer to help me a wake ago come Toosday, an' me a foldin' down me
clane clothes for the ironin', an' fill his haythin mouth wid water,
an' afore I could hinder squirrit it through his teeth stret over the
best linen table-cloth, and fold it up tight, as innercent now as a
baby, the dirrity baste! But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd
be doin' till ye'd be dishtracted. It's yersel' knows the tinder feet
that's on me since ever I 've bin in this counthry. Well, owin' to
that, I fell into a way o' slippin' me shoes off when I 'd be settin'
down to pale the praities or the likes o' that, and, do ye mind! that
haythin would do the same thing after me whiniver the missus set him
to parin' apples or tomaterses. The saints in heaven could n't have
made him belave he cud kape the shoes on him when he'd be palin'
anything.

Did I lave for that? Faix an' I did n't. Did n't he get me into
trouble wid my missus, the haythin? You're aware yersel' how the
boondles comin' in from the grocery often contains more 'n 'll go into
anything dacently. So, for that matter, I'd now and then take out a
sup o' sugar, or flour, or tay, an' wrap it in paper and put it in me
bit of a box tucked under the ironin' blankit the how it cuddent be
bodderin' any one. Well, what shud it be, but this blessed Sathurday
morn the missus wos a spakin' pleasant and respec'ful wid me in me
kitchen when the grocer boy comes in an' stands fornenst her wid his
boondles, an' she motions like to Fing Wing (which I never would call
him by that name ner any other but just haythin), she motions to him,
she does, for to take the boondles an' empty out the sugar an' what
not, where they belongs. If you'll belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that
blatherin' Chineser do but take out a sup o' sugar, an' a handful o'
tay, an' a bit o' chaze right afore the missus, wrap them into bits o'
paper, an' I spacheless wid shurprise, an' he the next minute up wid
the ironin' blankit and pullin' out me box wid a show o' bein' sly to
put them in.

Och, the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, and missus sayin', "O
Kitty!" in a way that 'ud cruddle your blood.

"He 's a haythin nager," says I.

"I 've found you out," says she.

"I 'll arrist him," says I.

"It 's you ought to be arristed," says she.

"You won't," says I.

"I will," says she; and so it went till she give me such sass as
I cuddent take from no lady,--an' I give her warnin' an' left that
instant, an' she a-pointin' to the doore.

THE BIG OYSTER.

A LEGEND OF RARITAN BAY.

GEORGE ARNOLD.

  'Twas a hazy, mazy, lazy day,
  And the good smack _Emily_ idly lay
  Off Staten Island, in Raritan Bay,
    With her canvas loosely flapping,
  The sunshine slept on the briny deep,
  Nor wave nor zephyr could vigils keep,
  The oysterman lay on the deck asleep,
    And even the cap'n was napping.

  The smack went drifting down the tide,--
  The waters gurgling along her side,--
  Down where the bay glows vast and wide,--
    A beautiful sheet of water;
  With scarce a ripple about her prow,
  The oyster-smack floated, silent and slow,
  With Keyport far on her starboard bow,
    And South Amboy on her quarter.

  But, all at once, a grating sound
  Made the cap'n awake and glance around;
  "Hold hard!" cried he, "we've run aground,
    As sure as all tarnation!"
  The men jumped up, and grumbled and swore;
  They also looked, and plainly saw
  That the _Emily_ lay two miles from shore,
    At the smallest calculation.

  Then, gazing over the side, to see
  What kind of a bottom this shoal might be,
  They saw, in the shadow that lay to the lee,
    A sight that filled them with horror!
  The water was clear, and beneath it, there,
  An oyster lay in its slimy lair,
  So big, that to tell its dimensions fair
    Would take from now till to-morrow.

  And this it was made the grating sound;
  On this the _Emily_ ran aground;
  And this was the shoal the cap'n found,--
    Alack! the more is the pity.
  For straight an idea entered his head:
  He'd drag it out of its watery bed,
  And give it a resting-place, instead,
    In some saloon in the city.

  So, with crow, and lever, and gaff, and sling,
  And tongs, and tackle, and roller, and ring,
  They made a mighty effort to bring
    This hermit out of his cloister.
  They labored earnestly, day and night,
  Working by torch and lantern light,
  Till they had to acknowledge that, do what they might,
    They never could budge the oyster!

  The cap'n fretted, and fumed, and fussed,--
  He swore he'd "have that 'yster, or bust!"
  But, for all his oaths, he was quite nonplussed;
    So by way of variation,
  He sat him quietly down, for a while,
  To cool his anger and settle his bile,
  And to give himself up, in his usual style,
    To a season of meditation.

  Now, the cap'n was quite a wonderful man;
  He could do almost anything any man can,
  And a good deal more, when he once began
    To act from a clear deduction.
  But his wonderful power,--his greatest pride,--
  The feat that shadowed all else beside,--
  The talent on which he most relied,--
    Was his awful power of suction!

  At suction he never had known defeat!
  The stoutest suckers had given in, beat,
  When he sucked up a quart of apple-jack, neat,
    By touching his lips to the measure!
  He'd suck an oyster out of its shell,
  Suck shrimps or lobsters equally well;
  Suck cider till inward the barrel-heads fell,--
    And seemed to find it a pleasure.

  Well, after thinking a day or two,
  This doughty sucker imagined he knew
  About the best thing he could possibly do,
    To secure the bivalvular hermit.
  "I'll bore through his shell, as they bore for coal,
  With an auger fixed on the end of a pole,
  And then, through a tube, I'll suck him out whole,--
    A neat little swallow, I term it!"

  The very next day, he returned to the place
  Where his failure had thrown him into disgrace;
  And there, with a ghastly grin on his face,
    Began his submarine boring.
  He worked for a week, for the shell was tough,
  But reached the interior soon enough
  For the oyster, who found such surgery rough,--
    Such grating, and scraping, and scoring!

  The shell-fish started, the water flew,
  The cap'n turned decidedly blue,
  But thrust his auger still further through,
    To quiet the wounded creature.
  Alas! I fear my tale grows sad,
  The oyster naturally felt quite bad
    In spite of its peaceful nature.

  It arose, and, turning itself on edge,
  Exposed a ponderous shelly wedge,
  All covered with slime, and sea-weed, and sedge,--
    A conchological wonder!
  This wedge flew open, as quick as a flash,
  Into two great jaws, with a mighty splash
  One scraunching, crunching, crackling crash,--
    And the smack was gone to thunder.

A PRECIOUS PICKLE.

(FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY.)

CHARACTERS.

  MISS REBECCA PEASE.
  MRS. GABBLE.
  JENNY FROST, } City girls on a vacation
  BESSY SNOW,  } in the country.
  SADIE BEAN,  }
  SISSY GABBLE.
  JUNO, Miss Pease's coloured help.

SCENE.--MISS PEASE'S _best room. Table_, C., _back. Chairs_, R. _and_
L. _Rocking-chair_, C. _Chair directly in front of the table._

_Enter_, L., JUNO; _costume, calico dress, handkerchief about her head
in shape of a turban, broom in her hand._

_Juno._ Bress my soul! Nebber see, in de whole co'se ob my life, sich
a galloping set as dem are city gals--nebber! For all de worl', jes
like a flock ob sheep. Shoo! away dey go, from de cellar to de top
ob de house--pell-mell inter de barn. Skipterty shoo, ober de fields;
skersplash into de brook; don't keer for nuffin nor nobody. Can't keep
de chairs straight, nor de flo' clean nor nuffin. (_Looks off_, R.)
Now, now, now, jes look a dar! jes look a dar! See 'em scootin' round,
chasin' dat are poor orphanless calf, what ain't got no mudder. Never
did see nuffin like it, nebber. (_Sweeps violently._)

_Jenny._ (_Outside_, R.) Ha, ha, ha! If you don't stop, girls, I shall
die.

_Bessie._ (_Outside_, R.) Ha, ha, ha! O, dear, there goes my hat!

_Sadie._ (_Outside_, R.) Ha, ha, ha! Do see him jump! [_All three
enter_, R, _laughing._

_Jenny._ O, isn't this splendid! A country life for me.

_Bessie._ It's glorious! I could live here forever.

_Sadie._ So could I. No more city life for me.

_Juno._ Bress my soul! Goin' fur to stay here forebber! I'll jes' pack
up my jewelry, and slope, for sartin'.

_Jenny._ Ah, there's Juno. O, Juno, isn't it most dinner-time? I'm so
hungry!

_Bessie._ So am I--ravenous.

_Sadie._ I'm starving; slowly, but surely, starving.

_Juno._ Dinner! Why, bress my soul! yer hain't got yer breakfast
digesticated yet. Well, I nebber, in de whole co'se ob my life,
seed sich eaters--nebber. Six biscuit, four b'iled eggs apiece, and
chicken; chicken by de dozen for dar breakfast; and now want dar
dinner! Bress my soul! Doesn't yer git nuffin to eat in de city?

_Sadie._ O, yes, plenty; but not such biscuits as Juno makes.

_Jenny and Bessie._ Never, never!

_Jenny._ And eggs, girls! None cooked as Juno cooks them.

_Bessie and Sadie._ Never, never!

_Bessie._ And chickens! never so nice as those broiled by Juno.

_Jenny and Sadie._ Never, never!

