SO, so! all safe! Come forth, my pretty sparklers—Come forth, and feast my eyes! Be not afraid!No keen-eyed agent of the governmentCan see you here. They wanted me, forsooth,To lend you, at the lawful rate of usance,For the state's needs. Ha, ha! my shining pets,My yellow darlings, my sweet golden circlets!Too well I loved you to do that—and soI pleaded poverty, and none could proveMy story was not true.Ha! could they seeThese bags of ducats, and that precious pileOf ingots, and those bars of solid gold,Their eyes, methinks, would water. What a comfortIs it to see my moneys in a heapAll safely lodged under my very roof!Here's a fat bag—let me untie the mouth of it.What eloquence! What beauty! What expression!Could Cicero so plead? Could Helen lookOne-half so charming? [The trap-door falls.]Ah! what sound was that?The Trap-door fallen—and the spring-lock caught!Well, have I not the key? Of course I have.'Tis in this pocket. No. In this? No. ThenI left it at the bottom of the ladder.Ha! 'tis not there. Where then? Ah! mercy, Heaven!'Tis in the lock outside!What's to be done?Help, help! Will no one hear? Oh, would that IHad not discharged old Simon! but he beggedEach week for wages—would not give me credit.I'll try my strength upon the door. Despair!I might as soon uproot the eternal rocksAs force it open. Am I here a prisoner,And no one in the house? no one at hand,Or likely soon to be, to hear my cries?Am I entombed alive? Horrible fate!I sink—I faint beneath the bare conception![Awakes.] Darkness? Where am I? I remember, now,This is a bag of ducats—'tis no dream—No dream! The trap-door fell, and here am IImmured with my dear gold—my candle out—All gloom—all silence—all despair! What, ho!Friends! Friends? I have no friends. What right have ITo use the name? These money-bags have beenThe only friends I've cared for—and for theseI've toiled, and pinched, and screwed—shutting my heartTo charity, humanity and love!Detested traitors! Since I gave you all—Aye, gave my very soul—can ye do naughtFor me in this extremity? Ho! Without there!A thousand ducats for a loaf of bread!Ten thousand ducats for a glass of water!A pile of ingots for a helping hand!Was that a laugh? Aye, 'twas a fiend that laughedTo see a miser in the grip of death.Offended Heaven, have mercy! I will giveIn alms all this vile rubbish; aid me thouIn this most dreadful strait! I'll build a church—A hospital! Vain, vain! Too late, too late!Heaven knows the miser's heart too well to trust him!Heaven will not hear! Why should it? What have IDone to enlist Heaven's favor—to help onHeaven's cause on earth, in human hearts and homes?Nothing! God's kingdom will not come the soonerFor any work or any prayer of mine.But must I die here—in my own trap caught?Die—die? and then! Oh, mercy! Grant me time—Thou who canst save—grant me a little time,And I'll redeem the past—undo the evilThat I have done—make thousands happy withThis hoarded treasure—do Thy will on earthAs it is done in Heaven—grant me but time!Nor man nor God will heed my shrieks! All's lost!
SO, so! all safe! Come forth, my pretty sparklers—Come forth, and feast my eyes! Be not afraid!No keen-eyed agent of the governmentCan see you here. They wanted me, forsooth,To lend you, at the lawful rate of usance,For the state's needs. Ha, ha! my shining pets,My yellow darlings, my sweet golden circlets!Too well I loved you to do that—and soI pleaded poverty, and none could proveMy story was not true.Ha! could they seeThese bags of ducats, and that precious pileOf ingots, and those bars of solid gold,Their eyes, methinks, would water. What a comfortIs it to see my moneys in a heapAll safely lodged under my very roof!Here's a fat bag—let me untie the mouth of it.What eloquence! What beauty! What expression!Could Cicero so plead? Could Helen lookOne-half so charming? [The trap-door falls.]Ah! what sound was that?The Trap-door fallen—and the spring-lock caught!Well, have I not the key? Of course I have.'Tis in this pocket. No. In this? No. ThenI left it at the bottom of the ladder.Ha! 'tis not there. Where then? Ah! mercy, Heaven!'Tis in the lock outside!What's to be done?Help, help! Will no one hear? Oh, would that IHad not discharged old Simon! but he beggedEach week for wages—would not give me credit.I'll try my strength upon the door. Despair!I might as soon uproot the eternal rocksAs force it open. Am I here a prisoner,And no one in the house? no one at hand,Or likely soon to be, to hear my cries?Am I entombed alive? Horrible fate!I sink—I faint beneath the bare conception![Awakes.] Darkness? Where am I? I remember, now,This is a bag of ducats—'tis no dream—No dream! The trap-door fell, and here am IImmured with my dear gold—my candle out—All gloom—all silence—all despair! What, ho!Friends! Friends? I have no friends. What right have ITo use the name? These money-bags have beenThe only friends I've cared for—and for theseI've toiled, and pinched, and screwed—shutting my heartTo charity, humanity and love!Detested traitors! Since I gave you all—Aye, gave my very soul—can ye do naughtFor me in this extremity? Ho! Without there!A thousand ducats for a loaf of bread!Ten thousand ducats for a glass of water!A pile of ingots for a helping hand!Was that a laugh? Aye, 'twas a fiend that laughedTo see a miser in the grip of death.Offended Heaven, have mercy! I will giveIn alms all this vile rubbish; aid me thouIn this most dreadful strait! I'll build a church—A hospital! Vain, vain! Too late, too late!Heaven knows the miser's heart too well to trust him!Heaven will not hear! Why should it? What have IDone to enlist Heaven's favor—to help onHeaven's cause on earth, in human hearts and homes?Nothing! God's kingdom will not come the soonerFor any work or any prayer of mine.But must I die here—in my own trap caught?Die—die? and then! Oh, mercy! Grant me time—Thou who canst save—grant me a little time,And I'll redeem the past—undo the evilThat I have done—make thousands happy withThis hoarded treasure—do Thy will on earthAs it is done in Heaven—grant me but time!Nor man nor God will heed my shrieks! All's lost!
S
O, so! all safe! Come forth, my pretty sparklers—
Come forth, and feast my eyes! Be not afraid!
No keen-eyed agent of the government
Can see you here. They wanted me, forsooth,
To lend you, at the lawful rate of usance,
For the state's needs. Ha, ha! my shining pets,
My yellow darlings, my sweet golden circlets!
Too well I loved you to do that—and so
I pleaded poverty, and none could prove
My story was not true.
Ha! could they see
These bags of ducats, and that precious pile
Of ingots, and those bars of solid gold,
Their eyes, methinks, would water. What a comfort
Is it to see my moneys in a heap
All safely lodged under my very roof!
Here's a fat bag—let me untie the mouth of it.
What eloquence! What beauty! What expression!
Could Cicero so plead? Could Helen look
One-half so charming? [The trap-door falls.]
Ah! what sound was that?
The Trap-door fallen—and the spring-lock caught!
Well, have I not the key? Of course I have.
'Tis in this pocket. No. In this? No. Then
I left it at the bottom of the ladder.
Ha! 'tis not there. Where then? Ah! mercy, Heaven!
'Tis in the lock outside!
What's to be done?
Help, help! Will no one hear? Oh, would that I
Had not discharged old Simon! but he begged
Each week for wages—would not give me credit.
I'll try my strength upon the door. Despair!
I might as soon uproot the eternal rocks
As force it open. Am I here a prisoner,
And no one in the house? no one at hand,
Or likely soon to be, to hear my cries?
Am I entombed alive? Horrible fate!
I sink—I faint beneath the bare conception!
