The lady's cheek grew pale with ire, Took aim, then dropped it, sore distressed. "I might have slain my babe instead. Come, Evan, come," the father said, And through his heart a tremor ran; "We'll fight our quarrel man to man." "Wrong unavenged I've never borne," Said Evan, speaking loud in scorn; "You've heard my answer, proud Maclaine: I will not fight you,—think again.” The lady stood in mute despair, With freezing blood and stiffening hair; He saw the quivering of her eye, But Evan's face beamed hate and joy; They found their bodies in the tide; Was that sad mother known to smile- They dragged false Evan from the sea, MR. BLIFKIN'S FIRST BABY. That first baby was a great institution. As soon as he came into this "breathing world," as the late W. Shakespeare has it, he took command in our house. Everything was subservient to him. He regulated the temperature, he regulated the servants, he regulated me. For the first six months of that precious baby's existence he had me up, on an average, six times a night. "Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, "bring a light, do; the baby looks strangely; I'm afraid it will have a fit.” Of course the lamp was brought, and of course the baby lay sucking his fist, like a little white bear as he was. "Mr. Blifkins," says my wife, "I think I feel a draft of air; I wish you would get up and see if the window is not open a little, because baby might get sick." Nothing was the matter with the window, as I knew very well. 'Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, just as I was going to sleep again," that lamp, as you have placed it, shines directly in baby's eyes-strange that you have no more consideration." I arranged the light and went to bed again. Just as I was dropping to sleep "Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, "did you think to buy that broma, to-day, for the baby?" My dear," said I, will you do me the injustice to believe that I could overlook a matter so essential to the comfort of that inestimable child?" She apologized very handsomely, but made her anxiety the scapegoat. I forgave her, and without saying a word to her I addressed myself to sleep. "Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, shaking me, "you must not snore so you will wake the baby." " Jest so-jest so," said I, half asleep, thinking I was Solon Shingle. "Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, will you get up and hand me that warm gruel from the nurse-lamp for baby?-the dear child! if it wasn't for his mother I don't know what he would do. How can you sleep so, Mr. Blifkins?" "I suspect my dear," said I, " that it is because I'm tired." "Oh, it's very well for you men to talk about being tired," said my wife, "I don't know what you would say if you had to toil and drudge like a poor woman with a baby." I tried to soothe her by telling her she had no patience and got up for the posset. Having aided in answering to the baby's requirements, I stepped into bed again, with the hope of sleeping. 66 Oh, dear!" said that inestimable woman, in great apparent anguish, "how can a man, who has arrived at the honor of a live baby of his own, sleep when he don't know that the dear creature will live till morning?" I remained silent, and after awhile, deeming that Mrs. Blifkins had gone to sleep, I stretched my limbs for repose. How long I slept I don't know, but I was awakened by a furious jab in the forehead from some sharp instrument. I started up, and Mrs. Blifkins was sitting up in bed, adjust ing some portions of the baby's dress. She had, in a state of semi-somnolence, mistaken my head for the pillow, which she customarily used for a nocturnal pincushion. I protested against such treatment in somewhat round terms, pointing to several perforations in my forehead. She told me I should willingly bear such trifling ills for the sake of the baby. I insisted upon it that I didn't think my duty as a parent to the immortal required the surrender of my forehead as a pincushion. This was one of the many nights passed in this way. The truth was that baby was what every man's first baby is—an autocrat, absolute and unlimited. Such was the story of Blifkins, as he related it to us the other day. It is a little exaggerated picture of almost every man's experience. Gleason's Monthly. SLANDER. "Twas but a breath And yet a woman's fair fame wilted, And friends once fond grew cold and stilted; One venomed word, That struck its coward, poisoned blow, "Twas but one whisper-one That muttered low, for very shame, I had an uncle once-a man Of threescore years and three ;- And often talk, whole winter nights, He was a man of gloomy mood, But, it was said, in solitude His conscience with him wrought; There was not one in all the house I was an orphan and alone,- And all their lives I knew that they There was a curtain over it,- And few or none had ever looked Upon my mother's face, One night-I do remember well, I sat and read in that old hall; I read-but little understood And saw how all his quivering frame A silent terror o'er me stole, His lips were white as bone-his eyes He gazed on me, but 'twas the gaze Then suddenly he turned him round, That hung before my mother's face; "Come hither, boy!" my uncle said,― I started at the sound; Twas choked and stifled in his throat, And hardly utterance found:"Come hither, boy!" then fearfully He cast his eyes around. "That lady was thy mother once, O God! I've seen her when she held "He was my brother, but his form I grudged not that;-he was the prop Of our ancestral line, And manly beauty was of him A token and a sign. |