_Juno._ Doesn't yers, honies? (_Grinning._) Dat's mean; dat's raal
mean. Well, poor dears, I s'pose yers is hungry. Now you jes' wait and
see what Juno can find for a lunch. [_Exit_, L.

_Jenny._ "A little _flattery_, now and then, is relished by the wisest
men."

_Bessie._ And the darkest of our sex, Jenny.

_Sadie._ Yes; and "a _soft_ answer turneth away wrath." O, ain't we
having a splendid time, girls?

_Jenny._ How kind of our parents, after eight months' hard study, to
send us to this delightful place!

_Sadie._ O, it's splendid. We want nothing here.

_Bessie._ No, indeed. There's nothing left in that dry, hot city to be
regretted.

_Jenny._ Stop. There is one thing I _should_ like.

_Sadie and Bessie._ What is that?

_Jenny._ One of mother's pickles.

_Sadie and Bessie._ What! a pickle?

_Jenny._ Yes. I'm dying for one of mother's sour, peppery pickles.

_Sadie._ O, don't, Jenny. Do you want to make me homesick?

_Bessie._ My mouth puckers at the thought. I want to go home.

_Enter_, R., SISSY GABBLE, _a very small girl, with a very large cape
bonnet on her head, and a tin pail in her hand._

_Sissy._ If yer pleath, Mith Peath, if, if--Mith Peath, if you
pleath--

_Jenny._ Why, who in the world is this?

_Sadie._ What do you want, little girl?

_Sissy._ Mith Peath, if you pleath, if, if--Mith Peath, to home, my
mother thed--my mother thed. What did my mother thed? O, my mother
thed, if Mith Peath is to home, to give Mith Peath her com--her
com--to give Mith Peath her com--

_Jenny._ Her compliments?

_Sissy._ Yith ma'am, I geth tho; and tell Mith Peath, the thent her
thome of her pickleth.

_Sadie and Bessie._ Pickles! O, you dear little thing!

_Jenny._ O, isn't she a darling! (_They all crowd round_ SISSY, _take
off her bonnet, kiss and hug her._) Isn't she splendid?

_Bessie._ I'll take the pail, little girl.

_Sissy._ (_Putting pail behind her._) Yith marm; I geth not. My mother
thed I muthn't give it to nobody but Mith Peath.

_Bessie._ Well, take off the cover, little girl. The pickles will
spoil.

_Sissy._ I geth not. _My_ mother's pickleth _never_ thpoil.

_Jenny._ The little plague! Say, Sissy; do you like candy?

_Sissy._ Candy? Merlatheth candy?

_Jenny._ Yes.

_Sissy._ Ith it pulled?

_Jenny._ Yes, indeed; pulled white as snow. Give me the pail, and I'll
find you a long stick of it.

_Sissy._ You ain't Mith Peath; and I don't like merlatheth candy white
ath thnow. Where ith Mith Peath?

_Sadie._ Little girl, don't you want some red and white peppermints?

_Sissy._ No, I don't. I want Mith Peath.

_Bessie._ Or some splendid gum drops?

_Sissy._ No. I want Mith Peath.

_Enter_ MISS PEASE, L.

_Miss P._ And here she is, Sissy Gabble. What have you for me? (_The
girls fall back in confusion, and whisper together._)

_Sissy._ Thome pickleth, Mith Peath, my mother thent you, with her
com--her com--her com--

_Miss P._ Her compliments, Sissy. I understand. I'm very much obliged
to her for sending them, and to you, Sissy, for bringing them so
carefully. Here, Juno!

_Enter_, JUNO, L.

_Juno._ Yes, missis. Why, bress my soul! if dar ain't Sissy Gabble!
Come right here, yer dear chile.

_Miss P._ Take her to the kitchen, Juno. Perhaps you can find a cake
for her.

_Juno._ Guess I can, missis, sure for sartin. Come, Sissy Gabble, come
right along wid Juno.

_Sissy._ Thay, Juno, who ith them? (_Pointing to girls._)

_Juno._ Why, bress yer soul, dem ar's de young ladies from de city, on
dar vex--vex--on dar vexation. O, Sissy, dar drefful sweet.

_Sissy._ Thweet, Juno? I thpothe tho; they've got thuch loth of candy.
But they didn't git my pail, tho!

_Juno._ Come along to de kitchen. Come.

[_Exeunt_ JUNO _and_ SISSY, L. _The girls gather about_ MISS PEASE.

_Jenny._ O, Miss Pease, I'm so glad Mrs. Gabble sent you those
pickles, I'm so fond of them!

_Bessie._ Yes, Miss Pease; they're so nice!

_Sadie._ O, they're splendid! Do give us a taste.

_Miss P._ Stop, stop young ladies. While I cannot but be grateful to
Mrs. Gabble for her kindness, I wish it had taken some other shape. I
have long been of the opinion that pickles are unwholesome, and have
never allowed them to be placed upon my table. And I am sure I should
be disobeying the instructions I received from your parents--to
provide you only wholesome food--did I permit you to taste them. For
the present, I shall leave them here. (_Places pail on the table._)
If you believe I have your interest at heart, you will not touch that
which I have condemned. I know I can trust you. _Exit_, L.

_Bessie._ Well, I declare! The mean old thing!

_Jenny._ It's too bad! Nothing but blasted hopes in this world!

_Sadie._ Well, I don't care, I'm a going to have one of those pickles,
if I die for it.

_Jenny._ Why, Sadie Bean, you don't mean it!

_Sadie._ Yes, I do. I know they _are_ wholesome, and my mother always
allows me to eat them.

_Bessie._ I wouldn't touch one for the world. How impolite it would
be, after Miss Pease has forbidden it!

_Sadie._ No; she didn't forbid it. She said, if we thought she had our
interest at heart, we wouldn't touch the pail. Now I don't believe she
has, when she wants to deprive us of such a luxury. I'm determined to
have a pickle.

_Jenny._ You are wrong, Sadie, to think of such a thing. A Precious
Pickle you'll make. (_Sits on sofa._)

_Bessie._ Nothing would tempt me. (_Sits on sofa._) How can you,
Sadie?

_Sadie._ Pooh! Cowards! It's just as easy as croquet, when you make up
your mind. (_Lifts cover, and takes out pickle._) A Precious Pickle.
I'll taste, Jenny. Ain't they beauties?

_Jenny._ Quick, quick, Sadie; somebody's coming!

_Sadie._ Dear me! (_Claps on cover, runs and sits on sofa between_
JENNY _and_ BESSIE.)

_Enter_ JUNO, L.

_Juno._ Bress my soul! dars Missis Gabble a runnin up de walk like all
possessed. Speck her house afire, sure for sartin. _Exit_, R.

_Sadie._ (_Tasting pickle._) O, ain't it nice! Bessie, run and get
one.

_Bessie._ No, indeed; I shall do no such thing.

_Jenny._ O, Sadie, I wouldn't believe you could do such a thing.

_Sadie._ O, pshaw! It's all envy; you know it is.

_Enter_ R., JUNO, _followed by_ MRS. GABBLE, _who wears a calico
dress, has her sleeves rolled up, her apron thrown over her head, and
has altogether the appearance of having just left the wash-tub._

_Mrs. G._ Yes, Juno, poor Mr. Brown has shuffled off this
mortal--what's it's name? (_Looks_ _at girls._) O, how do you do? I
don't know how much he's worth, but they do say--Why, Juno, you've
got a new calico--Fine day, young ladies.--They do say--Well, there, I
oughtn't to speak of it. Got your washing out, Juno? I've been all day
at that tub; and--Where's Miss Pease? I can't stop a minute; so don't
ask me to sit down. (_Sits in rocking-chair and rocks violently._)

_Juno._ Yes, Missy Gabble, Missy Pease to home. Send her right up,
sure for sartin. Bress my soul, how that woman do go on, for sartin.
_Exit_, L.

_Mrs. G._ Ah, poor Mrs. Brown, with all them young ones. I wonder
where my Sis is.

_Jenny._ I think she's in the kitchen, Mrs. Gabble.

_Mrs. G._ You don't say so? Stuffing herself, I'm sure. And poor Mr.
Brown lying dead in the next house--and there's my washing waiting for
soap--and there's Mrs. Jones hasn't sent my ironing-board home; and
mercy knows how I'm to get along without it.

_Enter_ MISS PEASE, L. _During the dialogue between_ MISS PEASE _and_
MRS. G., SADIE _slyly eats her pickle, offering it to_ JENNY _and_
BESSIE, _who at first shake their heads, afterwards taste; the pickle
is passed among them, and devoured before the conclusion of the
conversation._

_Miss P._ Ah, Mrs. Gabble! I'm glad to see you. (_Takes chair and sits
beside her._)

_Mrs. G._ And poor Brown is gone!

_Miss P._ Mr. Brown dead? This is sad news.

_Mrs. G._ I should think it was--and there's Skillet, the butcher,
chopped off his thumb--and Miss Pearson fell down stairs and broke her
china sugar-bowl--sp'ilt the whole set. As I told my husband, these
expensive dishes never can be matched--and speaking of matches, Mrs.
Thorpe is going to get a divorce. Jest think of it! I met her going
into Carter's shop this morning. She had on that pink muslin he gave
her for a birthday present--Jenkins has got a new lot of them, only
a shilling a yard--speaking of yards, old Cooper tumbled into
that miserable well in his back yard this morning. They pulled him
out--speaking of pulling, Miss Tibbet was in to the dentist's this
morning for a new set of teeth, and--Have you seen my Sis?

