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And a voice cried out with a hasty breath,
"Your best cow, neighbor, is choking to death.”
Clipping off the end of a rousing snore,
Farmer B. bounded out on the bedroom floor;—
And the midnight voice was heard no more;-
He pulled on his pants, he knew not how,
For his thoughts were on his choking cow;
He flew to the yard like a frightened deer,
For his stingy soul was filled with fear;
Looking around by his lantern's light,
He found that the cows were there all right.
"I will give a dime," cried farmer B.,
"To know who played this trick on me;
May the hand be stiff and the knuckles sore
That knocked to-night on my farm-house door.
With a scowl on his face and a shaking head,
Farmer B. again sought his nice, warm bed ;
No good thoughts came, they were all o'erpowered:
The little good-nature he had had soured.

When he went to water his milk next day,
The midnight voice seemed again to say,
As he pumped away with a panting breath:
"Your best cow, neighbor, is choking to death.”
The meaning of this he soon found out,

For a stone was driven in the old pump's spout.

Old farmer B., when he drives to town,

Now meets the neighbors with a savage frown;
They smile, and ask, as they kindly bow:
"How getteth along the best cow, now?"

HUMBLE AND UNNOTICED VIRTUE.-HANNAH MORE

O my son!

The ostentatious virtues which still press

For notice and for praise; the brilliant deeds
Which live but in the eye of observation-

These have their meed at once; but there's a joy
To the fond votaries of fame unknown,—

To hear the still small voice of conscience speak
In whispering plaudit to the silent soul.
Heaven notes the sigh afflicted goodness heaves,
Hears the low plaint by human ear unheard,
And from the cheek of patient sorrow wipes
The tear, by mortal eye unseen, or scorned.

THE WELCOME.-THOMAS Davis.

Come in the evening or come in the morning,
Come when you're looked for, or come without warning,
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you.
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted,
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers, don't sever!"
I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them;
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom.
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you;
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you.
Oh! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer,
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor;
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me,
Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me.
We'll look through the trees at the cliff, and the eyrie,
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy,
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river,
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her.
Oh! she'll whisper you, "Love as unchangeably beaming,
And trust, when in secret most tunefully streaming,
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver,
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river."

So come in the evening or come in the morning,
Come when you're looked for, or come without warning,
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you!
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted,
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers, don't sever!”

REPLY TO "THE WELCOME."-W. F. Fox.

I'll come in the evening, I'll come in the morning;
I'll come unannounced, I'll come after warning:
I'll come, since my coming in haste or at leisure
But brings to the one that I love a new pleasure.

Oh! warm is the heart that is waiting to fold thee,
For true is the love I so often have told thee;
And bright as the dawn, all radiant with glory,
The beam of thy smile in the flush of its story.

Though the storm-clouds of life may gather and blacken,
Though friendships be scattered, and vows be forsaken,
I know that around thee there ever will hover
The sunshine of love, like the dream of a lover.
For true as the needle that points to its pole,
Is the dial of love when a soul turns to soul;
And strong as the current, with its ebb and its flow,
Is the tide of the heart when as pure as the snow.

There is nothing this world can offer of pleasance
But heightens and brightens with joy at thy presence;
There is nothing this heart of mine longs to possess
Like thy smile of affection with affection's caress.

The moments of time-oh, how tedious their fleeting
When out of thy presence and out of thy greeting;
Delaying the welcome that gladdens to fold me
While heart presses heart as again I behold thee.

Now the voice of thy greeting in fancy I hear—
Like soft "music at nightfall" it melts on the ear;
And the kiss of thy welcome seems sweeter by far
Than the breath of the rose caught by morning's pale star.
Oh! sad is my heart since the day when we parted,
And fresh as the dewdrop the tear that has started,
For true is the love and the faith we have plighted;
The rosebud of life, may it never be blighted!

Then hasten the hour when again I shall meet thee!
Thy kisses of welcome so fondly shall greet me;
And we'll tell of our love so fresh in its glory,
Nor ever grow weary of telling our story.

I'll come with sweet flowers from the vale and the mountain;
Thou'lt bathe them with kisses like dew from the fountain;
The breath of their fragrance, with sweetness surrounding.
Like the odors of morn when spring's smiles are abounding.

Thou'lt sing me the songs thou hast sung me so often,
And play me the airs that can charm while they soften,
And we'll live and we'll love till our locks are grown gray,
And our life shall go down like the twilight of day.

