Preferred to all polonies, saveloys,
And other foreign toys-
The mere chance passengers
Who saw his " sassengers,"
Of sweetness undeniable,

So sleek, so mottled, and so “friable,”
Stepped in, forgetting every other thought,
And bought.

Meanwhile a constant thumping
Was heard, a sort of subterranean chumping-
Incessant was the noise!

But though he had a foreman and assistant,
With all the tools consistent,
(Besides a wife and two fine chopping boys)
His means were not yet vast enough
For chopping fast enough

To meet the call from streets, and lanes, and passages,
For first-chop" sassages."

However Mr. Brain

Was none of those dull men and slow,
Who, flying bird-like by a railway train,
Sigh for the heavy mails of long ago;
He did not set his face 'gainst innovations
For rapid operations,

And, therefore, in a kind of waking dream
Listened to some hot-water sprite that hinted
To have his meat chopped, as the Times was printed,
By steam!

Accordingly, in happy hour,

A bran new engine went to work

Chopping up pounds on pounds of pork With all the energy of two-horse-power,

And wonderful celerity

When lo! when everything to hope responded,
Whether his head was turned by his prosperity,
Whether he had some sly intrigue, in verity,
The man absconded!

His anxious wife in vain
Placarded Leather Lane,

And all the suburbs with descriptive bills,
Such as are issued when from homes and tills,
Clerks, dogs, cats, lunatics, and children roam;
Besides advertisements in all the journals,
Or weeklies or diurnals,
Beginning" LEFT HIS HOME❞—

The sausage-maker, spite of white and black,
Never came back.

Never, alive!-But on the seventh night,

Just when the yawning grave its dead releases,
Filling his bedded wife with sore affright
In walked his grisly sprite,

In fifty thousand pieces!

"O Mary!" so it seemed

In hollow melancholy tone to say,

Whilst through its airy shape the moonlight gleamed
With scarcely dimmer ray,-

"O Mary! let your hopes no longer flatter,
Prepare at once to drink of sorrow's cup-
It ain't no use to mince the matter-
The engine's chopped me up!"

THE FORECLOSURE OF THE MORTGAGE.

MRS. E. T. CORBETT.

Walk right in the settin'-room, Deacon; it's all in a muddle, you see,

But I hadn't no heart to right it, so I've jest let everything be. Besides, I'm a-goin' to-morrer--I calk'late to start with the dawn

And the house won't seem so home-like if it's all upsot and

forlorn.

I sent off the children this mornin': they both on 'em
begged to stay,

But I thought 'twould be easier, mebbe, if I was alone to-day.
For this was the very day, Deacon, jest twenty year ago,
That Caleb and me moved in; so I couldn't forgit it, you
know.

We was so busy and happy!-we'd ben married a month
before-

And Caleb would clear the table and brush up the kitchen

floor.

He said I was tired, and he'd help me; but, law! that was
always his way-

Always handy and helpful, and kind, to the very last day.
Don't you remember, Deacon, that winter I broke my arm?
Why, Caleb skursely left me, not even to 'tend to the farm.
There night and mornin' I saw him, a-settin' so close to my
bed,

And I knew him in spite of the fever that made me so wild
in my head.

He never did nothin' to grieve me, until he left me behind-
Yes, I know, there's no use in talkin', but somehow it eases
my mind.

And he sot such store by you, Deacon, I needn't tell you now,
But unless he had your jedgment, he never would buy a cow.

Well, our cows is gone, and the horse, too-poor Caleb was

fond of Jack,

And I cried like a fool this mornin' when I looked at the empty rack.

I hope he'll be kindly treated: 'twould worry poor Caleb so If them Joneses should whip the cretur-but I s'pose he ain't like to know.

I've ben thinkin' it over lately, that when Mary sickened and died,

Her father's sperrit was broken, for she was allus his pride. He wasn't never so cheery; he'd smile, but the smile wa'n't bright,

And he didn't care for the cattle, though once they'd ben his delight.

The neighbors all said he was ailin', and they tried to hint it to me;

They talked of a church-yard cough; but, oh! the blind are those who won't see.

I never believed he was goin' till I saw him a-layin' here dead,

There, there! don't be anxious, Deacon; I haven't no tears to shed.

I've tried to keep things together-I've ben slavin' early and late

But I couldn't pay the int'rest, nor git the farm-work straight.