_Miss P._ O, yes. She's in the kitchen with Juno. And, speaking of
Sissy, reminds me that I must thank you for sending me--

_Mrs. G._ My pickles? Yes. Well, I'm glad you got 'em. But I didn't
have a bit of good luck with 'em. And, speaking of pickles, O, Miss
Pease, that villain, Smith, the grocer, has been taken up. He's going
to be hung. Nothing can save him.

_Miss P._ Mr. Smith arrested! For what pray?

_Mrs. G._ P'isoning! Jest think of it! And he a deacon in the church,
and has such a splendid span of horses, and such an elegant beach
wagon. I declare, the last time he took us to the beach I nearly died
eating soft-shelled crabs; and my husband tumbled overboard, and
Mr. Brown got sunstruck; and now he's gone! Dear me, dear me! And my
washing ain't out yet.

_Miss P._ But tell me, Mrs. Gabble, what is it about the poisoning?

_Mrs. G._ Why, he or somebody else has been putting prussic acid in
his vinegar, just at the time, too, when everybody's making pickles;
and there's no end of the p'isoning he will have to answer for. Mrs.
Jewel's just sent for the doctor, and Mrs. Poor's been dreadful all
day, and Dr. Baldtop's flying round from house to house; and, O,
dear--there's my washing! Who'll be the next victim nobody knows, I'm
sure.

_Sadie._ (_Jumping up._) O, dear! O, dear! Send for the doctor, quick!
I'm dying, I know I am. (_Runs across stage and sinks into chair_, R.)

_Miss P._ (_Running to her._) Bless me child, what ails you?

_Sadie._ I don't know; I can't tell. The doctor, quick!

_Mrs. G._ Deary me, she's took sudden, just for all the world like
Susan Richie.

_Jenny._ (_Jumping up._) Water, water! Give me some water! I shall die
if I don't have some water. (_Runs down and sinks into chair_, L.)

_Mrs. G._ (_Jumping up and running to her._) Gracious goodness! here's
another! It's something dreadful, depend upon it. When folks is took
sudden--

_Bessie._ (_Jumping up._) O, my throat! I'm burning up! Give me some
ipecac. Quick, quick, quick! (_Runs round stage, then sinks into
chair_, C.)

_Mrs. G._ There goes another! It's something dreadful, depend on it.

_Miss P._ What does this mean? Here, Juno, Juno! Quick!

_Enter_ JUNO, L.

_Juno._ Here I is, Missy Pease.

_Sadie._ Run for the doctor, quick, Juno!

_Juno._ (_Running_, R.) Bress my soul! I'll fetch him.

_Jenny._ No, no! Get me some water--quick!

_Juno._ (_Running_ L.) To be sure, honey; to be sure.

_Bessie._ No, no, Juno! some ipecac, or a stomach pump.

_Juno._ Pump, pump! Want de pump? I'll fetch it, I'll fetch it. Bress
my soul, I'll fetch something. _Exit_, L.

_Mrs. G._ Well, if this ain't drefful!--washing-day, too--and the
undertaker's jest as busy as he can be--there never was so much
_immortality_ in this place, never. Poor critters! poor critters!

_Miss P._ Girls, what does this mean?

_Sadie._ O, Miss Pease, such agony!

_Bessie._ O, dear, what will become of me?

_Jenny._ O, this dreadful parching in the throat!

_Mrs. G._ O, I know it, I know it. I told my husband that something
dreadful was a goin' to happen when he sold that colt yesterday.

_Miss P._ Sadie, what is the meaning of this. Your pulse is regular,
your head cool, and your tongue clear.

_Sadie._ O, Miss Pease, it's those dreadful pickles.

_Mrs. G._ Yes, indeed, it is a drefful pickle--and so sudden, jest for
all the world like poor Mr. Brown's sudden took, and these always seem
to end fatally at some time or other--Dear me, dear me, and my wash--

_Miss P._ Pickles! Have you disobeyed me?

_Sadie._ I couldn't help it, Miss Pease; they looked so tempting. But
I only took one.

_Bessie._ And I only tasted that.

_Jenny._ I only had one good bite.

_Sadie._ And we are poisoned!

_Bessie._ O, dear! poisoned!

_Jenny._ Yes, poisoned!

_Miss P._ How, poisoned?

_Sadie._ Mrs. Gabble says the vinegar was poisoned by Mr. Smith.

_Mrs. G._ Smith--vinegar--p'isoned! The land sakes! And I a good
church member--and my washing--and poor Mr. Brown, tew. Well, I never!
I'd have you to know that I bought no vinegar of Mr. Smith, I made my
own.

_Sadie._ And your pickles were not poisoned?

_Mrs. G._ No, indeed. Never did such a thing in my life.

_Sadie._ O, dear! I'm so glad! (_Jumping up._)

_Bessie._ I won't have the ipecac. (_Rises._)

_Jenny._ My throat is decidedly better. (_Rises._)

_Enter_ JUNO _with a pail of water and a dipper._

_Juno._ Bress my soul, de pump was fastened down so tight couldn't git
it up. Here's a pail of water; if dat won't do I'll git a tub.

_Miss P._ No matter, Juno. I think 'twill not be needed. Young ladies,
I am very sorry--

_Sadie._ Please, Miss Pease, do not speak of it. I alone am to blame
for transgressing your command, for such we should consider it, as
you are for the present our guardian. Forgive me, and in future I will
endeavour to control my appetite, and comply with your wishes.

_Mrs. G._ Well, I declare, I don't see the harm in eating pickles. My
girls eat their weight in 'em, and they're just as sweet-tempered as--

_Miss P._ Their mother. Mrs. Gabble, it is not a question of harm,
but of obedience, here. You see, the young ladies accept me as their
guardian, and I only forbid that which I think their parents would not
approve.

_Mrs. G._ And there's my washing in the suds! Where's my Sis.

_Enter_ SISSY GABBLE, L., _with a large slice of bread, covered with
molasses._

_Sissy._ Here I ith, mother. Mith Peath thed I might have thumthin,
and I like bread, and 'latheth.

_Juno._ Bress my soul! dat are chile jest runnin' over with sweetness,
sure for sartin.

_Mrs. G._ Yes; and the 'lasses running all over the clothes! Come,
Sissy, let's go home. I'm sorry, Miss Pease, you don't like pickles;
and I'm sorry, young ladies, they disagree with you. And I'm sorry,
Miss Pease, I left my washing.

_Miss P._ Now don't be sorry at all, Mrs. Gabble. I'm always glad
to see you. Your gift was well-intended, and the young ladies have
suffered no harm, perhaps received a wholesome lesson.

_Sadie._ I think we have. I shall be very careful what I touch.

_Jenny._ O, dear! such a fright! I shall never get over it.

_Bessie._ O, Sadie, you thought it was so nice!

_Jenny._ Yes, such a Precious Pickle!

_Mrs. G._ Of course it was. My pickles are the best made in
town--precious nice, I tell you. Mrs. Doolittle always sends in for
'em when she has company; and the minister says they're awful soothing
arter sermon.

_Sadie._ O, certainly; I've no doubt of it. But I've found that
_stolen_ fruit is not the sweetest, and that mischievous fingers
make trouble when they clutch what mine sought, and _made_ a Precious
Pickle.

[_Curtain._]

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

MORRIS.

    After once reading this sweet little poem, the student will
    need no prompting to teach him that it is not possible for him
    to deliver it with too much genuine emotion:

  This book is all that's left me now!
    Tears will unbidden start,--
  With faltering lip and throbbing brow,
    I press it to my heart.
  For many generations past,
    Here is our family tree;
  My mother's hand this Bible clasped;
    She, dying, gave it me.

  Ah! well do I remember those
    Whose names those records bear,
  Who round the hearthstone used to close
    After the evening prayer,
  And speak of what these pages said,
    In tones my heart would thrill!
  Though they are with the silent dead,
    Here are they living still!

  My father read this holy book
    To brothers, sisters dear;
  How calm was my poor mother's look,
    Who learned God's word to hear.
  Her angel-face--I see it yet!
    What thronging memories come!
  Again that little group is met
    Within the halls of home!

  Thou truest friend man ever knew,
    Thy constancy I've tried;
  Where all were false I found thee true,
    My counsellor and guide.
  The mines of earth no treasure give
    That could this volume buy:
  In teaching me the way to live,
    It taught me how to die.

ENLISTING AS ARMY NURSE.

LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

"I want something to do."--This remark being addressed to the world in
general, no one in particular felt it his duty to reply; so I repeated
it to the smaller world about me, received the following suggestions,
and settled the matter by answering my own inquiry, as people are apt
to do when very much in earnest.

"Write a book," quoth my father.

"Don't know enough, sir. First live, then write."

"Try teaching again," suggested my mother.

"No, thank you, ma'am; ten years of that is enough."

"Take a husband like my Darby, and fulfil your mission," said Sister
Jane, home on a visit.

"Can't afford expensive luxuries, Mrs. Coobiddy."

"Turn actress, and immortalize your name," said Sister Vashti,
striking an attitude.

"I won't."

