I meet his boy in the park sometimes, And my heart runs over toward the child; A frank little fellow with fearless eyes, He smiles at me as his father smiled I hate the man, but I love the boy, For I think what my own, had he lived, would be Perhaps it is he come back from the dead To his father, alas, not me! But I stand too long in the shadow here, And, bitterer still, my own disdain! I take my place in the crowded street, You may cheat them, meu, as much as you please: I know ye! under your honeyed words There lurks a serpent; your oaths are lies; Cling to them ladies, and shrink from me, Or rail at my boldness. Well, have you dons? But go your ways, and I'll go mine, Call me opprobious names if you will; The truth is bitter-think I have lied"A harlot ?" Yes, but a woman still. God said of old to a woman like me, "Go, sin no more;" or your Bibles lieBut you, you mangle his merciful words To" Go and sin till you die !" Die-the word has a pleasant sound, The sweetest I've heard this many a year; Suppose I throw myself in the street? But look-the river! From where I stand Down on the dark and lonely pier It is but a step-I can end my woe! A plunge, a splash, and all will be o'er, The death-black waters will drag me down; LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR. A GOOD wife rose from her bed one morn, Of the piles of clothes to be washed, and more There's the meals to get for the men in the field, To school, and the milk to be skimmed and churned; It had rained in the night, and all the wood There were puddings and pies to bake, besides And the day was hot, and her aching head Throbbed wearily as she said, "If maidens but knew what good wives know, They would not be in haste to wed!" "Jennie, what do you think I told Ben Brown?" Called the farmer from the well; And a flush crept up to his bronzed brow, And his eyes half bashfully fell; "It was this," he said, and coming near He smiled, and stooping down, Kissed her cheek-"'twas this, that you were the be And the dearest wife in town!'' The farmer went back to the field, and the wife In a smiling, absent way Sang snatches of tender little songs She'd not sung for many a day. And the pain in her head was gone, and the clothes Were white as the foam of the sea; Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet, And as golden as it could be. "Just think," the children all called in a breath, "Tom Wood has run off to sea! He wouldn't, I know, if he'd only had As happy a home as we." The night came down, and the good wife smiled To herself, as she softly said: "Tis so sweet to labor for those we love, It's not strange that maids will iced!”— IS IT ANYBODY'S BUSINESS? Is it anybody's business, If a gentleman should choose To wait upon a lady, If the lady don't refuse? Or, to speak a little plainer, That the meaning all may know, Is it anybody's business If a lady has a beau? Is it anybody's business When that gentleman doth call, Or when he leaves the lady, Or if he leaves at all? Or is it necessary That the curtain should be drawn, To save from further trouble The outside lookers-on ? Is it anybody's business, Where he doesn't chance to be? If a person's on the side-walk, Whether great or whether small, Is it anybody's business Where that person means to call? Or if you see a person While he's calling any where, Is it any of your business What his business may be there? The substance of our query, Simply stated, would be this: Is it any body's business What another's business is? We should really like to know, THE WOUNDED SOLDIER. STEADY, boys, steady! Keep your arms ready, God only knows whom we may meet here. I'd rather awaken To-morrow, in-no matter where, Than lie in that foul prison-hole-over there. The rocks may have life; By heaven! the foeman may track me in blood, Well! well! I am rough, 'tis a very rough school, When they came down the hill over sloughing and sand? Our men sprang upon them determined to die God help the poor wretches who fell in the fight; Huzza! Great heaven! this bullet-hole gapes like a grave; A curse on the aim of the traitorous knave! Is there never a one of you knows how to pray, Pray! Pray! Our Father! our Father! why don't you proceed? Ebbing away! Ebbing away! The light of the day is turning to gray. Our Father in Heaven-boys, tell me the rest, While I stanch the hot blood from this hole in my breast. I'll follow your words and say an amen. Here, Morris, old fellow, get hold of my hand, And, Wilson, my comrade-oh! wasn't it grand When they came down the hill like a thunder-charged cloud, "Christ-God, who died for sinners all, Unheeded by thy gracious eye; Throw wide thy gates to let him in, And take him pleading to thine arms; And quiet all his fierce alarms." God bless you, my comrade, for singing that hymn, CHAR-CO-O-AL. THE chimney soot was falling fast, Char-co-o-al! His face was grim, his nose upturned, Char-co-o-al! In muddy streets he did desery The "moire antiques" held high and dry, And from his lips escaped a yell!- Char-co-o-al! |