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The license bought, he marries her in haste,
Brings home his bride, and gives his friends a guy day; All his relations, wondering at his taste,
Vowed he had better had the Pig-faced Lady! Struck with this monstrous lump of womankind, The thought of money never crossed their mind. The dinner o'er, the ladies and the bride
Retired, and wine and chat went round jocosely;
And questioned him about the matter closely:
To wed a lump of odd-come shorts and bits,
That Madame Nature, in her merry fits, Had jumbled into something like a face! With skin as black as if she charcoal fed on, Crooked and crusty, like an outside loaf; A remnant of an ourang-outang faceEve's grandmother, with the serpent's head on! What spell could into such a hobble throw you?” “Just step upstairs,” says Peter,“ and I'll show you." Upstairs they went: "There, there's her picture! say, Is it not like her, sir?-Your judgment, pray.” “Like her, Sir Peter!-take it not uncivil'Tis like her-and as ugly as the devil; With just her squinting leer; but, hang it! what A very handsome frame it's got, So richly gilt, and so superbly wrought!” “You're right,” says Peter, “'twas the frame that caught: I grant my wife is ugly, squabby, old, But still she pleases-being set in gold; Let others for the picture feel a flame, I, my good brother, married for the frame.”
BEN FISHER.-FRANCES DANA GAGE,
Ben Fisher had finished his harvesting,
And he stood by his garden gate,
There were stains of toil on his wamus red,
The dust of the field on his hat;
As he looked at his stock so fat.
“Here, give me the babe, dear Kate, you are tired,
And I fear you have too much care;
Before we can go to the fair.
Fat hogs, fat sheep, and fat cows,
And care-wrinkles seaming her brows. "Can't go'! Why not? 'Can't afford the expense'!
I know, Kate, our crops aren't the best;
And together we'll now take a rest.
And 'Jinny' and 'Fan'are a show;
So up to the fair we will go.
“You've ne'er seen a city, and Cleveland is fine,–
Never seen the blue, billowy lake;
So, Kate, this short journey we'll take;
If we find those that suit, as we roam;
For the loves and the duties of home.
“I sometimes have thought, as I plodded along,
For months, o'er the same weary round, That another who had such a real hard time,
In Ohio could nowhere be found.
And seen how the world gets along,
And, “There's no place like home,' for my song. “Iwonder that mothers don't wholly despair,
Who ne'er from their cares get away,
Scarce stopping to rest, night or day.
Their feelings get raspy and cold;
Make women-and men sometimes-scold."
Kate looked up with a smile, and said, "Ben, we will go;
There may be stock fatter than ours,
Better butter and cheese, fruit and flowers;
In the whole Yankee nation to-day-
That's my 'gude man!'”—and Kate ran away.
THE THREE BELLS.-John G. WHITTIER.
This poem refers to the well-known rescue of the crew of an American res. bel, sinking in mid-ocean, by Capts in Leightou, of the English ship Three Bells. Unable to take them off, in tho night and the storm, he stayed by them until morning, shouting to them from time to timo through his trumpet, “Never fear, hold on, I'll stand by you."
Beneath the low-hung night cloud
That raked her splintering mast,
The cruel leak gained fast.
Her signal guns pealed out;
From the horror round about?
“ Ho! ship ahoy!” its cry:
Shall stand till daylight by!”
Yet on the heaving swells
And ship to ship made signals;
Man answered back to man;
The Three Bells nearer ran.
And the captain from her taffrail
Sent down his hopeful cry:
All night across the waters
The tossing lights shone clear;
The Three Bells sent her cheer.
And when the dreary watches
Of storm and darkness passed,
All souls were saved at last.
Sail on, Three Bells, forever,
In grateful memory sail!
Above the wave and gale!
I hear the Master's cry,
A FOREST HYMN.-W. C. BRYANT.
The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned
For his simple heart
Here, in the shadow of this ancient wood,
Father, thy hand
These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride Report not. No fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here—thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summit of these trees In music; thou art in the cooler breath That from the inmost darkness of the place Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship; nature, here, In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence.
This mighty oak,