"Go nurse the soldiers," said my young neighbor, Tom, panting for "the
tented field."

"I will!"

Arriving at this satisfactory conclusion, the meeting adjourned; and
the fact that Miss Tribulation was available as army nurse went abroad
on the wings of the wind.

In a few days a townswoman heard of my desire, approved of it, and
brought about an interview with one of the sisterhood I wished to
join, who was at home on a furlough, and able and willing to satisfy
inquiries.

A morning chat with Miss General S.--we hear no end of Mrs. Generals,
why not a Miss?--produced three results: I felt that I could do the
work, was offered a place, and accepted it; promising not to desert,
but to stand ready to march on Washington at an hour's notice.

A few days were necessary for the letter containing my request and
recommendation to reach head-quarters, and another, containing my
commission, to return; therefore no time was to be lost; and, heartily
thanking my pair of friends, I hurried home through the December
slush, as if the Rebels were after me, and, like many another recruit,
burst in upon my family with the announcement,--"I've enlisted!"

An impressive silence followed. Tom, the irrepressible, broke it with
a slap on the shoulder and the grateful compliment,--"Old Trib, you're
a trump!"

"Thank you; then I'll _take_ something,"--which I did, in the shape
of dinner, reeling off my news at the rate of three dozen words to a
mouthful; and as every one else talked equally fast, and all together,
the scene was most inspiring.

As boys going to sea immediately become nautical in speech, walk as
if they already had their sea-legs on, and shiver their timbers on all
possible occasions, so I turned military at once, called my dinner my
rations, saluted all new-comers, and ordered a dress-parade that very
afternoon.

Having reviewed every rag I possessed, I detailed some pieces for
picket duty while airing on the fence; some to the sanitary influences
of the wash-tub; others to mount guard in the trunk; while the weak
and wounded went to the Work-basket Hospital, to be made ready for
active service again.

To this squad I devoted myself for a week; but all was done, and I
had time to get powerfully impatient before the letter came. It did
arrive, however, and brought a disappointment along with its good-will
and friendliness; for it told me that the place in the Armory Hospital
that I supposed I was to take was already filled, and a much less
desirable one at Hurly-burly House was offered instead.

"That's just your luck, Trib. I'll take your trunk up garret for you
again; for of course you won't go," Tom remarked, with the disdainful
pity which small boys affect when they get into their teens.

I was wavering in my secret soul; but that remark settled the matter,
and I crushed him on the spot with martial brevity,--"It is now one; I
shall march at six."

I have a confused recollection of spending the afternoon in pervading
the house like an executive whirlwind, with my family swarming after
me,--all working, talking, prophesying, and lamenting while I packed
such of my things as I was to take with me, tumbled the rest into two
big boxes, danced on the lids till they shut, and gave them in charge,
with the direction,--"If I never come back, make a bonfire of them."

Then I choked down a cup of tea, generously salted instead of sugared
by some agitated relative, shouldered my knapsack,--it was only a
travelling-bag, but do let me preserve the unities,--hugged my family
three times all round without a vestige of unmanly emotion, till a
certain dear old lady broke down upon my neck, with a despairing sort
of wail,--"O my dear, my dear! how can I let you go?"

"I'll stay, if you say so, mother."

"But I don't; go, and the Lord will take care of you."

Much of the Roman matron's courage had gone into the Yankee matron's
composition, and, in spite of her tears, she would have sent ten
sons to the war, had she possessed them, as freely as she sent one
daughter, smiling and flapping on the door-step till I vanished,
though the eyes that followed me were very dim, and the handkerchief
she waved was very wet.

My transit from The Gables to the village depot was a funny mixture
of good wishes and good-bys, mud-puddles and shopping. A December
twilight is not the most cheering time to enter upon a somewhat
perilous enterprise; but I'd no thought of giving out, O, bless you,
no!

When the ingine screeched "Here we are!" I clutched my escort in a
fervent embrace, and skipped into the car with as blithe a farewell as
if going on a bridal tour,--though I believe brides don't usually wear
cavernous black bonnets and fuzzy brown coats, with a hair-brush, a
pair of rubbers, two books, and a bag of gingerbread distorting the
pockets.

If I thought that people would believe it, I'd boldly state that I
slept from C. to B., which would simplify matters immensely; but as
I know they wouldn't, I'll confess that the head under the funereal
coal-hod fermented with all manner of high thoughts and heroic
purposes "to do or die,"--perhaps both; and the heart under the fuzzy
brown coat felt very tender with the memory of the dear old lady,
probably sobbing over her army socks and the loss of her topsy-turvy
Trib.

At this juncture I took the veil, and what I did behind it is nobody's
business; but I maintain that the soldier who cries when his mother
says "Good by" is the boy to fight best, and die bravest, when the
time comes, or go back to her better than he went.

ONLY SIXTEEN.

    "When last seen, he was considerably intoxicated.... and was
    found dead in the highway."--_Republican and Democrat of_ May
    17.

  Only sixteen, so the papers say,
  Yet there on the cold, stony ground he lay;
  'Tis the same sad story we hear every day--
  He came to his death in the public highway.
  Full of promise, talent, and pride,
  Yet the rum fiend conquered him; so he died.
  Did not the angels weep over the scene?
  For he died a drunkard--and only sixteen,
                        Only sixteen.

  Oh! it were sad he must die all alone:
  That of all his friends, not even one
  Was there to list to his last faint moan,
  Or point the suffering soul to the throne
  Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son
  Would say, "Whosoever will may come."
  But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene,
  With his God we leave him--only sixteen.
                        Only sixteen.

  Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought:
  Witness the suffering and pain you have brought
  To the poor boy's friends. They loved him well,
  And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell
  That beclouded his brain, his reason dethroned,
  And left him to die out there all alone.
  What if 'twere _your_ son instead of another?
  What if your wife were that poor boy's mother,
                        And he only sixteen?

  Ye free-holders who signed the petition to grant
  The license to sell, do you think you will want
  That record to meet in the last great day,
  When the earth and the heavens shall have passed away,
  When the elements, melted with fervent heat,
  Shall proclaim the triumph of RIGHT complete?
  Will you wish to have his blood on your hands
  When before the great throne you each shall stand,
                        And he only sixteen?

  Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right,
  To action and duty; into the light
  Come with your banners, inscribed "Death to rum."
  Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come;
  Strike killing blows; hew to the line;
  Make it a felony even to sign
  A petition to license; you would do it, I ween,
  If that were your son, and "only sixteen,"
                        Only sixteen.

THE WATCHWORD.

THE GRIDIRON.

THE CAPTAIN, PATRICK, AND THE FRENCHMAN.

_Patrick._ Well, Captain, whereabouts in the wide world _are_ we? Is
it Roosia, Proosia, or the Jarmant oceant?

_Captain._ Tut, you fool; it's France.

_Patrick._ Tare and ouns! do you tell me so? and how do you know it's
France, Captain dear?

_Captain._ Because we were on the coast of the Bay of Biscay when the
vessel was wrecked.

_Patrick._ Throth, I was thinkin' so myself. And now, Captain jewel,
it is I that wishes we had a gridiron.

_Captain._ Why, Patrick, what puts the notion of a gridiron into your
head?

_Patrick._ Because I'm starving with hunger, Captain dear.

_Captain._ Surely you do not intend to eat a gridiron, do you?

_Patrick._ Ate a gridiron; bad luck to it! no. But if we had a
gridiron, we could dress a beefsteak.

_Captain._ Yes; but where's the beefsteak, Patrick?

_Patrick._ Sure, couldn't we cut it off the pork?

_Captain._ I never thought of that. You are a clever fellow, Patrick.
(_Laughing._)

_Patrick._ There's many a thrue word said in joke, Captain. And now,
if you will go and get the bit of pork that we saved from the rack,
I'll go to the house there beyant, and ax some of them to lind me the
loan of a gridiron.

_Captain._ But, Patrick, this is France, and they are all foreigners
here.

_Patrick._ Well, and how do you know but I am as good a furriner
myself as any o' them.

_Captain._ What do you mean, Patrick?

_Patrick._ Parley voo frongsay?

_Captain._ O, you understand French, then, is it?

_Patrick._ Throth, you may say that, Captain dear.

Captain. Well, Patrick, success to you. Be civil to the foreigners,
and I'll be back with the pork in a minute. [_He goes out._

_Patrick._ Ay, sure enough, I'll be civil to them; for the Frinch are
always mighty p'lite intirely, and I'll show them I know what good
manners is. Indade, and here comes munseer himself, quite convaynient.
(_As the Frenchman enters, Patrick takes off his hat, and making a
low bow, says:_) God save you, sir, and all your children. I beg your
pardon for the liberty I take, but it's only being in disthress in
regard of ateing, that I make bowld to trouble ye; and if you could
lind me the loan of a gridiron, I'd be intirely obleeged to ye.

_Frenchman (staring at him)._ Comment!

_Patrick._ Indade it's thrue for you. I'm tathered to paces, and God
knows I look quare enough; but it's by rason of the storm that dhruve
us ashore jist here, and we're all starvin'.

_Frenchman._ Je m'y t--(_pronounced_ zhe meet).