[Awakes.] Darkness? Where am I? I remember, now,
This is a bag of ducats—'tis no dream—
No dream! The trap-door fell, and here am I
Immured with my dear gold—my candle out—
All gloom—all silence—all despair! What, ho!
Friends! Friends? I have no friends. What right have I
To use the name? These money-bags have been
The only friends I've cared for—and for these
I've toiled, and pinched, and screwed—shutting my heart
To charity, humanity and love!
Detested traitors! Since I gave you all—
Aye, gave my very soul—can ye do naught
For me in this extremity? Ho! Without there!
A thousand ducats for a loaf of bread!
Ten thousand ducats for a glass of water!
A pile of ingots for a helping hand!
Was that a laugh? Aye, 'twas a fiend that laughed
To see a miser in the grip of death.
Offended Heaven, have mercy! I will give
In alms all this vile rubbish; aid me thou
In this most dreadful strait! I'll build a church—
A hospital! Vain, vain! Too late, too late!
Heaven knows the miser's heart too well to trust him!
Heaven will not hear! Why should it? What have I
Done to enlist Heaven's favor—to help on
Heaven's cause on earth, in human hearts and homes?
Nothing! God's kingdom will not come the sooner
For any work or any prayer of mine.
But must I die here—in my own trap caught?
Die—die? and then! Oh, mercy! Grant me time—
Thou who canst save—grant me a little time,
And I'll redeem the past—undo the evil
That I have done—make thousands happy with
This hoarded treasure—do Thy will on earth
As it is done in Heaven—grant me but time!
Nor man nor God will heed my shrieks! All's lost!
ANONYMOUS.
THEfunniest story I ever heard,The funniest thing that ever occurred,Is the story of Mrs. Mehitable Byrde,Who wanted to be a Mason.Her husband, Tom Byrde, is a Mason true,As good a Mason as any of you;He is tyler of lodge Cerulian Blue,And tyles and delivers the summons due,And she wanted to be a Mason too—This ridiculous Mrs. Byrde.She followed him round, this inquisitive wife,And nabbed and teased him half out of his life;So to terminate this unhallowed strife,He consented at last to admit her.And first to disguise her from bonnet to shoon,The ridiculous lady agreed to put onHis breech—ah! forgive me—I meant pantaloon;And miraculously did they fit her.The Lodge was at work on the Master's Degree;The light was ablaze on the letter G;High soared the pillars J. and B.;The officers sat like Solomon, wise;The brimstone burned amid horrid cries;The goat roamed wildly through the room;The candidate begged 'em to let him go home;And the devil himself stood up in the east,As proud as an alderman at a feast;—When in came Mrs. Byrde.Oh, horrible sounds! oh, horrible sight!Can it be that Masons take delightIn spending thus the hours of night?Ah! could their wives and daughters knowThe unutterable things they say and do,Their feminine hearts would burst with woe;But this is not all my story,For those Masons joined in a hideous ring,The candidate howling like everything,And thus in tones of death they sing(The Candidate's name was Morey):"Blood to drink and bones to crack,Skulls to smash and lives to take,Hearts to crush and souls to burn—Give old Morey another turn,And make him all grim and gory."Trembling with horror stood Mrs. Byrde,Unable to speak a single word;She staggered and fell in the nearest chair,On the left of the Junior Warden there,And scarcely noticed, so loud the groans,That the chair was made of human bones.Of human bones! on grinning skullsThat ghastly throne of horror rolls—Those skulls, the skulls that Morgan bore!Those bones the bones that Morgan wore!His scalp across the top was flung,His teeth around the arms were strung—Never in all romance was knownSuch uses made of human bone.The brimstone gleamed in lurid flame,Just like a place we will not name;Good angels, that inquiring cameFrom blissful courts, looked on with shameAnd tearful melancholy.Again they dance, but twice as bad,They jump and sing like demons mad;The tune is Hunkey Dorey—"Blood to drink," etc., etc.Then came a pause—a pair of pawsReached through the floor, up sliding doors,And grabbed the unhappy candidate!How can I without tears relateThe lost and ruined Morey's fate?She saw him sink in a fiery hole,She heard him scream, "My soul! my soul!"While roars of fiendish laughter roll,And drown the yells of mercy!"Blood to drink," etc., etc.The ridiculous woman could stand no more—She fainted and fell on the checkered floor,'Midst all the diabolical roar.What then, you ask me, did befallMehitable Byrde? Why, nothing at all—She had dreamedshe'd been in the Masons' hall.
THEfunniest story I ever heard,The funniest thing that ever occurred,Is the story of Mrs. Mehitable Byrde,Who wanted to be a Mason.Her husband, Tom Byrde, is a Mason true,As good a Mason as any of you;He is tyler of lodge Cerulian Blue,And tyles and delivers the summons due,And she wanted to be a Mason too—This ridiculous Mrs. Byrde.She followed him round, this inquisitive wife,And nabbed and teased him half out of his life;So to terminate this unhallowed strife,He consented at last to admit her.And first to disguise her from bonnet to shoon,The ridiculous lady agreed to put onHis breech—ah! forgive me—I meant pantaloon;And miraculously did they fit her.The Lodge was at work on the Master's Degree;The light was ablaze on the letter G;High soared the pillars J. and B.;The officers sat like Solomon, wise;The brimstone burned amid horrid cries;The goat roamed wildly through the room;The candidate begged 'em to let him go home;And the devil himself stood up in the east,As proud as an alderman at a feast;—When in came Mrs. Byrde.Oh, horrible sounds! oh, horrible sight!Can it be that Masons take delightIn spending thus the hours of night?Ah! could their wives and daughters knowThe unutterable things they say and do,Their feminine hearts would burst with woe;But this is not all my story,For those Masons joined in a hideous ring,The candidate howling like everything,And thus in tones of death they sing(The Candidate's name was Morey):"Blood to drink and bones to crack,Skulls to smash and lives to take,Hearts to crush and souls to burn—Give old Morey another turn,And make him all grim and gory."Trembling with horror stood Mrs. Byrde,Unable to speak a single word;She staggered and fell in the nearest chair,On the left of the Junior Warden there,And scarcely noticed, so loud the groans,That the chair was made of human bones.Of human bones! on grinning skullsThat ghastly throne of horror rolls—Those skulls, the skulls that Morgan bore!Those bones the bones that Morgan wore!His scalp across the top was flung,His teeth around the arms were strung—Never in all romance was knownSuch uses made of human bone.The brimstone gleamed in lurid flame,Just like a place we will not name;Good angels, that inquiring cameFrom blissful courts, looked on with shameAnd tearful melancholy.Again they dance, but twice as bad,They jump and sing like demons mad;The tune is Hunkey Dorey—"Blood to drink," etc., etc.Then came a pause—a pair of pawsReached through the floor, up sliding doors,And grabbed the unhappy candidate!How can I without tears relateThe lost and ruined Morey's fate?She saw him sink in a fiery hole,She heard him scream, "My soul! my soul!"While roars of fiendish laughter roll,And drown the yells of mercy!"Blood to drink," etc., etc.The ridiculous woman could stand no more—She fainted and fell on the checkered floor,'Midst all the diabolical roar.What then, you ask me, did befallMehitable Byrde? Why, nothing at all—She had dreamedshe'd been in the Masons' hall.
T
HEfunniest story I ever heard,
The funniest thing that ever occurred,
Is the story of Mrs. Mehitable Byrde,
Who wanted to be a Mason.
Her husband, Tom Byrde, is a Mason true,
As good a Mason as any of you;
He is tyler of lodge Cerulian Blue,
And tyles and delivers the summons due,
And she wanted to be a Mason too—
This ridiculous Mrs. Byrde.
