and sat deown, and drew up the reing, and took the whip in my right hand: have you got that deown?" 'Yes, long ago; go on." "Dear me, how fast you write! I never saw your equal. And I said to the old mare, Go 'long,' and jerked the reins pretty hard: have you got that deown?" "Yes; and I am impatiently waiting for more. I wish you wouldn't bother me with so many foolish questions. Go on with your letter." "Well, the old mare wouldn't stir out of her tracks, and I hollered,' Go 'long, you old jade! go 'long.' Have you got that deown?" 'Yes, indeed, you pestersome fellow; go on." "And I licked her, and licked her, and licked her [continuing to repeat these words as rapidly as possible]. "Hold on there! I have written two pages of 'licked her,' and I want the rest of the letter." "Well, and she kicked, and she kicked, and she kicked[continuing to repeat these words with great rapidity]. "Do go on with your letter; I have several pages of 'she kicked.'" [The Yankee clucks as in urging horses to move, and continues the clucking noise with rapid repetition for some time.] The scribe throws down his pen. "Write it deown! write it deown!" "I can't!" "Well then, I won't pay you." [The scribe, gathering up his papers.] "What shall I do with all these sheets upon which I have written your nonsense?" "You may use them in doing up your gape-seed. Good by !" THE BLACKSMITH'S STORY.-FRANK OLIVE, WELL, No! My wife ain't dead, sir, but I've lost her all the same; She left me voluntarily, and neither was to blame. It's rather a queer story, and I think you will agree When you hear the circumstances-'twas rather rough on me. She was a soldier's widow. He was killed at Malvern Hill; The change of scene brought cheerfulness, and soon a rosy glow Three years ago the baby came our humble home to bless ; 'Twas hers-'twas mine-; but I've no language to explain to you, How that little girl's weak fingers our hearts together drew! Once we watched it through a fever, and with each gasping breath, Dumb with an awful, worldless woe, we waited for its death; And, though I'm not a pious man, our souls together there, For Heaven to spare our darling, went up in voiceless prayer. And when the doctor said 'twould live, our joy what words could tell? Clasped in each other's arms, our grateful tears together fell. Sometimes, you see, the shadow fell across our little nest, But it only made the sunshine seem a doubly welcome guest. Work came to me a plenty, and I kept the anvil ringing; Early and late you'd find me there a hammering and singing; Love nerved my arm to labor, and moved my tongue to song, And though my singing wasn't sweet, it was tremendous strong! One day a one-armed stranger stopped to have me nail a shoe, ́ ́That's me,” said he. "You, you!" I gasped, choking with horrid doubt; "If you're the man, just follow me; we'll try this mystery out!" With dizzy steps, I led him to Mary. God! 'Twas true! Frozen with deadly horror, she stared with eyes of stone, moan. 'Twas he! the husband of her youth, now risen from the dead, But all too late-and with bitter cry, her senses fled. What could be done? He was reported dead. On his return It was agreed that Mary then between us shoula decide, No sinner, at the judgment-scat, waiting eternal doom, Rigid and breathless, there we stood, with nerves as tense as steel, While Mary's eyes sought each white face, in piteous appeal. God! could not woman's duty be less hardly reconciled Between her lawful husband and the father of her child? Ah, how my heart was chilled to ice, when she knelt down and said: "Forgive me, Johu! He is my husband! Here! Alive! not dead! I raised her tenderly, and tried to tell her she was right, But somehow, in my aching breast, the prisoned words stuck tight! "But, John, I can't leave baby"-"What! wife and child!" cried I; "Must I yield all! Ah, cruel fate! Better that I should die. Think of the long, sad, lonely hours, waiting in gloom for me— No wife to cheer me with her love-no babe to Climb my knee! "And yet you are her mother, and the sacred mother love Is still the purest, tenderest tie that Heaven ever wove. Take her, but promise, Mary-for that will bring no shame"My little girl shall bear, and learn to lisp her father's name !" It may be, in the life to come, I'll meet my child and wife; One long embrace from baby, and my happiness was gone! THE SONG OF THE DYING.-CAPTAIN DOWLING. A NUMBER of British officers were stationed at an outpost in India during the prevalence of a pestilence. Many of their companious had fallen victims; all the chances of escape were cut off, and death stared them in the face. Under these circumstances, and meeting together probably for the last time, the following lines, which were written by one of their number, was sung. The author was the first to fall a victim to the grim destroyer. WE meet 'neath the sounding rafter, But stand to your glasses steady, Not here are the goblets flowing, Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, So stand to your glasses steady, Time was when we frowned at others, Ha ha! let those think of their mothers, Who hope to see them again. No! stand to your glasses steady, The thoughtless are here the wise; There's many a hand that's shaking, But soon, though our hearts are breaking, LE So stand to your glasses steady, A cup to the dead already- There's a mist on the glass congealing, Who dreads to the dust returning? Cut off from the land that bore us, Where the brightest have gone before us, And the dullest remain behind Stand, stand to your glasses steady! 'Tis all we have left to prize; A cup to the dead already And hurrah for the next that dies! AFFECTATION IN THE PULPIT.-WILLIAM COWPF3 IN man or woman,-but far most in man, What!--will a man play tricks,-will he indulge |