_Patrick._ Oh! not at all! by no manes! we have plenty of mate
ourselves, and we'll dhress it, if you be plased jist to lind us the
loan of a gridiron, sir. (_Making a low bow._)

_Frenchman (staring at him, but not understanding a word.)_

_Patrick._ I beg pardon, sir; but maybe I'm undher a mistake, but I
thought I was in France, sir. An't you all furriners here? Parley voo
frongsay?

_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur.

_Patrick._ Then, would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, if you
plase? (_The Frenchman stares more than ever, as if anxious to
understand._) I know it's a liberty I take, sir; but it's only in the
regard of bein' cast away; and if you plase, sir, parley voo frongsay?

_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur, oui.

_Patrick._ Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, sir and
you'll obleege me?

_Frenchman._ Monsieur, pardon, monsieur--

_Patrick. (Angrily)._ By my sowl, if it was you was in disthress, and
if it was to owld Ireland you came, it's not only the gridiron they'd
give you, if you axed it, but something to put on it too, and a dhrop
of dhrink into the bargain. Can't you understand your own language?
(_Very slowly._) Parley--voo--frongsay--munseer?

_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur; oui, monsieur, mais--

_Patrick._ Then lend me the loan of a gridiron, I say, and bad scram
to you.

_Frenchman (bowing and scraping)._ Monsieur, je ne l'entend--

_Patrick._ Phoo! the divil sweep yourself and your long tongs! I don't
want a tongs at all, at all. Can't you listen to rason?

_Frenchman._ Oui, oui, monsieur: certainement, mais--

_Patrick._ Then lind me the loan of a gridiron, and howld your prate.
(_The Frenchman shakes his head, as if to say he did not understand;
but Patrick, thinking he meant it as a refusal, says, in a passion:_)
Bad cess to the likes o' you! Throth, if you were in my counthry, it's
not that-a-way they'd use you. The curse o' the crows on you, you owld
sinner! The divil another word I'll say to you. (_The Frenchman
puts his hand on his heart, and tries to express compassion in his
countenance._) Well, I'll give you one chance more, you old thafe!
Are you a Christhian, at all, at all? Are you a furriner that all the
world calls so p'lite? Bad luck to you! do you understand your mother
tongue? Parley voo frongsay? (_Very loud._) Parley voo frongsay?

_Frenchman._ Oui, monsieur, oui, oui.

_Patrick._ Then, thunder and turf! will you lind me the loan of
a gridiron? (_The Frenchman shakes his head, as if he did not
understand; and Pat says, vehemently:_) The curse of the hungry be on
you, you owld negarly villian! the back of my hand and the sowl of my
fut to you! May you want a gridiron yourself yet! and wherever I go,
it's high and low, rich and poor, shall hear of it, and be hanged to
you!

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

SAMUEL FERGUSON.

    This fine poem is full of points for brilliant declamation;
    at times there should be a flow of rapid narration, rising
    frequently into shouts of exultation:

  Come, see the good ship's anchor forged--'tis at a white heat now:
  The bellows ceased, the flames decreased--though on the forge's brow
  The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound,
  And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round;
  All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare--
  Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

  The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves
          below,
  And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe!
  It rises, roars, rends all outright--O, Vulcan, what a glow:
  'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright--the high sun shines not
          so!
  The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show;
  The roof-ribs swart, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row
  Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe
  As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing-monster slow
  Sinks on the anvil--all about the faces fiery grow.

  "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out--leap out;" bang, bang the sledges
          go;
  Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low--
  A hailing fount of fire is struck at every quashing blow;
  The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow
  The ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flow
  And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!"

  Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!
  Let's forge a goodly anchor--a bower thick and broad;
  For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,
  And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road--
  The low reef roaring on her lee--the roll of ocean poured
  From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board;
  The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains!
  But courage still, brave mariners--the bower yet remains!
  And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky-high;
  Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing--here am I."

  Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time;
  Your blows make sweeter music far than any steeple's chime.
  But while you sling your sledges, sing--and let the burden be,
  "The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we:"
  Strike in, strike in--the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;
  Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.

  Our anchor must soon change his bed of fiery rich array,
  For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;
  Our anchor must soon change the lay of merry craftsmen here,
  For the "Yeo-heave-o'!" and the "Heave-away!" and the sighing
          seaman's cheer;
  When, weighing slow, at eve they go--far, far from love and home;
  And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

  In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last;
  A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cast was cast.
  O, trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,
  What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!

  O, broad-armed diver of the deep, whose sports can equal thine?
  The good ship weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line;
  And, night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,
  Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play.
  O, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand
  Whose be the white bones by thy side, once leagued in patriot band!
  O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,
  Thine iron sides would swell with pride; thou'dst leap within the
          sea!

  Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand,
  To shed their blood so freely for love of father-land--
  Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard grave
  So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave--
  O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,
  Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!

LORD DUNDREARY AT BRIGHTON.

AND THE RIDDLE HE MADE THERE.

One of the many popular delusions wespecting the Bwitish swell is the
supposition that he leads an independent life,--goes to bed when he
likes, gets up when he likes, d-dwesses how he likes, and dines when
he pleases.

The public are gwossly deceived on this point. A weal swell is as
m-much under authowity as a p-poor devil of a pwivate in the marines,
a clerk in a government office, or a f-forth-form boy at Eton. Now
I come under the demon--demonima--(no,--thop,--what is the
word?)--dom--denom--d-denomination, that 'th it--I come under the
d-denomination of a swell--(in--in fact--a _howwid_ swell--some of my
friends call me, but _that'th_ only their flattewy), and I assure
you a f-fellah in that capacity is so much westained by rules of
f-fashion, that he can scarcely call his eyeglath his own. A swell, I
take it, is a fellah who t-takes care that he swells as well as swells
who swell as well as he, (there's thuch lot of thwelling in that
thentence,--ha, ha!--it's what you might c-call a busting definition).
What I mean is, that a f-fellah is obliged to do certain things at
certain times of the year, whether he likes 'em or no. For instance,
in the season I've got to go to a lot of balls and dwums and
tea-fights in town, that I don't care a bit about, and show myself in
the Park wegularly evewy afternoon; and latht month I had to victimize
mythelf down in the countwy,--shooting (a bwutal sort of amusement, by
the way). Well, about the end of October evewy one goes to Bwighton,
n-no one knowth why,--that'th the betht of it,--and so I had to go
too,--that's the wortht of it,--ha, ha!

Not that it's such a b-bad place after all,--I d-dare say if I hadn't
_had_ to go I should have gone all the same, for what is a f-fellah
to do who ith n't much of a sportsman just about this time? There 'th
n-nothing particular going on in London. Evewything is b-beathly dull;
so I thought I would just run down on the Southeastern Wailway to
be--ha, ha!--Bwightoned up a bit. (Come, th-that's not bad for an
impromptu!)

B-Bwighton was invented in the year 1784, by his Woyal Highness George
P-Pwince of Wales,--the author of the shoebuckle, the stand-up collar
(a b-beathly inconvenient and cut-throat thort of a machine), and
a lot of other exthploded things. He built the Pavilion down there,
which looks like a lot of petrified onions from Bwobdinag clapped down
upon a guard-house. There'th a jolly sort of garden attached to the
building, in which the b-band plays twice a week, and evewy one turns
in there about four o'clock, so I went too (n-not _too_ o'clock,
you know, but f-four o'clock). I--I'm vewy fond of m-martial music,
mythelf. I like the dwums and the t-twombones, and the ophicleides,
and all those sort of inshtwuments,--yeth, ethpethelly the bwass
ones,--they're so vewy exthpiring, they are. Thtop though, ith it
expiring or _p-per_thpiring?--n-neither of 'em sound quite right. Oh!
I have it now, it--it's _in_thspiring,--that'th what it is, because
the f-fellahs _bweathe into them_!

That weminds me of a widdle I made down there (I--I've taken to
widdles lately, and weally it'th a vewy harmleth thort of a way of
getting thwough the morning, and it amuthes two f-fellahs at onth,
because if--if you athk a fellah a widdle, and he can't guess it, you
can have a jolly good laugh at _him_, and--if he--if he _doth_ guess
it, he--I mean you--no--that is the widdle--stop, I--I'm getting
confuthed,--where wath I? Oh! I know. If--if he _doth_ guess it....
however it ithn't vewy likely he would--so what's the good of
thupposing impwobabilities?) Well, thith was the widdle I made,--I
thed to Sloper (Sloper's a fwiend of mine,--a vewy gook thort of
fellah Sloper is,--I d-don't know exactly what his pwofession would
be called, but hith uncle got him into a b-berth where he gets f-five
hundred a year,--f-for doing nothing--s-somewhere--I forget where--but
I--I know he does it),--I said to Sloper, "Why is that f-fellah with
the b-bassooon l-like his own instrument?" and Sloper said, "How--how
the dooth should I know?" (Ha, ha!--I thought he'd give it up!) So
I said to Sloper, "Why, b-because they both get _blown_--in _time_!"
_You_ thee the joke, of course, but I don't think Sloper did,
thomhow; all he thed was, "V-vewy mild, Dundreary,"--and t-tho--it was
mild--thertainly, _f-for October_, but I d-don't thee why a f-fellah
should go making wemarks about the weather instead of laughing at m-my
widdle.

