MELTING MOMENTS.

One winter evening, a country storekeeper in the Green Mountain State was about closing his doors for the night, when, while standing in the snow outside, putting up his window-shutters, he saw through the glass a lounging, worthless fellow within take half a pound of fresh butter from the shelf, and hastily conceal it in his hat.

The act was no sooner detected than the revenge was hit upon, and a very few moments found the Green Mountain storekeeper at once indulging his appetite for fun to the fullest extent, and paying off the thief with a facetious sort of torture, for which he might have gained a premium from the old Inquisition.

"Stay, Seth!" said the storekeeper, coming in, and closing the door after him, slapping his hands over his shoulders, and stamping the snow off his shoes.

Seth had his hand on the door, and his hat upon his head, and the roll of butter in his hat, anxious to make his exit as soon as possible.

"Seth, we'll have a little warm Santa Cruz," said the Green Mountain grocer, as he opened the stove door, and stuffed in as many sticks as the space would admit. Without it, you'd freeze going home such a night as this."

Seth felt very uncertain; he had the butter, and was exceedingly anxious to be off, but the temptation of something warm" sadly interfered with his resolution to go. This hesitation, however, was soon settled by the right owner of the butter taking Seth by the shoulders and planting him in a seat close to the stove, where he was in such a manner cornered in by barrels and boxes that, while the country grocer sat before him, there was no possibility of his getting out; and right in this very place, sure enough, the storekeeper sat down.

Seth already felt the butter settling down closer to his hair, and declared he must go.

"Not till you have something warm, Seth.

a story to tell you, Seth; sit down now."

Come, I've got
And Seth was

again pushed into his seat by his cunning tormentor.

"Oh, it's too hot here!" said the petty thief, again attempting to rise.

“I say, Seth, sit down; I reckon now, on such a night as this, a little something warm wouldn't hurt a fellow; come, sit down."

"Sit down, don't be in such a plaguy hurry," repeated the grocer, pushing him back into his chair.

"But I've got the cows to fodder, and some wood to split, and I must be a goin'," continued the persecuted chap.

"But you mustn't tear yourself away, Seth,in this manner. Sit down; let the cows take care of themselves, and keep yourself cool; you appear to be fidgety," said the grocer, with a wicked leer.

The next thing was the production of two smoking glasses of hot rum toddy, the very sight of which in Seth's present situation would have made the hair stand erect upon his head, had it not been oiled and kept down by the butter.

"Seth, I'll give you a toast now, and you can butter it yourself," said the grocer, yet with an air of such consummate simplicity, that poor Seth still believed himself unsuspected. "Seth, here's-here's a Christmas goose, well roasted and basted, eh? I tell you, Seth, it's the greatest eating in creation. And, Seth, don't you use hog's fat or common cooking butter to baste a goose with.

mean, Seth, take your toddy."

Come, take your butter - I

Poor Seth now began to smoke as well as to melt, and his mouth was as hermetically sealed up as though he had been born dumb. Streak after streak of the butter came pouring from under his hat, and his handkerchief was already soaked with the greasy overflow. Talking away as if nothing was the matter, the grocer kept stuffing the wood in the stove, while poor Seth sat bolt upright with his back against the counter, and his knees almost touching the red-hot furnace before him.

"Very cold night this," said the grocer. "Why, Seth, you seem to perspire as if you were warm! Why don't you take your hat off? Here, let me put your hat away."

"No!" exclaimed poor Seth at last, with a spasmodic effort to get his tongue loose, and clapping both hands upon his hat,—“ no !—I must go-let me out—I ain't well—let me go!”

ZZ

A greasy cataract was now pouring down the poor fellow's face and neck, and soaking into his clothes, and trickling down his body into his very boots, so that he was literally in a perfect bath of oil.

Well, good night, Seth," said the humorous Vermonter, "if you will go"; adding, as Seth got out into the road, "Neighbor, I reckon the fun I've had out of you is worth sixpence; so I sha'n't charge you for that half-pound of butter."