She followed him round, this inquisitive wife,
And nabbed and teased him half out of his life;
So to terminate this unhallowed strife,
He consented at last to admit her.
And first to disguise her from bonnet to shoon,
The ridiculous lady agreed to put on
His breech—ah! forgive me—I meant pantaloon;
And miraculously did they fit her.
The Lodge was at work on the Master's Degree;
The light was ablaze on the letter G;
High soared the pillars J. and B.;
The officers sat like Solomon, wise;
The brimstone burned amid horrid cries;
The goat roamed wildly through the room;
The candidate begged 'em to let him go home;
And the devil himself stood up in the east,
As proud as an alderman at a feast;—
When in came Mrs. Byrde.
Oh, horrible sounds! oh, horrible sight!
Can it be that Masons take delight
In spending thus the hours of night?
Ah! could their wives and daughters know
The unutterable things they say and do,
Their feminine hearts would burst with woe;
But this is not all my story,
For those Masons joined in a hideous ring,
The candidate howling like everything,
And thus in tones of death they sing
(The Candidate's name was Morey):
"Blood to drink and bones to crack,
Skulls to smash and lives to take,
Hearts to crush and souls to burn—
Give old Morey another turn,
And make him all grim and gory."
Trembling with horror stood Mrs. Byrde,
Unable to speak a single word;
She staggered and fell in the nearest chair,
On the left of the Junior Warden there,
And scarcely noticed, so loud the groans,
That the chair was made of human bones.
Of human bones! on grinning skulls
That ghastly throne of horror rolls—
Those skulls, the skulls that Morgan bore!
Those bones the bones that Morgan wore!
His scalp across the top was flung,
His teeth around the arms were strung—
Never in all romance was known
Such uses made of human bone.
The brimstone gleamed in lurid flame,
Just like a place we will not name;
Good angels, that inquiring came
From blissful courts, looked on with shame
And tearful melancholy.
Again they dance, but twice as bad,
They jump and sing like demons mad;
The tune is Hunkey Dorey—
"Blood to drink," etc., etc.
Then came a pause—a pair of paws
Reached through the floor, up sliding doors,
And grabbed the unhappy candidate!
How can I without tears relate
The lost and ruined Morey's fate?
She saw him sink in a fiery hole,
She heard him scream, "My soul! my soul!"
While roars of fiendish laughter roll,
And drown the yells of mercy!
"Blood to drink," etc., etc.
The ridiculous woman could stand no more—
She fainted and fell on the checkered floor,
'Midst all the diabolical roar.
What then, you ask me, did befall
Mehitable Byrde? Why, nothing at all—
She had dreamedshe'd been in the Masons' hall.
MIDAS, I want to s'posen a case to you, an' I want you to gim me the gospel truth on your 'pinion 'bout de matter."
That's the manner in which one of Washington's dusky damsels put it to her adorer last evening.
"Now, Midas, you knows you'se tole me more times 'an you'se got fingers an' toes, as you lubbed me harder 'an a marble-top washstand, an' 'at I'se sweeter to you 'an buckwheat cakes and 'lassas foreber. Midas, this am only s'posen case, but I wants you to s'posen jus' as if'n 'twas a shunuff one.
"S'posen me an' you was goin' on a scursion down de riber!"
"Yas," broke in Midas, "down to Mount Vernon."
"Anywha's 'tall, down the riber. Midas, can you swim?"
"No, Luce, I's sorry to 'form you dat de only d'reckshon what I kin circumstanshiate fru de water am de bottom."
"Well, den, as I was 'latin'. S'posen we was on de boat, glidin' lubingly an' harmunly down de bussum ob der riber's stream, de moon was lookin' shiningly down pon de smoke-stack, an' you wos sottin' rite up to me (jus' slide up here closer, an' lem me show you how), dats de way."
"Yah, yah! but wouldn't dat be scrumptuous?" interrupted Midas.
"S'posen," continued Lucy, "you had jest put your arm roun' my wai' (dat's it), der wasn't nobody 'bout, you was a squeezin' me up, an' was jest gwine to gimme de lubinest kind ob a kiss, an'—an'—an' de biler would bust!"
"Oh, de debbil!" said the disappointed Midas.
"Now, Midas, I is s'posen dis case, an' I wants you to mind de words what I am a speakin'. S'posen when dat biler busted we bof went up in de air, come down in de ribber, an' when we arrive in de water we found de only thing lef' of dat boat was one piece ob board dat wasn't big enough to hole us bof, but we bof grab at it; now, Midas,wud you let go dat board, or would you put me off an' took it all y'self? Dat's de question what I'm s'posen."
"Luce, can you swim?" he asked, after hesitating a few moments.
"No, Midas, ob course not. You know I can't swim."
"Well den, Luce, my conchenshus 'pinion ob de whole matter am dat we won't go on no scursions."
SAMUEL LOVER.
Paddy," said the squire, "perhaps you would favor the gentleman with that story you told me once about a fox?"
"Indeed and I will, plaze yer honor," said Paddy, "though I know full well the divil a one word iv it you b'lieve, nor the gintlemen won't either, though you're axin' me for it—but only want to laugh at me, and call me a big liar when my back's turned."
"Maybe we wouldn't wait for your back being turned, Paddy, to honor you with that title."
"Oh, indeed, I'm not sayin' that you wouldn't do it as soon foreninst my face, yer honor, as you often did before, and will agin, plaze God, and welkim."
"Well, Paddy, say no more about that, but let's have the story."
"Sure I'm losing no time, only telling the gintlemen beforehand that it's what they'll be callin' it, a lie—and indeed it's ancommon, sure enough; but you see, gintlemen, you must remimber that the fox is the cunnin'est baste in the world, barrin' the wran——"
Here Paddy was questioned why he considered the wren as cunning abasteas the fox.
"Why, sir, bekase all the birds build their nest wid one hole to it only, excep'n the wran; but the wran builds two holes to the nest, and so that if any inimy comes to disturb it upon one door it can go out an the other. But the fox is cute to that degree that there's many mortial a fool to him—and, by dad, the fox could by and sell many a Christian, as you'll soon see by-and-by, when I tell you what happened to a wood-ranger that I knew wanst, and a dacent man he was, and wouldn't say the thing in a lie.
"Well, you see, he kem home one night mighty tired—for he was out wid a party in the domain cock-shootin' that day; and whin he got back to his lodge he threw a few logs o' wood an the fire to make himself comfortable, and he tuk whatever little matther he had for his supper—and afther that he felt himself so tired that he wint to bed. But you're to understand that, though he wint to bed, it was more for to rest himself like, than to sleep, for it was airly; and so he jist wint into bed, and there he divarted himself lookin' at the fire, that was blazin' as merry as a bonfire an the hearth.
"Well, as he was lyin' that-a-way, jist thinkin' o' nothin' at all, what should come into the place but a fox. But I must tell you, what I forgot to tell you, before, that the ranger's house was on the bordhers o' the wood, and he had no one to live wid him but himself, barrin' the dogs that he had the care iv, that was his only companions, and he had a hole cut an the door, with a swingin' boord to it, that the dogs might go in or out accordin' as it plazed thim; and, by dad, the fox kem in as I told you, through the hole in the door, as bould as a ram, and walked over to the fire, and sat down foreninst it.
"Now it was mighty provokin' that all the dogswas out; they wor rovin' about the wood, you see, lookin for to catch rabbits to ate, or some other mischief, and so it happened that there wasn't as much as one individual dog in the place; and, by gor, I'll go bail the fox knew that right well before he put his nose inside the ranger's lodge.