In this pwomenade that I was speaking of, you see such a lot of
thtunning girls evewy afternoon,--dwessed twemendous swells, and
looking like--yes, by Jove! l-like angels in cwinoline,--there 'th
no other word for it. There are two or thwee always _will_ l-laugh,
somehow, when I meet them,--they do now _weally_. I--I almost fancy
they wegard me with intewest. I mutht athk Sloper if he can get me
an introduction. Who knowth? pwaps I might make an impwession,--I'll
twy,--I--I've got a little converthathional power,--and _theveral_ new
wethcoats.

Bwighton is filling fast now. You see dwoves of ladies evewy day on
horseback, widing about in all diwections. By the way, I--I muthn't
forget to mention that I met those two girls that always laugh when
they thee me, at a tea-fight. One of 'em--the young one--told me, when
I was intwoduced to her,--in--in confidence, mind,--that she had often
heard of me and of my _widdles_. Tho you thee I'm getting quite
a weputathun that way. The other morning, at Mutton's, she wath
ch-chaffing me again, and begging me to tell her the latetht thing
in widdles. Now, I hadn't heard any mythelf for thome time, tho I
couldn't give her any _vewy_ great novelty, but a fwiend of mine made
one latht theason which I thought wather neat, tho I athked her, When
ith a jar not a jar? Thingularly enough, the moment she heard thith
widdle she burtht out laughing behind her pocket-handkerchief!

"Good gwacious! what'th the matter?" said I. "Have you ever heard it
before?"

"Never," she said emphatically, "in that form; do, _please_ tell me
the answer."

So I told her,--When it ith a door! Upon which she--she went off again
in hystewics. I--I--I never _did_ see such a girl for laughing. I know
it's a good widdle, but I didn't think it would have such an effect as
_that_.

By the way, Sloper told me afterwards that he thought _he_ had heard
the widdle before, somewhere, but it was put in a different way. He
said it was: When ith a door not a door?--and the answer, When it ith
ajar!

I--I've been thinking over the matter lately, and though I dare thay
it--d-don't much matter which way the question is put, still--pwaps
the last f-form is the betht. It--it seems to me to _wead_ better.
What do you think?

Now I weckomember, I made thuch a jolly widdle the other day on the
Ethplanade. I thaw a fellah with a big New--Newfoundland dog, and he
inthpired me--the dog, you know, not the fellah,--he wath a lunatic.
I'm keeping the widdle, but I don't mind telling _you_.

Why does a dog waggle hith tail? Give it up? I think motht fellahs
will give that up!

You thee, the dog waggles hith tail becauth the dog's stwonger than
the tail. If he wath n't, the tail would waggle the dog!

Ye-th,--that 'th what I call a widdle. If I can only wecollect him, I
thall athtonish those two girls thome of these days.

THE VOICES AT THE THRONE.

T. WESTWOOD.

  A little child,
  A little meek-faced, quiet village child,
  Sat singing by her cottage door at eve
  A low, sweet sabbath song. No human ear
  Caught the faint melody,--no human eye
  Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile
  That wreathed her innocent lips while they breathed
  The oft-repeated burden of the hymn,
  "Praise God! Praise God!"

                       A seraph by the throne
  In full glory stood. With eager hand
  He smote the golden harp-string, till a flood
  Of harmony on the celestial air
  Welled forth, unceasing. There with a great voice,
  He sang the "Holy, holy evermore,
  Lord God Almighty!" and the eternal courts
  Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies,
  Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burned
  With vehement adoration.

                       Higher yet
  Rose the majestic anthem, without pause,
  Higher, with rich magnificence of sound,
  To its full strength; and still the infinite heavens
  Rang with the "Holy, holy evermore!"
  Till, trembling with excessive awe and love,
  Each sceptred spirit sank before the Throne
  With a mute hallelujah.

                        But even then,
  While the ecstatic song was at its height,
  Stole in an alien voice,--a voice that seemed
  To float, float upward from some world afar,--
  A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how sweet!
  That blended with the spirits' rushing strain,
  Even as a fountain's music, with the roll
  Of the reverberate thunder.

                        Loving smiles
  Lit up the beauty of each angel's face
  At that new utterance, smiles of joy that grew
  More joyous yet, as ever and anon
  Was heard the simple burden of the hymn,
  "Praise God! praise God!"

                        And when the seraph's song
  Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre
  Silence hung brooding,--when the eternal courts
  Rang with the echoes of his chant sublime,
  Still through the abysmal space that wandering voice
  Came floating upward from its world afar,
  Still murmured sweet on the celestial air,
  "Praise God! praise God!"

MY FRIEND'S SECRET.

  I found my friend in his easy chair,
  With his heart and his head undisturbed by a care;
  The smoke of a Cuba outpoured from his lips,
  His face like the moon in a semi-eclipse;
  His feet, in slippers, as high as his nose,
  And his chair tilted back to a classical pose.

  I marvelled much such contentment to see--
  The secret whereof I begged he'd give me.
  He puffed away with re-animate zest,
  As though with an added jollity blest.
  "I'll tell you, my friend," said he, in a pause,
  "What is the very 'identical' cause.

  "Don't fret!--Let this be the first rule of your life;--
  Don't fret with your children, don't fret with your wife;
  Let everything happen as happen it may,
  Be cool as a cucumber every day;
  If favourite of fortune or a thing of its spite,
  Keep calm, and believe that all is just right.

  "If you're blown up abroad or scolded at home,
  Just make up your mind to let it all come:
  If people revile you or pile on offence,
  'Twill not make any odds a century hence.
  For all the reviling that malice can fling,
  A little philosophy softens the sting.

  "Run never in debt, but pay as you go;
  A man free from debt feels a heaven below;
  He rests in a sunshine undimmed by a dun,
  And ranks 'mid the favoured as A No. 1.
  It needs a great effort the spirit to brace
  'Gainst the terror that dwells in a creditor's face.

  "And this one resolve you should cherish like gold,
  --It has ever my life and endeavour controlled,--
  If fortune assail, and worst comes to worst,
  And business proves bad, its bubbles all burst,
  Be resolved, if disaster your plans circumvent,
  That you will, if you fail, owe no man a cent."

  There was Bunsby's deep wisdom revealed in his tone,
  Though its depth was hard to fathom I own;
  "For how can I fail," I said to myself,
  "If to pay all my debts I have enough pelf?"
  Then I scratched my sinciput, battling for light,
  But gave up the effort, supposing 'twas right;
  And herein give out, as my earnest intent,
  Whenever I fail to owe no man a cent.

VAIN REGRETS.

  A seedy old beggar asked alms of me
  As he sat 'neath the shade of a wayside tree.
  He was beggared in purse and beggared in soul,
  And his voice betrayed a pitiful dole,
  As he sang a song, to a dismal pitch,
  With the burden, "IF THINGS WAS ONLY SICH!"

  "If things was only sich," said he,
  "You should see what a wonderful man I'd be;
  No beggar I, by the wayside thrown,
  But I'd live in a palace and millions own,
  And men would court me if I were rich--
  As I'd be if things was only sich."

  "If things was only sich," said he,
  "I'd be lord of the land and lord of the sea;
  I would have a throne and be a king,
  And rule the roast with a mighty swing--
  I'd make a place in Fame's bright niche;
  I'd do it if things was only sich."

  "If things was only sich," said he,
  "Rare wines I'd quaff from the far countree,
  I'd cloth myself in dazzling garb,
  I'd mount the back of the costly barb,
  And none should ask me wherefore or which--
  Did it chance that things was only sich."

  "If things was only sich," said he,
  "I'd love the fairest and they'd love me;
  Yon dame, with a smile that warms my heart,
  Might have borne with me life's better part,
  But lost to me, here in poverty's ditch,
  What were mine if things was only sich."

  Thus the old beggar moodily sung,
  And his eyes dropped tears as his hands he wrung.
  I could but pity to hear him berate,
  In dolorous tones the decrees of Fate,
  That laid on his back its iron switch,
  While he cried, "If things was only sich."

  "If things was only sich!"--e'en all
  Might the past in sad review recall;
  But little the use and little the gain,
  Exhuming the bones of buried pain,
  And whether we're poor or whether we're rich,
  We'll say not, "If things was only sich."

ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.

E.L. BEERS.

    The opening verses should be given in a low, almost plaintive
    tone; when the flag is seen, the exclamations should be
    ejaculated with spirit and rapturous delight. Care should
    be taken not to give the negro _patois_ too broad, or it may
    prove a defect; where properly spoken it is really a beauty:

  "Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey
    In the sunshine bright and strong,
  For this world is fading, Pompey--
    Massa won't be with you long;
  And I fain would hear the south wind
    Bring once more the sound to me,
  Of the wavelets softly breaking
    On the shores of Tennessee.

  "Mournful though the ripples murmur
    As they still the story tell,
  How no vessels float the banner
    That I've loved so long and well.
  I shall listen to their music,
    Dreaming that again I see
  Stars and stripes on sloop and shallop
    Sailing up the Tennessee;

  "And, Pompey, while old Massa's waiting
    For Death's last dispatch to come,
  If that exiled starry banner
    Should come proudly sailing home.
  You shall greet it slave no longer--
    Voice and hand shall both be free
  That shout and point to Union colors
    On the waves of Tennessee."

  "Massa's berry kind to Pompey;
    But old darkey's happy here.
  Where he's tended corn and cotton
    For dese many a long gone year.
  Over yonder, Missis' sleeping--
    No one tends her grave like me:
  Mebbe she would miss the flowers
    She used to love in Tennessee.

