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cow, for she heard Mrs. Twiddler say yesterday that the Cow was sick.
For four weeks I could get nothing out of that horn but blood-curdling groans; and, meantime, the people over the way moved to another house because our neighborhood was haunted, and three of our hired girls resigned successively for the same reason.
Finally, a man whom I consulted told me that “No One to Love” was an easy tune for beginners ; and I made an effort to learn it.
After three weeks of arduous practice, during which Mrs. A. several times suggested that it was brutal that Twiddler didn't kill that suffering cow and put it out of its misery, I conquered the first three notes; but there I stuck. I could play “No One to —” and that was all. I performed “No One to over eight thousand times; and as it seemed unlikely that I would ever learn the whole tune, I determined to try the effect of part of it on Mrs. A. About ten o'clock one night I crept out to the front of the house and struck up. First,“ No One to -” about fifteen or twenty times, then a few of those groans, then more of the tune, and so forth. Then Butterwick set his dog on me, and I suddenly went into the house. Mrs. A. had the children in the back room and she was standing behind the door with my revolver in her hand. When I entered, she exclaimed, “Oh, I'm so glad you've come home! Somebody's been murdering a man in our yard. He uttered the most awful shrieks and cries I ever heard. I was dreadfully afraid the murderers would come into the house. It's perfectly fearful, isn't it?"
Then I took the revolver away from her-it was not loaded, and she had no idea that it would have to be cocked-and went to bed without mentioning the horn. I thought perhaps it would be better not to. I sold it the next day; and now if I want music I shall buy a good hand-organ. I know I can play on that.
LIGHT-William Pitt PALMER.
From the quickened womb of the primal gloom
The sun rolled black and bare,
Of the threads of my golden hair;
Arose on its airy spars,
And spangled it round with stars.
And their leaves of living green,
Of Eden's virgin queen ;
Had fastened its mortal spell,
To the trembling earth I fell.
Their work of wrath had speil,
Came forth among the dead;
I bade their terrors cease,
God's covenant of peace!
Night's funeral shadow slept,
'Their lonely vigils kept,
Of heaven's redeeming plan,
Joy, joy to the outcast man.
On the just and unjust I descend;
tears, Feel my smile, the blest smile of a friend. Nay, the flower of the waste by my love is embraced,
As the rose in the garden of kings;
At the chrysalis bier of the worm I appear,
And lo! the gay butterfly's wings.
Conceals all the pride of her charms,
And lead the young day to her arms;
And sinks to her balmy repose,
In curtains of amber and rose.
I gaze with unslumbering eye,
Is blotted from out of the sky;
Though sped by the hurricane's wings,
To the haven-home, safely he brings.
The birds in their chambers of green,
As they bask in my matinal sheen.
Though fitful and fleeting the while,
Ever bright with the Deity's smile!
DIRGE.-CHARLES G. EASTMAN.
Softly! She is lying
With her lips apart.
Of a broken heart.
To her final rest.
Dim within her breast.
She has breathed her last.
She to heaven has passed.
THE SNOW OF AGE. No snow falls lighter than the snow of age; but none is heavier, for it never melts,
The figure is by no means novel, but the closing part of the sentence is new as well as emphatic. The Scriptures represent age by the almond-tree, which bears blossoms of the purest white. “ The almond-tree shall ilourish”—the head shall be hoary. Dickens says of one of his characters whose hair was turning gray, that it looked as if Time had lightly sprinkled his snows upon it in passing
“It never melts”. -no never. Age is inexorable. Its wheels must move onward—they know no retrograde movement. The old man may sit and sing, “I would I were a boy again ”—but he grows older as he sings. He may read of the elixir of youth, but he cannot find it; he may sigh for the secrets of that alchemy which is able to make him young again, but sighing brings it not. He may gaze backward with an eye of longing upon the
rosy scenes of early years, as one who gazes on his home from the deck of a departing ship which every moment carries him farther and farther away. Poor old man! he has little more to do than die.
“It never melts.” The snow of winter comes and sheds its white blessings upon the valley and the mountains, but soon the sweet spring comes and smiles it all away. Not so with that upon the brow of the tottering veteran. There is no spring whose warmth can penetrate its eternal frost. It came to stay. Its single flakes fell unnoticed—and now it is drilled there. We shall see it increase until we lay the old man in his grave. There it shall be absorbed by the eternal darkness—for there is no age in heaven.
Yet why speak of age in a mournful strain ? It is beautiful, honorable, eloquent. Should we sigh at the proximity of death, when life and the world are so full of emptiness? Let the old exult because they are old. If any must weep, let it be the young, at the long succes
sion of cares that are before them. Welcome the snow, for it is the emblem of peace and of rest. It is but a temporal crown which shall fall at the gates of paradise, to be replaced by a brighter and a better.
THE PERVERSE HEN.