"Well, the ranger was in hopes some o' the dogs id come home and ketch the chap, and he was loath to stir hand or fut himself, afeared o' frightenin' away the fox, but by gor, he could hardly keep his timper at all at all, whin he seen the fox take his pipe aff o' the hob where he left it afore he wint to bed, and puttin' the bowl o' the pipe into the fire to kindle it (it's as thrue as I'm here), he began to smoke foreninst the fire, as nath'ral as any other man you ever seen.
"'Musha, bad luck to your impidence, you long-tailed blackguard,' says the ranger, 'and is it smokin' my pipe you are? Oh, thin, by this and by that, iv I had my gun convaynient to me, it's fire and smoke of another sort, and what you wouldn't bargain for, I'd give you,' says he. But still he was loath to stir, hopin the dogs id come home; and 'By gor, my fine fellow,' says he to the fox, 'if one o' the dogs comes home, saltpethre wouldn't save you, and that's a sthrong pickle.'
"So with that he watched antil the fox wasn't mindin' him, but was busy shakin' the cindhers out o' the pipe whin he was done wid it, and so the ranger thought he was goin' to go immediately afther gettin an air o' the fire and a shough o' the pipe; and so, says he, 'Faix, my lad, I won't let you go so aisy as all that, as cunnin' as you think yourself;' and with that he made a dart out o' bed, and run over to the door, and got betune it and the fox, 'And now,' says he, 'your bread's baked, my buck, and maybe my lord won't have a fine run out o' you,and the dogs at your brish every yard, you morodin' thief, and the divil mind you,' says he, 'for your impidence—for sure, if you hadn't the impidence of a highwayman's horse it's not into my very house, undher my nose, you'd daar for to come:' and with that he began to whistle for the dogs; and the fox, that stood eyein' him all the time while he was spakin', began to think it was time to be joggin' whin he heard the whistle—and says the fox to himself, 'Troth, indeed, you think yourself a mighty great ranger now,' says he, 'and you think you're very cute, but upon my tail, and that's a big oath, I'd be long sorry to let such a mallet-headed bog-throtter as yourself take a dirty advantage o' me, and I'll engage,' says the fox, 'I'll make you lave the door soon and suddint,'—and with that he turned to where the ranger's brogues was lyin' hard by beside the fire, and, what would you think, but the fox tuk one o' the brogues, and wint over to the fire, and threw it into it.
"'I think that'll make you start,' says the fox.
"'Divil resave the start,' says the ranger—'that won't do, my buck,' says he, 'the brogue may burn to cindhers,' says he, 'but out o' this I won't stir;' and thin, puttin' his fingers into his mouth, he gev a blast of a whistle you'd hear a mile off, and shouted for the dogs.
"'So that won't do,' says the fox—'well, I must thry another offer,' says he, and with that he tuk up the other brogue, and threw it into the fire too.
"'There, now,' says he, 'you may keep the other company,' says he; 'and there's a pair o' you now, as the divil said to his knee-buckles.'
"'Oh, you thievin' varment,' says the ranger, 'you won't lave me a tack to my feet; but no matter,' says he, 'your head's worth more nor a pairo' brogues to me any day, and by the Piper of Blessintown, you're money in my pocket this minit,' says he: and with that, the fingers was in his mouth agin, and he was goin' to whistle, whin, what would you think, but up sets the fox on his hunkers, and puts his two fore-paws into his mouth, makin' game o' the ranger—(bad luck to the lie I tell you.)
"'Well, the ranger, and no wondher, although in a rage as he was, couldn't help laughin' at the thought o' the fox mockin' him, and, by dad, he tuk sitch a fit o' laughin' that he couldn't whistle—and that was the 'cuteness o' the fox to gain time; but whin his first laugh was over, the ranger recovered himself, and gev another whistle; and so says the fox, 'By my soul,' says he, 'I think it wouldn't be good for my health to stay here much longer, and I mustn't be triflin' with that blackguard ranger any more,' says he, 'and I must make him sensible that it is time to let me go, and though he hasn't understandin' to be sorry for his brogues, I'll go bail I'll make him lave that,' says he, 'before he'd saysparables'—and with that what do you think the fox done? By all that's good—and the ranger himself told me out iv his own mouth, and said he would never have b'lieved it, ownly he seen it—the fox tuk a lighted piece iv a log out o' the blazin' fire, and run over wid it to the ranger's bed, and was goin' to throw it into the sthraw, and burn him out of house and home; so when the ranger seen that he gev a shout out iv him—
"'Hillo! hillo! you murtherin' villain,' says he, 'you're worse nor Captain Rock; is it goin' to burn me out you are, you red rogue iv a Ribbonman?" and he made a dart betune him and the bed, to save the house from bein' burnt,—but, my jew'l, that was all the fox wanted—and as soon as the ranger quitted the hole in the door that he was standin'foreninst, the fox let go the blazin' faggit, and made one jump through the door and escaped.
"But before he wint, the ranger gev me his oath that the fox turned round and gev him the most contemptible look he ever got in his life, and showed every tooth in his head with laughin', and at last he put out his tongue at him, as much as to say—'You've missed me like your mammy's blessin',' and off wid him, like a flash o' lightnin'."
FORRESTER.
[It is hardly necessary to say that too much tenderness cannot be imparted to the voice while reading these beautiful lines. The heart that recalls a departed mother's memory will be the best monitor.]
[It is hardly necessary to say that too much tenderness cannot be imparted to the voice while reading these beautiful lines. The heart that recalls a departed mother's memory will be the best monitor.]
GIVEme my old seat, mother,With my head upon thy knee;I've passed through many a changing scene,Since thus I sat by thee.Oh! let me look into thine eyes;Their meek, soft, loving lightFalls like a gleam of holiness,Upon my heart, to-night.I've not been long away, mother;Few suns have risen and set,Since last the tear-drop on thy cheek,My lips in kisses met.'Tis but a little time, I know,But very long it seems;Though every night I came to thee,Dear mother, in my dreams.The world has kindly dealt, mother,By the child thou lov'st so well;The prayers have circled round her path;And 'twas their holy spellWhich made that path so dearly bright;Which strewed the roses there;Which gave the light, and cast the balmOn every breath of air.I bear a happy heart, mother;A happier never beat;And, even now, new buds of hopeAre bursting at my feet.Oh! mother! life may be a dream;But if suchdreamsare given,While at the portals thus we stand,What are thetruthsof Heaven?I bear a happy heart, mother!Yet, when fond eyes I see,And hear soft tones and winning words,I ever think of thee.And then, the tears my spirit weepsUnbidden fill my eye;And, like a houseless dove, I longUnto thy breast to fly.ThenI am very sad, mother,I'm very sad and lone:O! there's no heart whose inmost foldOpes to me like thine own!Though sunny smiles wreath blooming lips,While love-tones meet my ear;My mother, one fond glance of thineWere thousand times more dear.Then with a closer clasp, mother,Now hold me to thy heart:I'll feel it beating 'gainst my own,Once more before we part.And mother, to this love-lit spot,When I am far away,Come oft—too oftthou canst not come!And for thy darling pray.
GIVEme my old seat, mother,With my head upon thy knee;I've passed through many a changing scene,Since thus I sat by thee.Oh! let me look into thine eyes;Their meek, soft, loving lightFalls like a gleam of holiness,Upon my heart, to-night.
G
IVEme my old seat, mother,
With my head upon thy knee;
I've passed through many a changing scene,
Since thus I sat by thee.
Oh! let me look into thine eyes;
Their meek, soft, loving light
Falls like a gleam of holiness,
Upon my heart, to-night.
I've not been long away, mother;Few suns have risen and set,Since last the tear-drop on thy cheek,My lips in kisses met.'Tis but a little time, I know,But very long it seems;Though every night I came to thee,Dear mother, in my dreams.