  "'Pears like, she was watching Massa--
    If Pompey should beside him stay,
  Mebbe she'd remember better
    How for him she used to pray;
  Telling him that way up yonder
    White as snow his soul would be,
  If he served the Lord of Heaven
    While he lived in Tennessee."

  Silently the tears were rolling
    Down the poor old dusky face,
  As he stepped behind his master,
    In his long-accustomed place.
  Then a silence fell around them,
    As they gazed on rock and tree
  Pictured in the placid waters
    Of the rolling Tennessee;--

  Master, dreaming of the battle
    Where he fought by Marion's side,
  When he bid the haughty Tarleton
    Stoop his lordly crest of pride;--
  Man, remembering how yon sleeper
    Once he held upon his knee,
  Ere she loved the gallant soldier,
    Ralph Vervair of Tennessee.

  Still the south wind fondly lingers
    'Mid the veteran's silver hair;
  Still the bondman close beside him
    Stands behind the old arm-chair,
  With his dark-hued hand uplifted,
    Shading eyes, he bends to see
  Where the woodland, boldly jutting,
    Turns aside the Tennessee.

  Thus he watches cloud-born shadows
    Glide from tree to mountain-crest,
  Softly creeping, aye and ever
    To the river's yielding breast.
  Ha! above the foliage yonder
    Something flutters wild and free
  "Massa! Massa! Hallelujah!
    The flag's come back to Tennessee!"

  "Pompey, hold me on your shoulder,
    Help me stand on foot once more,
  That I may salute the colors
    As they pass my cabin door.
  Here's the paper signed that frees you,
    Give a freeman's shout with me--
  'God and Union!' be our watchword
    Evermore in Tennessee!"

  Then the trembling voice grew fainter,
    And the legs refused to stand;
  One prayer to Jesus--and the soldier
    Glided to the better land.
  When the flag went down the river
    Man and master both were free;
  While the ring-dove's note was mingled
    With the rippling Tennessee.

THE BLACK REGIMENT. PORT HUDSON.

MAY 27, 1863.

GEO. H. BOKER.

  Dark as the clouds of even,
  Ranked in the western heaven,
  Waiting the breath that lifts
  All the dread mass, and drifts
  Tempest and falling brand
  Over a ruined land;--
  So still and orderly,
  Arm to arm, knee to knee,
  Waiting the great event
  Stands the black regiment.

  Down the long dusky line
  Teeth gleam and eye-balls shine,
  And the bright bayonet,
  Bristling, and firmly set,
  Flashed with a purpose grand,
  Long, ere the sharp command
  Of the fierce rolling drum
  Told them their time had come,
  Told them what work was sent
  For the black regiment.

  "Now," the flag-sergeant cried,
  "Though death and hell betide,
  Let the whole nation see
  If we are fit to be
  Free in this land; or bound
  Down, like the whining hound,--
  Bound with red stripes of pain
  In our cold chains again!"
  Oh! what a shout there went
  From the black regiment!

  "Charge!" trump and drum awoke,
  Onward the bondmen broke:
  Bayonet and sabre stroke
  Vainly opposed their rush.
  Through the wild battle's crush,
  With but one thought aflush,
  Driving their lords like chaff,
  In the guns' mouths they laugh;
  Or at the slippery brands
  Leaping with open hands,
  Down they tear man and horse,
  Down in their awful course;
  Trampling with bloody heel
  Over the crashing steel,
  All their eyes forward bent,
  Rushed the black regiment.

  "Freedom!" their battle-cry,--
  "Freedom! or learn to die!"
  Ah! and they meant the word,
  Not as with us 'tis heard,
  Not a mere party shout:
  They gave their spirits out;
  Trusted the end to God,
  And on the glory sod
  Rolled in triumphant blood.
  Glad to strike one free blow,
  Whether for weal or woe;
  Glad to breathe one free breath,
  Though on the lips of death,
  Praying--alas! in vain!--
  That they might fall again,
  So they could once more see
  That burst to liberty!
  This was what "freedom" lent
  To the black regiment.

  Hundreds on hundreds fell;
  But they are resting well;
  Scourges and shackles strong
  Never shall do them wrong.
  O, to the living few,
  Soldiers, be just and true!
  Hail them as comrades tried;
  Fight with them side by side;
  Never in field or tent,
  Scorn the black regiment.

THE THIEF OF TIME.

CHARACTERS.

  JOHN RAY,         }
  CHARLEY CHEERFUL, } School-boys.
  RALPH READY,      }
  MR. HANKS, a Deaf Gentleman.
  JOHN CLOD, a Countryman.
  PATSY FLINN, an Irishman.

SCENE.--_A Quiet Place in the Country._

_Enter_ RALPH READY, R., _with School-books_.

_Ralph._ Twenty minutes of nine. I can take it easy this morning. How
glad I am I staid at home last night and studied "Spartacus." It's
Declamation Day, and I want to win the highest mark. If I fail, it
will not be for want of study. I believe I'm all right. (_Declaims._)

  "Ye call me Chief--"[1]

    [Footnote 1: The dialogue can be lengthened, if necessary,
    by allowing Charley and Ralph to declaim the whole of their
    pieces.]

_Enter_ CHARLEY CHEERFUL, L.

_Charley._ (_Clapping his hands._) Bravo! Bravo! Spartacus. "They
do well to call _you_ chief!" number one in arithmetic, history, and
geography; and to-day I've no doubt we shall call you number one in
declamation.

_Ralph._ Ah, Charley, glad to see you. Are you all ready for the
contest?

_Charley._ Yes, Ralph. (_Declaims._)

  "Again to the battle, Achaians;
  Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance."

_Ralph._ I see "a foeman worthy of my steel." Well, Charley, good luck
to you.

_Charley._ The same to you. I believe we are about equally matched. I
want to take the highest mark, but if I am to be defeated, there's no
one to whom I'd sooner surrender the "victor's laurels" than to you.

_Ralph._ And I can heartily say the same of you; but we must both look
out. John Ray told the boys yesterday he was bound to have the highest
mark.

_Charley._ I don't fear him.

_Ralph._ But he's a good declaimer, Charley.

_Charley._ I'll acknowledge that; but you know he's a terrible fellow
for putting off study until the last moment. It was only yesterday
morning Master Jones decided to have declamation to-day. The only time
we had to prepare was yesterday noon, last night, and this morning.

_Ralph._ Time enough, Charley.

_Charley._ Certainly. But I know John Ray hasn't employed it.
Yesterday noon he went boating; last night I'm afraid he visited
Hopkins's melon patch; and this morning I saw him from my window
playing ball.

_Ralph._ Then we've not much to fear from him; but here he is, puffing
like a porpoise.

_Enter_ JOHN RAY, L., _with a book._

_John._ Hallo, boys! what's the time?

_Charley._ Eighteen minutes of nine. All ready for the declamation?

_John._ Not yet; there's time enough.

_Ralph._ Time enough! What have you selected?

_John._ "Tell's Address." I'm going to pitch into it now. I can do it
in eighteen minutes.

_Charley._ Why, you haven't left it till now?

_John._ Of course I have. Time enough, I tell you. I've got a
locomotive memory, you know. None of your slow coaches. I shall only
have to read it over two or three times.

_Ralph._ But why didn't you take it up before?

_John._ What's the use? I went boating yesterday; and last night I
went--somewhere else.

_Charley._ Yes! you took a _melon_choly walk. Hey, John?

_John._ What do you mean by that?

_Charley._ No matter. You'd better study Tell's Address, if you expect
to be ready by nine o'clock.

_John._ So I had. Well, you run along, and let me have this place to
myself. It's a quiet place. So good by. I'll see you by nine o'clock,
with Tell's Address perfect.

_Charley._ Well, good luck to you. Come Ralph.

_Ralph._ I say, Ray; what's the proverb about the "thief of time"?

_John._ Who do you call a thief?

_Ralph._ A slow coach, that will rob you of your laurels spite of your
locomotive memory. Come along Charley. [_Exeunt_ CHARLEY _and_ RALPH
R.

_John._ Now, who told them I was after melons last night. (_Opens
book._) "Tell's Address." Won't I astonish those lads! What's the use
of wasting time in study before it's needed? (_Reads._)

  "Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again."

_Enter_ MR. HANKS, L.

_Mr. Hanks._ Look here, boy; where's Mr. Simmons's house?

_John._ O, bother! Over by the mill.

_Mr. H._ Hey?

_John._ Over by the mill.

_Mr. H._ Over that hill? Good gracious! You don't mean I've got to
travel as far as that, do you, in the hot sun?

_John._ No, no; it's only a little ways.

_Mr. H._ Only a little blaze! It's an awful hot morning.

_John._ O, dear! this old fellow is as deaf as a post. (_Very loud._)
Mr.--Simmons--lives--down--by--the--mill.

_Mr. H._ O, he does! Why didn't you say so before? Down that way?
(_Points_ R.)

_John._ (_Loud._) Yes! To--the--right! That--old--wooden--one--ahead!

_Mr. H._ Who do you call an old wooden head?

_John._ O, dear! I never shall get that piece. You don't understand.
I--said--wooden--house.

_Mr. H._ Hey?

