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The lady's cheek grew pale with ire,
"I might have slain my babe instead.
"Wrong unavenged I've never borne,"
The lady stood in mute despair.
He saw the quivering of her eye,
A storm of passions shook his mind—
"I smite you," said the clansman true;
But Evan's face beamed hate and joy;
Ere hand could stir, with sudden shock.
They found their bodies in the tide;
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. Blif kins," 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. Blif kins," 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. Blif kins," 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. Blif kins," 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 Bcapegoat. 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 mo 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 ihe hope of sleeping.
"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 re}iose. 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, whioi 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. Th« truth was that baby was what every man's first jaby 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.
Twas but a breath—
One venomed word,
Twas but one whisper—one—.
'A hint so slight, And yet so mighty in its power,— A human soul in one short hour,
Lies crushed beneath its blight.
THE UNCLE.—II. G. Bell.
I had an uncle once—a man
And when my reason's dawn began,
And often talk, whole winter nights,
He was a man of gloomy mood,
But, it was said, in solitude
His conscience with him wrought;
And there, before his mental eye,
There was not one in all the house
Save I, a little careless child,
And often peeped into his room,
I was an orphan and alone,—
And all their lives I knew that they
And in my uncle's room there hung
There was a curtain over it,—
Upon my mother's face,
One night—I do remember well,
And through the ancient corridors
I sat and read in that old hall;
I read—but little understood
The words upon the book; For with a sidelong glance I marked
My uncle's fearful look, And saw how all his quivering frame
In strong convulsions shook.
A silent terror o'er me stole,
A strange, unusual dread;
Sunk far down in his head;
Of the unconscious dead.
Then suddenly he turned him round,
And drew aside the veil
Perchance my eyes might fail,
Had seemed so ghastly pale.
"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,
0 God! I've seen her when she held Thee in her arms and smiled,—
She smiled upon thy father, boy,
"He was my brother, but his form
1 grudged not that;—he was the prop Of our ancestral line,
And manly beauty was of him