I've not been long away, mother;
Few suns have risen and set,
Since last the tear-drop on thy cheek,
My lips in kisses met.
'Tis but a little time, I know,
But very long it seems;
Though every night I came to thee,
Dear mother, in my dreams.
The world has kindly dealt, mother,By the child thou lov'st so well;The prayers have circled round her path;And 'twas their holy spellWhich made that path so dearly bright;Which strewed the roses there;Which gave the light, and cast the balmOn every breath of air.
The world has kindly dealt, mother,
By the child thou lov'st so well;
The prayers have circled round her path;
And 'twas their holy spell
Which made that path so dearly bright;
Which strewed the roses there;
Which gave the light, and cast the balm
On every breath of air.
I bear a happy heart, mother;A happier never beat;And, even now, new buds of hopeAre bursting at my feet.Oh! mother! life may be a dream;But if suchdreamsare given,While at the portals thus we stand,What are thetruthsof Heaven?
I bear a happy heart, mother;
A happier never beat;
And, even now, new buds of hope
Are bursting at my feet.
Oh! mother! life may be a dream;
But if suchdreamsare given,
While at the portals thus we stand,
What are thetruthsof Heaven?
I bear a happy heart, mother!Yet, when fond eyes I see,And hear soft tones and winning words,I ever think of thee.And then, the tears my spirit weepsUnbidden fill my eye;And, like a houseless dove, I longUnto thy breast to fly.
I bear a happy heart, mother!
Yet, when fond eyes I see,
And hear soft tones and winning words,
I ever think of thee.
And then, the tears my spirit weeps
Unbidden fill my eye;
And, like a houseless dove, I long
Unto thy breast to fly.
ThenI am very sad, mother,I'm very sad and lone:O! there's no heart whose inmost foldOpes to me like thine own!Though sunny smiles wreath blooming lips,While love-tones meet my ear;My mother, one fond glance of thineWere thousand times more dear.
ThenI am very sad, mother,
I'm very sad and lone:
O! there's no heart whose inmost fold
Opes to me like thine own!
Though sunny smiles wreath blooming lips,
While love-tones meet my ear;
My mother, one fond glance of thine
Were thousand times more dear.
Then with a closer clasp, mother,Now hold me to thy heart:I'll feel it beating 'gainst my own,Once more before we part.And mother, to this love-lit spot,When I am far away,Come oft—too oftthou canst not come!And for thy darling pray.
Then with a closer clasp, mother,
Now hold me to thy heart:
I'll feel it beating 'gainst my own,
Once more before we part.
And mother, to this love-lit spot,
When I am far away,
Come oft—too oftthou canst not come!
And for thy darling pray.
DETROIT FREE PRESS.
HEhad been missing from the "Potomac" for several days, and Cleveland Tom, Port Huron Bill, Tall Chicago, and the rest of the boys who were wont to get drunk with him, couldn't make out what had happened. They hadn't heard that there was a warrant out for him, had never known of his being sick for a day, and his absence from the old haunts puzzled them. They were in the Hole-in-the-Wall saloon yesterday morning, nearly a dozen of them, drinking, smoking, and playing cards, when in walked Ugly Sam.
There was a deep silence for a moment as they looked at him. Sam had a new hat, had been shaved clean, had on a clean collar and a white shirt, and they didn't know him at first. When they saw that it was Ugly Sam, they uttered a shout and leaped up.
"Cave in that hat!" cried one.
"Yank that collar off!" shouted another.
"Let's roll him on the floor!" screamed a third.
There was something in his look and bearing which made them hesitate. The whiskey-red had almost faded from his face, and he looked sober and dignified. His features expressed disgust and contempt as he looked around the room, and then revealed pity as his eyes fell upon the red eyes and bloated faces of the crowd before him.
"Why, what ails ye, Sam?" inquired Tall Chicago, as they all stood there.
"I've come down to bid ye good-bye, boys!" he replied, removing his hat and drawing a clean handkerchief from his pocket.
"What! Hev ye turned preacher?" they shouted in chorus.
"Boys, ye know I can lick any two of ye; but I hain't on the fight any more, an' I've put down the last drop of whiskey which is ever to go into my mouth! I've switched off. I've taken an oath. I'm going to be decent!"
"Sam, be you crazy?" asked Port Huron Bill, coming nearer to him.
"I've come down here to tell ye all about it," answered Sam. "Move the cha'rs back a little and give me room. Ye all know I've been rough, and more too. I've been a drinker, a fighter, a gambler, and a loafer. I can't look back and remember when I've earned an honest dollar. The police hez chased me around like a wolf, and I've been in jail and the work-house, and the papers has said that Ugly Sam was the terror of the Potomac. Ye all know this, boys, but ye didn't know I had an old mother."
The faces of the crowd expressed amazement.
"I never mentioned it to any of ye, for I was neglecting her," he went on. "She was a poor old body living up here in the alley, and if the neighbours hadn't helped her to fuel and food, she'd have been found dead long ago. I never helped her to a cent—didn't see her for weeks and weeks, and I used to feel mean about it. When a feller goes back on his old mother, he's a-gittin' purty low, and I know it. Well, she's dead—buried yesterday! I was up there afore she died. She sent for me by Pete, and when I got there I seen it was all day with her."
"Did she say anything?" asked one of the boys, as Sam hesitated.
"That's what ails me now," he went on. "When I went she reached out her hand to me,and says she, 'Samuel, I'm going to die, and I know'd you'd want to see me afore I passed away!' I sat down, feeling queer like. She didn't go on and say as how I was a loafer, and had neglected her, and all that, but says she, 'Samuel, you'll be all alone when I'm gone. I've tried to be a good mother to you, and have prayed for you hundreds o' nights and cried about you till my old heart was sore!' Some o' the neighbours had dropped in, and the women were crying, and I tell you, boys, I felt weak."
He paused for a moment, and then continued:
"And the old woman said she'd like to kiss me afore death came, and that broke me right down. She kept hold of my hand, and by-and-by she whispered; 'Samuel, you are throwing your life away. You've got it in you to be a man if you will only make up your mind, I hate to die and feel that my only son and the last of our family may go to the gallows. If I had your promise that you'd turn over a new leaf and try and be good, it seems as if I'd die easier. Won't you promise me, my son?' And I promised her, boys, and that's what ails me! She died holding my hand, and I promised to quit this low business and go to work. I came down to tell ye, and now you won't see me on the Potomac again. I've bought an axe, and am going up in Canada to Winter."
There was a dead silence for a moment, and then he said:
"Well, boys, I'll shake hands with ye all around afore I go. Good-by, Pete—good-by, Jack—Tom—Jim. I hope you won't fling any bricks at me, and I shan't never fling any at any of ye. It's a dying promise, ye see, and I'll keep it if it takes a right arm!"
The men looked reflectively at each other afterhe had passed out, and it was a long time before any one spoke. Then Tall Chicago flung his clay pipe into a corner, and said:
"I'll lick the man who says Ugly Sam's head isn't level!"
"So'll I!" repeated the others.
MILTON.
