line of some dozen different pieces. They didn't sut her. Well, she would not imitate any one else's style. It should be said of her production that it was entirely originai. But what should she have for the first line? How hard it was to think! How brightly the sun shone in that window! She lowered the curtain. She wondered if it came as hard for all authors to get under literary inspiration? She wondered-what-magazine—she had better send her manuscript to? She wondered if the editor wouldn't happen to be a young man and good looking? She wondered if she had better spend her first money-for-a-pink sash—or— a-blue one? She wondered-oh, dear! how late it was! Twelve o'clock already! She must make haste. She inked her fingers. That made her seem more like a poetess. Then she ran her fingers through her hair again, and-wrote: "I would not ask that round your path The loveliest flowers might bloom, And share earth's common doom." (Ting-a-ling-a-ling!) Peggy, there's some one at the door." "Yes mum. If you plaze mum, here's a bookay the boy left, an' he sez as how Mr. Harry will be afther callin' on yez this afthernoon." "Oh, why couldn't Mr. Harry wait until he's invited? Let me see the bouquet. You say I'm out, Peggy, when the gentleman calls this afternoon." Yes, they are very sweet flowers-very sweet "But oh! the fairest fade at last, And share earth's common doom. "I would not ask that beauty rare "Miss Hepsy! Miss Hepsy! there's a gintleman in the parlor as would be afther seein' yerself.” "Oh, the bother! I wonder if my rats and mice sit straight? Tell him I'll be down soon, Peggy. Dear me, how provoking to have callers just at this time! I don't see why I didn't put my hair up in crimping-pins last night. It never was becoming, done plain. Well, I must be thinking all the while I am gone what will rhyme with gift. Let me see 'I would not ask that beauty rare Dear me! there's no use twisting that curl any more. I never can make my hair curl like other peoples', and I cer. tainly cannot go down in this plight. Peggy! Peggy! Teli the gentleman I am engaged, and cannot possibly see him to-day. And mind, Peggy, that you ask him to call again.” Now to my poem: "I would not ask that beauty rare "Go clothe the orphan'd, soothe their vo Go heal the wounded heart-" Isn't that beautiful? Won't people be affected? (Rap, rap, rap!) "Come in!" "If you please, ma'am, can you give me something to help my poor family? We're so cold and hungry! We're very poor indeed, ma'am, and if you will be so kind-" 66 Peggy, show this beggar to the door! I really cannot have my literary labors interrupted in this way." Those beggars are always such a nuisance! Now where was it I left off Oh, yes, yes! "Go clothe the orphan'd, soothe-" "Go clothe the orphan'd, soothe their woes, Go heal the wounded heart And wipe the tears of grief away "To shine in fashion's gilded hall, Is not the boon for which I'd call, "Miss Hepsy, here's a note from Miss Butterworth.” "Well, let me read it. Oh! it's an invitation to attend the military ball this evening. But how can I go? My new silk isn't finished yet, and I've worn all my other dresses two or three times, and I could not think of going in any of them. Peggy, you may go and ask Miss Stitchem if she cannot possibly let me have my new silk this evening. But no-stop! I'll have to go and see about it myself." Dear, dear! I don't see how other people write poetry. I amn sure I cannot, and I may as well give it up first as last, although I do think mine would have been pretty good if I could only have finished it. THE OLD WAYS AND THE NEW.-JOHN H. YATES. I've just come in from the meadow, wife, where the grass is tall and green; I hobbled out upon my cane to see John's new machine; Many and many's the day I've mowed 'neath the rays of a scorching sun, Till I thought my poor old back would break ere my task for the day was done: I often think of the days of toil in the fields all over the farm, Till I feel the sweat on my wrinkled brow, and the old pain come in my arm. It was hard work, it was slow work, a-swingin' the old scythe then; Unlike the mower that went through the grass like death through the ranks of men : I stood and looked till my old eyes ached, amazed at its speed and power; The work that it took me a day to do, it done in one short hour. John said that I hadn't seen the half: when he puts it into his wheat, I shall see it reap and rake it, and put it in bundles neat ; Then soon a Yankee will come along, and set to work and larn To reap it, and thresh it, and bag it up, and send it into the barn. John kinder laughed when he said it; but I said to the hired men, “I have seen so much on my pilgrimage through my threescore years and ten, That I wouldn't be surprised to see a railroad in the air, There's a difference in the work I done, and the work my boys now do; Steady and slow in the good old way, worry and fret in the new; But somehow I think there was happiness crowded into those toiling days, That the fast young men of the present will not see till they change their ways. To think that I ever should live to see work done in this wonderful way! Old tools are of little service now, and farmin' is almost play; The women have got their sewin'-machines, their wringers, and every sich thing, And now play croquet in the dooryard, or sit in the parlor and sing. 'Twasn't you that had it so easy, wife, in the days so long gone by; You riz up early, and sat up late, a-toilin' for you and I: There were cows to milk; there was butter to make; and many a day did you stand A-washin' my toil-stained garments, and wringin' 'em out by hand. Ah! wife, our children will never see the hard work we have seen, For the heavy task and the long task is now done with a machine; No longer the noise of the scythe I hear, the mower--there! hear it afar? A-rattlin' along through the tall, stout grass with the noise of a railroad car. Well! the old tools now are shoved away; they stand agatherin' rust, Like many an old man I have seen put aside with only a crust; When the eyes grow dim, when the step is weak, when the strength goes out of his arm, The best thing a poor old man can do is to hold the deed of the farm. There is one old way that they can't improve, although it has been tried By men who have studied and studied, and worried till they died; It has shone undimmed for ages, like gold refined from its dross; It's the way to the kingdom of heaven, by the simple way of the cross. GOUGAUNE BARRA.-J. J. CALLANAN. There is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra, In deep-vallied Desmond-a thousand wild fountains There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow And its zone of dark hills-oh! to see them all bright'ning How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara, Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean, High sons of the lyre, oh! how proud was the feeling, And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains And gleaned each gray legend, that darkly was sleeping Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me I, too, shall be gone:-but my name shall be spoken |