So of course I've gone behindhand, and if the farm should sell For enough to pay the mortgage, I s'pose 'twill be doin' well. I've prayed ag'inst all hard feelin's, and to walk as a Christian ought,

But it's hard to see Caleb's children turned out of the place he bought;

And readin' that text in the Bible, 'bout widows and orphans, you know,

I can't think the folks will prosper who are willin' to see us go.

But there! I'm a-keepin' you, Deacon, and it's nigh your time for tea.

"Won't I come over?" No, thank you; I feel better alone, you see.

Besides, I couldn't eat nothin'; whenever I've tried it to-day There's somethin' here that chokes me. I'm narvous, I

s'pose you'll say.

"I've worked too hard?" No, I haven't. Why, it's work that keeps me strong;

If I sot here thinkin', I'm sartain my heart would break before long.

Not that I care about livin'. I'd ruther be laid away

In the place I've marked beside Caleb, to rest till the jedg

ment day.

But there's the children to think of-that makes my dooty clear,

And I'll try to foller it, Deacon, though I'm tired of this earthly speer.

Good-by, then, I shan't forgit you, nor all the kindness you've showed;

"Twill help to cheer me to-morrer, as I go on my lonely road, For- What are you sayin', Deacon? I needn't-I need'nt go? You've bought the mortgage, and I can stay? Stop! say it over slow.

Jest wait now--jest wait a minute-I'll take it in bime-by That I can stay. Why, Deacon, I don't know what makes

me cry!

I haven't no words to thank you. Ef Caleb was only here, He'd sech a head for speakin', he'd make my feelin's clear. There's a picter in our old Bible of an angel from the skies,

And though he hasn't no great-coat, and no spectacles on his eyes,

He looks jest like you, Deacon, with your smile so good and trew,

And whenever I see that picter, 'twill make me think of

you.

The children will be so happy! Why, Debby will most go

wild;

She fretted so much at leavin' her garding behind, poor child!

And, law! I'm as glad as Debby, ef only for jest one thingNow I can tend the posies I planted there last spring

On Caleb's grave: he loved the flowers, and it seems as ef he'll know

They're a-bloomin' all around him while he's sleepin' there below.

LAUGHTER.

Laughter! 'tis the poor man's plaster,
Covering up each sad disasten

Laughing, he forgets his troubles,

Which, though real, seem but bubbles.

Laughter! 'tis a seal of nature

Stamped upon the human creature.
Laughter, whether loud or mute,
Tells the human kind from brute.
Laughter! 'tis Hope's living voice
Bidding us to make our choice,
And to cull from thorny bowers,
Leaving thorns and taking flowers.

IN THE STREET OF BY-AND-BY.-MRS. ABDY. "By the street of 'By-and-By' one arrives at the house of 'Never.""

OLD SAYING.

Oh! shun the spot, my youthful friends, I urge you to beware; Beguiling is the pleasant way, and softly breathes the air; Yet none have ever passed to scenes ennobling, great and high,

Who once began to linger in the street of By-and-by.

How varied are the images arising to my sight

Of those who wished to shun the wrong, who loved and prized the right,

Yet from the silken bonds of sloth, they vainly strove to fly, Which held them gently prisoned in the street of By-and-by.

A youth aspired to climb the height of Learning's lofty hill; What dimmed his bright intelligence--what quelled his earnest will?

Why did the object of his quest still mock his wistful eye? Too long, alas! he tarried in the street of By-and-by.

"My projects thrive," the merchant said; "when doubled is my store,

How freely shall my ready gold be showered among the poor!"

Vast grew his wealth, yet strove he not the mourner's tear to dry;

He never journeyed onward from the street of By-and-by.

"Forgive thy erring brother, he hath wept and suffered long,"

I said to one, who answered--“He hath done me grievous wrong;

Yet will I seek my brother, and forgive him, ere I die ;--"
Alas! Death shortly found him in the street of By-and-by!

The wearied worldling muses upon lost and wasted days,
Resolved to turn hereafter from the error of his ways,
To lift his groveling thoughts from earth, and fix them on
the sky:

Why does he linger fondly in the street of By-and-by?

Then shun the spot, my youthful friends; work on, while yet you may;

Let not old age o'ertake you as you slothfully delay,
Lest you should gaze around you, and discover with a sigh,
You have reached the house of "Never" by the street of
By-and-by.