This famous speech affords opportunity for the grandest declamation. It is studded with points—anger, hate, scorn, admiration and defiance. The student should read, and re-read and ponder over every line, until he catches the exact meaning intended to be conveyed—then, following the examples already given, he should declaim it repeatedly:
This famous speech affords opportunity for the grandest declamation. It is studded with points—anger, hate, scorn, admiration and defiance. The student should read, and re-read and ponder over every line, until he catches the exact meaning intended to be conveyed—then, following the examples already given, he should declaim it repeatedly:
OTHOU, that, with surpassing glory crown'd,Look'st from thy sole dominion like the GodOf this new world; at whose sight all the starsHide their diminish'd heads; to thee I call,But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,O Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams,That bring to my remembrance from what stateI fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;Till pride and worse ambition threw me downWarring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless king:Ah, wherefore! he deserved no such returnFrom me, whom he created what I wasIn that bright eminence, and with his goodUpbraided none; nor was his service hard.What could be less than to afford him praise,The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks,How due! yet all his good proved ill in me,And wrought but malice; lifted up so highI 'sdain'd subjection, and thought one step higherWould set me highest, and in a moment quitThe debt immense of endless gratitudeSo burdensome still paying, still to owe:Forgetful what from him I still received,And understood not that a grateful mindBy owing owes not, but still pays, at onceIndebted and discharged; what burden then?O, had his powerful destiny ordain'dMe some inferior angel, I had stoodThen happy; no unbounded hope had raisedAmbition! Yet why not? some other PowerAs great might have aspired, and me, though mean,Drawn to his part; but other Powers as greatFell not, but stand unshaken, from withinOr from without, to all temptations arm'd.Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuseBut Heaven's free love dealt equally to all?Be then his love accursed, since love or hate,To me alike, it deals eternal woe.Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy willChose freely what it now so justly rues.Me miserable! which way shall I flyInfinite wrath and infinite despair?Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;And, in the lowest deep, a lower deepStill threat'ning to devour me opens wide,To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.O then at last relent: Is there no placeLeft for repentance, none for pardon left?None left but by submission; and that wordDisdain forbids me, and my dread of shameAmong the spirits beneath, whom I seducedWith other promises and other vauntsThan to submit, boasting I could subdueThe Omnipotent. Ah me! they little knowHow dearly I abide that boast so vain,Under what torments inwardly I groan,While they adore me on the throne of hell.With diadem and sceptre high advanced,The lower still I fall, only supremeIn misery! Such joy ambition finds.But say I could repent, and could obtainBy act of grace, my former state; how soonWould height recall high thoughts, how soon unsayWhat faint submission swore? Ease would recantVows made in pain, as violent and void.For never can true reconcilement grow,Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:Which would but lead me to a worse relapseAnd heavier fall; so should I purchase dearShort intermission bought with double smart.This knows my Punisher; therefore as farFrom granting he, as I from begging, peace;All hope excluded thus, behold, insteadOf us outcast, exiled, his new delight,Mankind created, and for him this world,So farewell, hope; and with hope, farewell, fear;Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost;Evil, be thou my good; by thee at leastDivided empire with Heaven's King I hold,By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;As man, ere long, and this new world shall know.
OTHOU, that, with surpassing glory crown'd,Look'st from thy sole dominion like the GodOf this new world; at whose sight all the starsHide their diminish'd heads; to thee I call,But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,O Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams,That bring to my remembrance from what stateI fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;Till pride and worse ambition threw me downWarring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless king:Ah, wherefore! he deserved no such returnFrom me, whom he created what I wasIn that bright eminence, and with his goodUpbraided none; nor was his service hard.What could be less than to afford him praise,The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks,How due! yet all his good proved ill in me,And wrought but malice; lifted up so highI 'sdain'd subjection, and thought one step higherWould set me highest, and in a moment quitThe debt immense of endless gratitudeSo burdensome still paying, still to owe:Forgetful what from him I still received,And understood not that a grateful mindBy owing owes not, but still pays, at onceIndebted and discharged; what burden then?O, had his powerful destiny ordain'dMe some inferior angel, I had stoodThen happy; no unbounded hope had raisedAmbition! Yet why not? some other PowerAs great might have aspired, and me, though mean,Drawn to his part; but other Powers as greatFell not, but stand unshaken, from withinOr from without, to all temptations arm'd.Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuseBut Heaven's free love dealt equally to all?Be then his love accursed, since love or hate,To me alike, it deals eternal woe.Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy willChose freely what it now so justly rues.Me miserable! which way shall I flyInfinite wrath and infinite despair?Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;And, in the lowest deep, a lower deepStill threat'ning to devour me opens wide,To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.O then at last relent: Is there no placeLeft for repentance, none for pardon left?None left but by submission; and that wordDisdain forbids me, and my dread of shameAmong the spirits beneath, whom I seducedWith other promises and other vauntsThan to submit, boasting I could subdueThe Omnipotent. Ah me! they little knowHow dearly I abide that boast so vain,Under what torments inwardly I groan,While they adore me on the throne of hell.With diadem and sceptre high advanced,The lower still I fall, only supremeIn misery! Such joy ambition finds.But say I could repent, and could obtainBy act of grace, my former state; how soonWould height recall high thoughts, how soon unsayWhat faint submission swore? Ease would recantVows made in pain, as violent and void.For never can true reconcilement grow,Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:Which would but lead me to a worse relapseAnd heavier fall; so should I purchase dearShort intermission bought with double smart.This knows my Punisher; therefore as farFrom granting he, as I from begging, peace;All hope excluded thus, behold, insteadOf us outcast, exiled, his new delight,Mankind created, and for him this world,So farewell, hope; and with hope, farewell, fear;Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost;Evil, be thou my good; by thee at leastDivided empire with Heaven's King I hold,By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;As man, ere long, and this new world shall know.
O
THOU, that, with surpassing glory crown'd,
Look'st from thy sole dominion like the God
Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminish'd heads; to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
O Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down
Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless king:
Ah, wherefore! he deserved no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.
What could be less than to afford him praise,
The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks,
How due! yet all his good proved ill in me,
And wrought but malice; lifted up so high
I 'sdain'd subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude
So burdensome still paying, still to owe:
Forgetful what from him I still received,
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and discharged; what burden then?
O, had his powerful destiny ordain'd
Me some inferior angel, I had stood
Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised
Ambition! Yet why not? some other Power
As great might have aspired, and me, though mean,
Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within
Or from without, to all temptations arm'd.
Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?
Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse
But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all?
Be then his love accursed, since love or hate,
To me alike, it deals eternal woe.
Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threat'ning to devour me opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
O then at last relent: Is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
The Omnipotent. Ah me! they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of hell.
With diadem and sceptre high advanced,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery! Such joy ambition finds.
But say I could repent, and could obtain
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What faint submission swore? Ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow,
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall; so should I purchase dear
Short intermission bought with double smart.
This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging, peace;
All hope excluded thus, behold, instead
Of us outcast, exiled, his new delight,
Mankind created, and for him this world,
So farewell, hope; and with hope, farewell, fear;
Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good; by thee at least
Divided empire with Heaven's King I hold,
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As man, ere long, and this new world shall know.
ANONYMOUS.