THE CLOWN'S STORY.-VANDYKe Browne.

Yes-that's my business, sir-a cloun,
The saw-dust ring is life to me,

And spinning that old white hat by the crown
Is a sort of second nature, you see.

For thirty years I've been in the ring-
Thirty years and I'll be bound;
This flight of time is a curious thing,
And here, another season's 'round!

No, nothing to do. Be seated, sir ;
I'm fond of an hour's quiet chat;
And what with show-life's bustle and stir,
It isn't a thing to be wondered at.

We've been on the road four months to-day,
The road, with its varied pleasure and strife;
And-beg your pardon, sir, what did you say?—
How do I like my calling in life?

Well, 'tisn't the easiest thing in the world-
At least I haven't found it to be;

A man is tossed about, and hurled'
Here and there, like a bottle at sea.

But a fellow must live somehow, you know,
And pick up his bread as best he can;
And how could I do outside the show?
I think it would prove a difficult plan.

Then, too, in spite of the hardship and strife,
Of which, no doubt, it has its share,
There's a certain charm about the life
That steals upon me unaware.

Why, sir, as soon as the winter's past,

And I feel the warmer breath of spring,My pulses, even now, beat fast,

To scent again the air of the ring!

The canvas, sir, is the only place

In which I feel at home, you see;

And a brown stone front, with Brussels and lace,
Would be as bad as the Tombs for me!

Singular, isn't it? Yet I suppose

Whatever the life a man has led,

He learns to like it-the more when he knows
That by it he gets his butter and bread.

Always a clown? Well, no sir, no,
I've done a little in every line-
Was principal rider, years ago,

But fell one night and injured my spine.

Performed on the bar for a season or more,
And tumbled a while-till I hurt my hip;
That left me always a little sore-

I could clear twelve horses once, like a whip!

And then, for a time, I did the trapeze

With Tom-the show bills called us "brothers,"

And 'twasn't, by Jove, much out of the way,

Though we did have different fathers and mothers!

I wish that some of these pious chaps,

Who'd think it a sin to shake hands with me,
Could have known poor Tom, and then, perhaps,
They'd have, in the future, more charity.

It happened that we were south that year,-
The fever was raging bad, they said:
And yet I had no thought of fear,
Until I saw Tom lying dead!

He seemed too young, too strong and brave,
To be thus early stricken down;
But strength don't count against the grave;
So poor Tom went, and I turned clown.

That's more than twenty years ago;
And since that sad time-let me see-
I've stuck with patience to the show,
And done what seemed the best to me.

I married, after poor Tom died,
As good a girl, as kind and true,
As ever pledged herself a bride,-

I count that more than looks, don't you?

But she was beautiful as well,

With such rich, glorious, golden hair,
And eyes that held you like a spell,-
Such eyes!-like that blue heaven there!

Well, we were wed, and for a time

Our lives seemed one long summer day"As merry as a marriage chime,"

I think that's what the stories say.

But ah, how soon it ended, sir!

The road and canvas--life to me-
Proved all too rough and hard for her,
She drooped beneath the weight, you see.

I watched her, heavy-hearted, fail;
I tried to think she would not die;
I saw her rounded cheek grow pale,-
The lustre fade from out her eye;

And then I knew all hope was past;

The days dragged by, with snail-like pace,

Such days of anguish-till, at last,

Death clasped her in his cold embrace.

Since then the years have come and gone;
I've scarcely marked them as they fled;

For from the day on which she died,

It seemed as though time, too, were dead.

My griefs, sometimes, have crushed me down,
But the world, of course, knows nothing of that;
Who'd think of sorrow in a clown?

My business is to spin that hat!

I don't complain. The life I've led
Has had its dark and sunny page;
Twas Shakspeare, wasn't it? who said
That "all the world is but a stage."