_John._ O, dear! O, dear! (_Points_ R.) That's Mr.
Simmons's--house--down--there!

_Mr. H._ O, yes. Thank you, thank you. I'm a little hard of hearing.

_John._ I see you are. Suffering from a cold?

_Mr. H._ Hey?

_John._ O, what a nuisance! Is it--from a cold you--suffer?

_Mr. H._ Old buffer, indeed! Be more respectful to your elders, young
man; more respectful.

[_Exit_, R.

_John._ I've got rid of him at last, and five minutes gone. O, dear!
(_Reads._)

  "Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!"

_Enter_ MR. HANKS, R.

_Mr. H._ Did you say right or left?

_John._ Good gracious! the man's back! To--the right! To the right!
Follow the stream.

_Mr. H._ Hey?

_John._ Follow--the--stream--as--it--flows.

_Mr. H._ Follow my nose! You're an impudent scamp! I'll ask you no
more questions. [_Exit_, R.

_John._ I hope you won't. This comes of trying to do a good-natured
act. O, dear! that address! (_Reads._)

  "Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!"

_Enter_ JOHN CLOD, L.

_Clod._ I say, sonny; yer hain't seen nothin' of a keow, have yer,
here or hereabouts?

_John._ No, I haven't seen no cow.

_Clod._ Well, don't git mad. It's plaguy strange where that are
keow has travelled tew. Brand new keow dad brought hum from market
yesterday. What on airth shall I do? She's a brindle, short horns.
Yeou hain't seen her?

_John._ No, I haven't seen her. I've seen no cows or cattle of any
kind. It's no use stopping here.

_Clod._ Well, I dunno what's to be did. Marm, she dropped her bakin',
and scooted one way; dad quit ploughin', and scooted another; and I've
been scootin' every which way. Ain't heard a keow moo--mooing, have
yer?

_John._ I don't believe there's a cow within forty miles of here.

_Clod._ Sho! yer jokin' neow. Neow, see here; I kinder think yeou dew
know somethin' about that keow. Jest tell me where she is, and I don't
mind ginning yer fo'pence.

_John._ I tell you again, I know nothing about your cow. I'm studing
my lesson; and if you don't clear out and leave me in peace, I shall
never get it.

_Clod._ Sho! Well, I don't want to hender ye, but I should like to
know what's become of that are keow. [_Exit_, R.

_John._ Gone at last. Was ever a fellow so plagued! I've only got
eight minutes, and I must study. (_Goes to back of stage, and walks up
and down, studying._)

_Enter_ PATSY FLINN, L.

_Patsy._ Begorra, it's a foine irrant I's on ony way. It's all along
iv thim watthermillons, bad luck to 'em! Slaping swately on my bid
last night thinking uv the bould b'ys that fit, blid, and run away
from Canady, I heerd a v'ice in the millon patch, "Here's a bouncer,
b'ys." Faix, didn't I lept out uv that bid, and didn't I hurry on
my clo'es, and didn't I take a big shtick, and didn't I run fur the
patch, and didn't I find nobody? To be sure I did! So this morning,
Mr. Hopkins sinds me to the school-house to find the b'ys that invadid
the sacred retrait, which is the millon-patch. But how will I find
thim? Begorra, I should know that v'ice; and I'll make the whole
school shtand up togither one by one and shout, "Here's a bouncer!"
that I will.

_John._ (_Coming down_ R. _of stage._) Now let's see how much I know.
(_Declaims._)

  "Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!"

_Patsy._ By my sowl, that's the v'ice of my dr'ams!

  _John._ "I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
  To show they still are free."

_Patsy._ Fray, is it, begorra! Ye'll not hould thim long, me b'y!

  _John._                  "Methinks I hear
  A spirit in your echoes answer me."

_Patsy._ Begorra, ye'll soon hear an Irish echo ax ye something else!

  _John._ "And bid your tenant welcome to his home
  again!"

_Patsy._ Begorra, you're wilcome to no more watermillons, ye'll find!

  _John._        "Ye guards of Liberty!"

_Patsy._ Ye little blackguard!

  _John._ "I'm with you once again! I hold my hands to you,
  To show they still are free!"

_Patsy._ Begorra, they're stained with watermillons, sure!

  _John._                  "I rush to you,
  As though I could embrace you!"

(_Runs into_ PATSY'S _arms._)

_Patsy._ Come on, I'm waiting for you! O, you blackguard! O, yes
spalpeen! I've got yes!

_John._ Who are you? What do you want? Let me go!

_Patsy._ Niver! Ye must go along wid me, my fine lad; there's a bill a
waiting for you at farmer Hopkins's.

_John._ Farmer Hopkins! But I shall be late for school.

_Patsy._ O, niver mind the school. You'll get a little uv it there,
from a nice big cowhide.

_John._ Let me go, I say!

_Patsy._ Quit your howling, and come along.

_John._ I won't. Help! Help! Help!

_Enter_ CHARLEY _and_ RALPH, R.

_Charley._ What's the matter, Ray?

_Ralph._ Hallo, Patsy! What's to pay now?

_Patsy._ A small bill for watermillons, Master Ralph.

_Ralph._ O, I see; you're found out, Ray!

_John._ Well, I wan't the only one in the patch last night.

_Ralph._ But you're the only one found out; so you must take the
consequences.

_Charley._ Master Jones sent us to look for you; it's five minutes
after nine.

_John._ O, dear, what's to become of me!

_Ralph._ You must get to school at once. Patsy, I'll be answerable for
John Ray's appearance at Farmer Hopkins's after school. Won't that do?

_Patsy._ To be sure it will. I can depind upon you, Master Ralph. But
mind and cape an eye on that chap; fur it's my opinion he's a little
cracked; he's bin ravin' about crags, and peaks, and liberty like a
full-blooded Fenian. I'll go home and practise a bit wid that cowhide.
[_Exit_, L.

_Charley._ Well, John, got your piece?

_John._ Got my piece? No. I've been bothered to death!

_Ralph._ You've been keeping company with the "thief of time."

_John._ I'd like to know what you mean by that.

_Ralph._ I'll tell you. You should have studied your piece yesterday
noon; but, instead of that, you went boating. You should have studied
last night; but instead of that, you got into a scrape, which promises
to make trouble for you; and this morning you played ball instead of
taking time for your work.

_John._ Well, I meant to have studied it yesterday, but I thought I
had plenty of time. I wanted a little recreation.

_Charley._ Yes, John; but you should look out for the lessons first,
and not neglect them. Come, let's go to school.

_John._ And be at the foot of the class. I don't like this.

_Ralph._ You'll find a remedy for it in the copy-book.

_John._ What is it?

_Ralph._ A warning to the dilatory--"Procrastination is the thief of
time."

[_Exeunt_, R.

THE RAIN-DROPS.

T.H. EVANS.

  A farmer had a field of corn of rather large extent,
  In tending which, with anxious care, much time and toil he spent;
  But after working long and hard, he saw, with grief and pain,
  His corn began to droop and fade, because it wanted rain.

  So sad and restless was his mind, at home he could not stop,
  But to his field repaired each day to view his withering crop.
  One day, when he stood looking up, despairing, at the sky,
  Two little rain-drops in the clouds his sad face chanced to spy.

  "I very sorry feel," said one, "to see him look so sad;
  I wish I could do him some good; indeed, I should be glad.
  Just see the trouble he has had; and if it should not rain,
  Why, all his toil, and time, and care he will have spent in vain."

  "What use are you," cried number two, "to water so much ground?
  You're nothing but a drop of rain, and could not wet one mound."
  "What you have said," his friend replied, "I know is very true;
  But I'm resolved to do my best, and more I cannot do.

  I'll try to cheer his heart a bit: so now I'm off--here goes!"
  And down the little rain-drop fell upon the farmer's nose.
  "Whatever's that?" the farmer cried. "Was it a drop of rain?
  I do believe it's come at last; I have not watched in vain."

  Now, when the second rain-drop saw his willing friend depart,
  Said he, "I'll go as well, and try to cheer the farmer's heart."
  But many rain-drops by this time had been attracted out,
  To see and hear what their two friends were talking so about.

  "We'll go as well," a number cried, "as our two friends have gone.
  We shall not only cheer his heart, but water, too, his corn.
  We're off! we're off!" they shout with glee, and down they fell so
          fast.
  "O bless the Lord!" the farmer cried, "the rain has come at last."

  The corn it grew and ripened well, and into food was dressed,
  Because a little rain-drop said, "I'll try, and do my best."
  This little lesson, children dear, you'll not forget I'm sure;
  Try, do your best, do what you can--angels can do no more.

THE SCOLDING OLD DAME.

  There once was a toper--I'll not tell his name--
  Who had for his comfort a scolding old dame;
  And often and often he wished himself dead,
  For, if drunk he came home, she would beat him to bed.
  He spent all his evenings away from his home,
  And, when he returned, he would sneakingly come
  And try to walk straightly, and say not a word--
  Just to keep his dear wife from abusing her lord;
  For if he dared say his tongue was his own,
  'Twould set her tongue going, in no gentle tone,
  And she'd huff him, and cuff him, and call him hard names,
  And he'd sigh to be rid of all scolding old dames.

  It happened, one night, on a frolic he went,
  He stayed till his very last penny was spent;
  But how to go home, and get safely to bed,
  Was the thing on his heart that most heavily weighed.