PATRICK O'FLANIGAN, from Erin's isleJust fresh, thinking he'd walk around a while,With open mouth and widely staring eyes,Cried "Och!" and "Whist!" at every new surprise.He saw some labourers in a field of corn;The golden pumpkins lit the scene with glory;Of all that he had heard since being born,Nothing had equaled this in song or story."The holy mither! and, sirs, would ye plaiseTo be a tellin' me what might be these?An' sure I'm thinkin' that they're not pratees,But mebbe it's the way you grow your chase.""Ah, Patrick, these are mare's eggs," said the hand,Giving a wink to John, and Jim, and Bill;"Just hatch it out, and then you have your horse;Take one and try it; it will pay you well.""Faith an' that's aisy sure; in dear ould IrelandI always had my Christmas pig so nate,Fatted on buttermilk, and hard to bate;But only gintlemen can own a horse.Ameriky's a great counthry indade,I thought that here I'd kape a pig, of coorse,Have me own land, and shanty without rent,An' have me vote, an' taxes not a cint;But sure I niver thought to own a baste.An' won't the wife and childer now be glad?A thousand blissings on your honor's head!But could ye tell by lookin' at the eggWhat colour it will hatch? It's to me tasteTo have a dapple gray, with a long tail,High in the neck, and slinder in the leg,To jump a twel' feet bog, and niver fail,Like me Lord Dumferline's at last year's races—"Just then the merry look on all their facesChecked Patrick's flow of talk, and with a blushThat swept his face as milk goes over mush,He added, "Sure, I know it is no useTo try to tell by peering at an eggIf it will hatch a gander or a goose;"Then looked around to make judicious choice."Pick out the largest one that you can hideOut of the owner's sight there by the river;Don't drop and break it, or the colt is gone;Carry it gently to your little farm,Put it in bed, and keep it six weeks warm."Quickly Pat seized a huge, ripe, yellow one,"Faith, sure, an' I'll do every bit of thatThe whole sax wakes I'll lie meself in bed,An' kape it warrum, as your honour said;Long life to yees, and may you niver walk,Not even to your grave, but ride foriver;Good luck to yees," and without more of talkHe pulled the forelock 'neath his tattered hat,And started off; but plans of mice and menGang oft agley, again and yet again.Full half a mile upon his homeward roadPoor Patrick toiled beneath hisheavyload.Ahilltopgained, he stopped to rest, alas!He laid his mare's egg on some treacherous grass;When down the steep hillside it rolled away,And at poor Patrick's call made no delay.Gaining momentum, with a heavy thump,It struck and split upon a hollow stump,In which a rabbit lived with child and wife,Frightened, the timid creature ran for life."Shtop, shtop my colt!" cried Patrick, as he ranAfter his straying colt, but all in vain.With ears erect poor Bunny faster fledAs "Shtop my colt!" in mournful, eager tonesStruck on those organs, till with fright half deadHe hid away among some grass and stones.Here Patrick searched till rose the harvest moon,Braying and whinnying till he was hoarse,Hoping to lure the colt by this fond cheat;"For won't the young thing want his mither soon,And come to take a bit of something t'eat?"But vain the tender accents of his call—No colt responded from the broken wall;And 'neath the twinkling stars he plodded on,To tell how he had got and lost his horse."As swate a gray as iver eyes sat on,"He said to Bridget and the children eight,After thrice telling the whole story o'er,The way he run it would be hard to bate;So little, too, with jist a whisk o' tail,Not a pin-feather on it as I could see,For it was hatched out just sax weeks too soon!An' such long ears were niver grown beforeOn any donkey in grane Ireland!So little, too, you'd hold it in your hand;Och hone! he would have made a gray donkey."So all the sad O'Flanigans that nightHeld a loud wake over the donkey gone,Eating their "pratees" without milk or salt,Howling between whiles, "Och! my little colt!"While Bunny, trembling from his dreadful fright,Skipped home to Mrs. B. by light of moon,And told the story of his scare and flight;And all the neighbouring rabbits played aroundThe broken mare's egg scattered on the ground.
PATRICK O'FLANIGAN, from Erin's isleJust fresh, thinking he'd walk around a while,With open mouth and widely staring eyes,Cried "Och!" and "Whist!" at every new surprise.He saw some labourers in a field of corn;The golden pumpkins lit the scene with glory;Of all that he had heard since being born,Nothing had equaled this in song or story."The holy mither! and, sirs, would ye plaiseTo be a tellin' me what might be these?An' sure I'm thinkin' that they're not pratees,But mebbe it's the way you grow your chase.""Ah, Patrick, these are mare's eggs," said the hand,Giving a wink to John, and Jim, and Bill;"Just hatch it out, and then you have your horse;Take one and try it; it will pay you well.""Faith an' that's aisy sure; in dear ould IrelandI always had my Christmas pig so nate,Fatted on buttermilk, and hard to bate;But only gintlemen can own a horse.Ameriky's a great counthry indade,I thought that here I'd kape a pig, of coorse,Have me own land, and shanty without rent,An' have me vote, an' taxes not a cint;But sure I niver thought to own a baste.An' won't the wife and childer now be glad?A thousand blissings on your honor's head!But could ye tell by lookin' at the eggWhat colour it will hatch? It's to me tasteTo have a dapple gray, with a long tail,High in the neck, and slinder in the leg,To jump a twel' feet bog, and niver fail,Like me Lord Dumferline's at last year's races—"Just then the merry look on all their facesChecked Patrick's flow of talk, and with a blushThat swept his face as milk goes over mush,He added, "Sure, I know it is no useTo try to tell by peering at an eggIf it will hatch a gander or a goose;"Then looked around to make judicious choice."Pick out the largest one that you can hideOut of the owner's sight there by the river;Don't drop and break it, or the colt is gone;Carry it gently to your little farm,Put it in bed, and keep it six weeks warm."Quickly Pat seized a huge, ripe, yellow one,"Faith, sure, an' I'll do every bit of thatThe whole sax wakes I'll lie meself in bed,An' kape it warrum, as your honour said;Long life to yees, and may you niver walk,Not even to your grave, but ride foriver;Good luck to yees," and without more of talkHe pulled the forelock 'neath his tattered hat,And started off; but plans of mice and menGang oft agley, again and yet again.Full half a mile upon his homeward roadPoor Patrick toiled beneath hisheavyload.Ahilltopgained, he stopped to rest, alas!He laid his mare's egg on some treacherous grass;When down the steep hillside it rolled away,And at poor Patrick's call made no delay.Gaining momentum, with a heavy thump,It struck and split upon a hollow stump,In which a rabbit lived with child and wife,Frightened, the timid creature ran for life."Shtop, shtop my colt!" cried Patrick, as he ranAfter his straying colt, but all in vain.With ears erect poor Bunny faster fledAs "Shtop my colt!" in mournful, eager tonesStruck on those organs, till with fright half deadHe hid away among some grass and stones.Here Patrick searched till rose the harvest moon,Braying and whinnying till he was hoarse,Hoping to lure the colt by this fond cheat;"For won't the young thing want his mither soon,And come to take a bit of something t'eat?"But vain the tender accents of his call—No colt responded from the broken wall;And 'neath the twinkling stars he plodded on,To tell how he had got and lost his horse."As swate a gray as iver eyes sat on,"He said to Bridget and the children eight,After thrice telling the whole story o'er,The way he run it would be hard to bate;So little, too, with jist a whisk o' tail,Not a pin-feather on it as I could see,For it was hatched out just sax weeks too soon!An' such long ears were niver grown beforeOn any donkey in grane Ireland!So little, too, you'd hold it in your hand;Och hone! he would have made a gray donkey."So all the sad O'Flanigans that nightHeld a loud wake over the donkey gone,Eating their "pratees" without milk or salt,Howling between whiles, "Och! my little colt!"While Bunny, trembling from his dreadful fright,Skipped home to Mrs. B. by light of moon,And told the story of his scare and flight;And all the neighbouring rabbits played aroundThe broken mare's egg scattered on the ground.
P
ATRICK O'FLANIGAN, from Erin's isle
Just fresh, thinking he'd walk around a while,
With open mouth and widely staring eyes,
Cried "Och!" and "Whist!" at every new surprise.
He saw some labourers in a field of corn;
The golden pumpkins lit the scene with glory;
Of all that he had heard since being born,
Nothing had equaled this in song or story.
"The holy mither! and, sirs, would ye plaise
To be a tellin' me what might be these?
An' sure I'm thinkin' that they're not pratees,
But mebbe it's the way you grow your chase."
"Ah, Patrick, these are mare's eggs," said the hand,
Giving a wink to John, and Jim, and Bill;
"Just hatch it out, and then you have your horse;
Take one and try it; it will pay you well."