I'll come to thee darling, at eve and at morning;
I'll come to thee, loved one, nor give thee a warning,

I'll come to the heart that will beat with devotion
Till life sinks to rest in eternity's ocean.

FATHER PHIL'S COLLECTION.-SAMUEL LOVER.

Father Blake was more familiarly known by the name of Father Phil. By either title, or in whatever capacity, the worthy Father had great influence over his parish, and there was a free-and-easy way with him, even in doing the most solemn duties, which agreed wonderfully with the devil-maycare spirit of Paddy. Stiff and starched formality in any way is repugnant to the very nature of Irishmen. There are forms, it is true, and many in the Romish church, but they are not cold forms, but attractive rather, to a sensitive people; besides, I believe those very forms, when observed the least formally, are the most influential on the Irish.

With all his intrinsic worth, Father Phil was, at the same time, a strange man in exterior manners; for with an abundance of real piety, he had an abruptness of delivery, and a strange way of mixing up an occasional remark to his congregation in the midst of the celebration of the mass, which might well startle a stranger: but this very want of formality made him beloved by the people, and they would do ten times as much for Father Phil as for the severe Father Dominick.

On the Sunday in question Father Phil intended delivering an address to his flock from the altar, urging them to the necessity of bestirring themselves in the repairs of the chapel, which was in a very dilapidated condition, and at one end let in the rain through its worn-out thatch. A subscription was necessary; and to raise this among a very impoverished people was no easy matter. The weather happened to be unfavorable, which was most favorable to Father Phil's purpose, for the rain dropped its arguments through the roof upon the kneeling people below, in the most convincing manner; and as they endeavored to get out of the wet, they pressed round the altar as much as they could, for which they were reproved very smartly by his Reverence in the very midst of the mass. These interruptions occurred sometimes in the most serious places, producing a ludicrous effect, of which the worthy Father was quite unconscious, in his great anxiety to make the people repair the chapel.

A big woman was elbowing her way towards the rails of the altar and Father Phil, casting a sidelong glance at her, sent her to the right-about, while he interrupted his appeal to Heaven to address her thus:

"Agnus Dei You'd betther jump over the rails of the althar, I think. Go along out o' that, there's plenty o' room in the chapel below there-"

Then he would turn to the altar, and proceed with the serace, till, turning again to the congregation, he perceived some fresh offender.

"Orate, fratres!- Will you mind what I say to you, and go along out o' that, there's room below there. Thrue for you, Mrs. Finn,-it's a shame for him to be thramplin' on you. Go along, Darby Casy, down there and kneel in the rain,-it's a pity you haven't a decent woman's cloak under you, indeed!-Orate, fratres!"

Then would the service proceed again, till the shuffling of feet edging out of the rain would disturb him, and casting a back ward glance, he would say,

"I hear you there,--can't you be quiet, and not be disturbin' my mass, you haythens?"

Again he proceeded, till the crying of a child interrupted him. He looked around quickly

"You'd betther kill the child, I think, thramplin' on him, Lavery. Go out o' that,--your conduct is scandalous-Dominus vobiscum!"

Again he turned to pray, and after some time he made an interval in the service to address his congregation on the subject of the repairs, and produced a paper containing the names of subscribers to that pious work who had already contributed, by way of example to those who had not.

"Here it is," said Father Phil,--here it is, and no denying it,-down in black and white; but if they who give are down in black, how much blacker are those who have not given at all! But I hope they will be ashamed of themselves when I howld up those to honor who have contributed to the uphowlding of the house of God. And isn't it ashamed o' yourselves you ought to be, to lave His house in such a condition? and doesn't it rain a'most every Sunday, as if He wished to remind you of your duty?-aren't you wet to the skin a'most every Sunday! Oh, God is good to you! to put you in mind of your duty, giving you such bitther cowlds that you are coughing and sneezin' every Sunday to that degree that you can't hear the blessed mass for a comfort and a benefit to you; and so you'll go on sneezin' until you put a good thatch on the place, and prevent the appearance of the evidence from Heaven against you every Sunday, which is condemning you before your faces, and behind your backs too, for don't I see this minute a strame o' wather that might turn a mill running down Micky Mackavoy's back, between the collar of his coat and his shirt?"

Here a laugh ensued at the expense of Micky Mackavoy, who certainly was under a very heavy drip from the imperfect roof.

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And is it laughin' you are, you haythens?" said Father Phil, reproving the merriment which he himself had purposely created, that he might reprove it. "Laughin' is it you are, at your backslidings and insensibility to the honor of God, laughin' because when you come here to be saved, you

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