I begged him, for dear Christ his sake, Mother! he would not stir. So, though my tears were blinding me, I ran back, fast as fast could be, To come again to you; And here-close by-this squire I met, Who asked, so mild, what made me fret; And when I told him true, "I will go with you, child,' he said, The bridle on his neck hung free, A statelier man, a statelier steed, So, while the little maiden spoke, But when the dying woman's face My sister! let us pray.” And well, withouten book or stole, He breathed, as 'twere an angel's strain, And death's dark shadows clear. He spoke of sinners' lost estate, He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, In patience, faith, and love,- Then as the spirit ebbed away, Such was the sight their wandering eyes But each man reined his pawing steed, In silence at his side; And there, uncovered all, they stood,- For of the noblest of the land Was that deep-hushed, bareheaded band; By that dead pauper on the ground, THE RIGHTEOUS NEVER FORSAKEN. It was Saturday night, and the widow of the pine cottage sat by her blazing fagots with her five tattered children at her side, endeavoring, by listening to the artlessness of their juvenile prattle, to dissipate the heavy gloom that pressed *George III. spon her mind. For a year, her own feeble hands had provided for her helpless family, for she had no supporter; she thought of no friend in all the wide, unfriendly world around. But that mysterious Providence, the wisdom of whose ways are above human comprehension, had visited her with wasting sickness, and her little means had become exhausted. It was now, too, midwinter, and the snow lay heavy and deep through all the surrounding forests, while storms still seemed gathering in the heavens, and the driving wind roared amidst the bending pines, and rocked her puny mansion. The last herring smoked upon the hearth before her: it was the only article of food she possessed; and no wonder her forlorn desolate state brought up in her lone bosom all the anxieties of a mother, when she looked upon her children; and no wonder, forlorn as she was, if she suffered the heart-swellings of despair to rise, even though she knew that He whose promise is to the widow and the orphan cannot forget his word. Many years before, her eldest son had left his forest home to try his fortune on the billowy wave-of him the had heard no note or tidings; and in latter times Providence had deprived her of the companion and staff of her worldly pilgrimage, in the person of her husband. Yet to this hour she had been upborne; she had not only been able to provide for her little flock, but had never lost an opportunity of ministering to the wants of the miserable and destitute. The indolent may well bear with poverty while the ability to gain sustenance remains. The individual who has but his own wants to supply may suffer with fortitude the winter of want; his affections are not wounded, his heart not wrung. The most desolate in populous cities may hope, for charity has not quite closed her hand and heart, and shut her eyes on misery. But the industrious mother of helpless and depending children, far from the reach of human charity, has none of these to console her. And such a one was the widow of the pine cottage; but as she bent over the fire and took up the last scanty remnant of food to spread before her children, her spirits seemed to brighten up, as by some sud. EEE den and mysterious impulse, and Cowper's beautiful lines came uncalled across her mind Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; The smoked herring was scarce laid upon the table, when a gentle rap at the door and loud barking of a dog attracted the attention of the family. The children flew to open it, and a weary traveler, in tattered garments, and apparently indifferent health, entered and begged a lodging and a mouthful of food. Said he, "It is now twenty-four hours since I tasted bread." The widow's heart bled anew, as under a fresh complication of distresses; for her sympathies lingered not round her fireside. She hesitated not even now; rest and share of all she had, she proffered to the stranger. "We shall not be forsaken," said she, "or suffer deeper for an act of charity." The traveler drew near the board; but when he saw the scanty fare, he raised his eyes towards heaven with astonishment. "And is this all your store?" said he; "and a share of this do you offer to one you know not? Then never saw I charity before! But, madam," he continued," do you not wrong your children by giving a part of your last mouthful to a stranger?" "Ah," said the poor widow, and the teardrops gushed from her eyes as she said it, "I have a boy, a darling son, somewhere on the face of the wide world, unless heaven has taken him away, and I only act towards you as I would that others should act towards him. God, who sent manna from heaven, can provide for us as he did for Israel; and how should I this night offend him, if my son should be a wanderer, destitute as you, and should have provided for him a home even poor as this, were I to turn you unrelieved away!" The widow ended, and the stranger springing from his seat clasped her in his arms. "God indeed has provided just such a home for your wandering son, and has given him wealth to reward the goodness of his benefactress. My mother! O my mother!" It was her long-lost son, returned to her bosom from the Indies. He had chosen that disguise, that he might the more completely surprise his family; and never was surprise more perfect, or followed by a sweeter cup of joy. That humble residence in the forest was exchanged for one comfortable, indeed beautiful, in the valley, and the widow lived long with her dutiful son in the enjoyment of worldly plenty and in the delightful employments of virtue; and at this day, the passer-by is pointed to the luxuriant willow that spreads its branches broad and green above her grave, while he listens to the recital of this simple and homely, but not altogether worthless tale. SCHNEIDER'S RIDE.-GUS PHILLIPS. From agroos der rifer, ad der broke of day, Der noos vas broughd by a Dootchman dhrue, Voult be ofer in less as a' hour or two, To confershkate all der vhiskey dher got Und vilder yet der roomers flew, Dill Schneider didn't know vhat ter do; So he glosed der door, und he barr't 'em dight, Saying, "Dhey may hammer avay mit all dheir might; But ofe dhey got in, dhen ve shall see, Vhich vas der shmartest-dhem or me." For a' hour or dhree no resht he got, Shtill Schneider shtayed right on der shpot. But dhere is a shtreed in Brooklyn town, To Coney Island; und vot ish more, It's a voonder dot nefer vas used pefore It vas right in vrondt of der back of der shtore; Und dhere on dot shtreed vos nine drucks und a card, All loaded mit vhiskey und ready to shtard; Dhey're most all loaded, und Schneider ish gay, Dhey're ofe, und nodings ish left ter show Hor M |