"Faith an' that's aisy sure; in dear ould Ireland
I always had my Christmas pig so nate,
Fatted on buttermilk, and hard to bate;
But only gintlemen can own a horse.
Ameriky's a great counthry indade,
I thought that here I'd kape a pig, of coorse,
Have me own land, and shanty without rent,
An' have me vote, an' taxes not a cint;
But sure I niver thought to own a baste.
An' won't the wife and childer now be glad?
A thousand blissings on your honor's head!
But could ye tell by lookin' at the egg
What colour it will hatch? It's to me taste
To have a dapple gray, with a long tail,
High in the neck, and slinder in the leg,
To jump a twel' feet bog, and niver fail,
Like me Lord Dumferline's at last year's races—"
Just then the merry look on all their faces
Checked Patrick's flow of talk, and with a blush
That swept his face as milk goes over mush,
He added, "Sure, I know it is no use
To try to tell by peering at an egg
If it will hatch a gander or a goose;"
Then looked around to make judicious choice.
"Pick out the largest one that you can hide
Out of the owner's sight there by the river;
Don't drop and break it, or the colt is gone;
Carry it gently to your little farm,
Put it in bed, and keep it six weeks warm."
Quickly Pat seized a huge, ripe, yellow one,
"Faith, sure, an' I'll do every bit of that
The whole sax wakes I'll lie meself in bed,
An' kape it warrum, as your honour said;
Long life to yees, and may you niver walk,
Not even to your grave, but ride foriver;
Good luck to yees," and without more of talk
He pulled the forelock 'neath his tattered hat,
And started off; but plans of mice and men
Gang oft agley, again and yet again.
Full half a mile upon his homeward road
Poor Patrick toiled beneath hisheavyload.
Ahilltopgained, he stopped to rest, alas!
He laid his mare's egg on some treacherous grass;
When down the steep hillside it rolled away,
And at poor Patrick's call made no delay.
Gaining momentum, with a heavy thump,
It struck and split upon a hollow stump,
In which a rabbit lived with child and wife,
Frightened, the timid creature ran for life.
"Shtop, shtop my colt!" cried Patrick, as he ran
After his straying colt, but all in vain.
With ears erect poor Bunny faster fled
As "Shtop my colt!" in mournful, eager tones
Struck on those organs, till with fright half dead
He hid away among some grass and stones.
Here Patrick searched till rose the harvest moon,
Braying and whinnying till he was hoarse,
Hoping to lure the colt by this fond cheat;
"For won't the young thing want his mither soon,
And come to take a bit of something t'eat?"
But vain the tender accents of his call—
No colt responded from the broken wall;
And 'neath the twinkling stars he plodded on,
To tell how he had got and lost his horse.
"As swate a gray as iver eyes sat on,"
He said to Bridget and the children eight,
After thrice telling the whole story o'er,
The way he run it would be hard to bate;
So little, too, with jist a whisk o' tail,
Not a pin-feather on it as I could see,
For it was hatched out just sax weeks too soon!
An' such long ears were niver grown before
On any donkey in grane Ireland!
So little, too, you'd hold it in your hand;
Och hone! he would have made a gray donkey."
So all the sad O'Flanigans that night
Held a loud wake over the donkey gone,
Eating their "pratees" without milk or salt,
Howling between whiles, "Och! my little colt!"
While Bunny, trembling from his dreadful fright,
Skipped home to Mrs. B. by light of moon,
And told the story of his scare and flight;
And all the neighbouring rabbits played around
The broken mare's egg scattered on the ground.
REV. RALPH HOYT.
THEworld for sale! Hang out the sign; call every traveler here to me: who'll buy this brave estate of mine, and set this weary spirit free? 'Tis going! yes, I mean to fling the bauble from my soul away; I'll sell it, whatsoe'er it bring: the world's at auction here to-day! It is a glorious sight to see—but, ah! it has deceived me sore; it is not what it seems to be. For sale! it shall be mine no more. Come, turn it o'er and view it well; I would not have you purchase dear. 'Tis going! going! I must sell! Who bids! who'll buy this splendid Tear? Here's Wealth, in glittering heaps of gold; who bids? But let me tell you fair, a baser lot was never sold! Who'll buy the heavy heaps of Care? and, here, spread out in broad domain, a goodly landscape all may trace; hall, cottage, tree, field, hill and plain:—who'll buy himself a burial place? Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell that Beauty flings around the heart; I know its power, alas! too well; 'tis going! Love and I must part! Mustpart? What can I more with Love? all o'er is the enchanter's reign. Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove—a breath of bliss, a storm of pain? And Friendship, rarest gem of earth; who e'er has found the jewel his? Frail, fickle, false, and little worth! who bids for Friendship—as it is? 'Tis going! going! hear the call; once, twice and thrice, 'tis very low! 'Twas once my hope, my stay, my all, but now the broken staff must go! Fame! hold the brilliant meteor high; how dazzling every gilded name! Ye millions! now's the time to buy. How much for Fame? how much for Fame? Hear how it thunders! Would you stand on high Olympus, far renowned, now purchase, and a world command!—and be with a world's curses crowned. Sweet star of Hope! with ray to shine in every sad foreboding breast, save this desponding one of mine—who bids for man's last friend, and best? Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life, this treasure should my soul sustain! But Hope and Care are now at strife, nor ever may unite again. Ambition, Fashion, Show and Pride, I part from all forever now; Grief, in an overwhelming tide, has taught my haughty heart to bow. By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft, I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod; the best of all I still have left—my Faith, My Bible, and myGod.
JOSHUA JENKINS.
IWASdozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the good times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice came from the kitchen and to thekitchen I rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions, and shouting "shoo," in a general manner, at everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed, "O Joshua! a mouse, shoo—wha—shoo—a great—ya, shoo—horrid mouse, and—she—ew—it ran right out of the cupboard—shoo—go away—O Lord—Joshua—shoo—kill it, oh, my—shoo."
All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down, and ran off into another room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time I hit it I didn't poke it any on account of getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink; and I did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody would; but I am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my garment. There is something real disagreeable about having a mouse inside the leg of one's pantaloons, especially if there is nothing between you and the mouse. Its toes are cold, and its nails are scratchy, and its fur tickles, and its tail feels crawly, and there is nothing pleasant about it, and you are all the time afraid it will try to gnaw out, and begin on you instead of on the cloth. That mouse was next to me. I could feel its every motion with startling and suggestive distinctness. For these reasons I yelled to Maria, and as the case seemed urgent to me I may have yelled with a certain degree of vigor; but I deny that I yelled fire, and if I catch the boy who thought that I did, I shall inflict punishment on his person.
I did not loose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would not think about biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come to its assistance. A man can't handle many mice at once to advantage.
Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen and asked what she should do—as though I could hold the mouse and plan a campaign at the same time. I told her to think of something, and she thought she would throw things at the intruder; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal-scuttle. She paused for breath; but I kept bobbing around. Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. "O Joshua," she cried, "I wish you had not killed the cat." Now I submit that the wish was born of the weakness of woman's intellect. How on earth did she suppose a cat could get where that mouse was?—rather have the mouse there alone, anyway, than to have a cat prowling around after it. I reminded Maria of the fact that she was a fool. Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to that process, except as a last resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare to let go, for fear it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told her to think of something else, and I kept jumping. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor, very dead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy.
That was not the end of the trouble, for before Ihad recovered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole company followed him through, and they dradged hose around, and mussed things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some one had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the house clear.
Now when mice run out of the cupboard I go outdoors, and let Maria "shoo" them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don't pay for the trouble.