And as she rocked her to and fro, while tears came dropping down, She sighed and cried, "Oh, Willy, love! these little empty shoon!" With gentle hand she laid them by, she laid them by with care, For Willy he was in his grave, and all her thoughts were there; She paused before she dropped the sneck that closed her lambless fold, It grieved her heart to bar the door and leave him in the cold, A threadbare cloak she wrapped around her limbs so thin and chill, She left her lonely cot behind whilst all the world was still; And through the solitary night she took her silent way, With weeping eyes, towards the spot where little Willy lay. The pale, cold moon had climbed aloft into the welkin blue, A snow-clad tree across the grave its leafless shadow threw; And as that mournful mother sat, upon a mound there by, The bitter wind of winter sighed to hear her wailing cry! "My little Willy's cowd an' still! He's not a cheep for me; Th' last leaf has dropt, th' last tiny leaf, that cheered this withered tree. Oh, my poor heart! my comfort's gone; aw'm lonely under th' sky! He'll never clip my neck again, an' tell me not to cry! 'Nipt,-nipt i'th' bud, an' laid i'th' dust, my little Willy's dead, And a' that made me cling to life lies in his frosty bed.— He's gone! He's gone! My poor bare neest! What's a' this world to me? My darlin' lad! aw'm lonely neaw! when mun aw come to thee? 'He's crept into his last dark nook, an' left me pinin' here; An' never moor his two blue e'en for me mun twinkle clear. He'll never lisp his prayers again at his poor mammy's knee; Ch, Willy! oh, aw'm lonely neaw, when mun aw come to thee?" The snow-clad yew-tree stirred with pain, to hear that plain tive cry; The old church listened, and the spire kept pointing to the sky; With kindlier touch the bitter wind played in her locks of gray, And the queenly moon upon her head shone with a soft ened ray. She rose to leave that lonely bed-her heart was grieving sore, One step she took, and then her tears fell faster than before; She turned and gave another look,-one lingering look she gave, Then, sighing, left him lying in his little wintry grave. MR. CAUDLE AND HIS SECOND WIFE. DOUGLAS JERROLD. When Harry Prettyman saw the very superb funeral of Mrs. Caudle,-Prettyman attended as mourner, and was particularly jolly in the coach,-he observed that the disconsolate widower showed, that, above all men, he knew how to make the best of a bad bargain. The remark, as the dear deceased would have said, was unmanly, brutal, but quite like that Prettyman. The same scoffer, when Caudle declared "he should never cease to weep," replied, "he was very sorry to hear it; for it must raise the price of onions." it was not enough to help to break the heart of a wife; no, the savage must joke over its precious pieces. The funeral, we repeat, was remarkably handsome: in Prettyman's words, nothing could be more satisfactory. Caudle spoke of a monument. Whereupon Prettyman suggested "Death gathering a nettle." Caudle-the act did equal honor to his brain and his boso-rejected it. Mr. Caudle, attended by many of his friends, returned to his widowed home in tolerable spirits. Prettyman said, jocosely poking his two fingers in Caudle's ribs, that in a week he'd look "quite a tulip." Caudle merely replied, he could hardly hope it. Prettyman's mirth, however, communicated itself to the company; and in a very little time the meeting took the air of a very pleasant party. Somehow, Miss Prettymian presided at the tea-table. There was in her manner a charming mixture of grace, dignity and confidence,-a beautiful black swan. Prettyman, by the way, whispered to a friend, that there was just this difference between Mrs. Caudle and his sister,—“ Mrs. Caudle was a great goose, whereas Sarah was a little duck." We will not swear that Caudle did not overhear the words; for, as he resignedly stirred his tea, he looked at the lady at the head of the table, smiled and sighed. It was odd; but women are so apt! Miss Prettyman seemed as familiar with Caudle's silver tea-pot as with her own silver thimble. With a smile upon her face-like the butter on the muffins-she handed Caudle his tea-cup. Caudle would, now and then, abstractedly cast his eyes above the mantle-piece. There was Mrs. Caudle's portrait. Whereupon Miss Prettyman would say, "You must take comfort, Mr. Caudle, indeed you must." At length Mr. Caudle replied, "I will, Miss Prettyman." What then passed through Caudle's brain we know not; but this we know: in a twelvemonth and a week from that day, Sarah Prettyman was Caudle's second wife,-Mrs. Caudle number two. Poor thing! Mr. Caudle begins to "show off the fiend that's in him.” "It is rather extraordinary, Mrs. Caudle, that we have now been married four weeks,---I don't exactly see what you have to sigh about, and yet you can't make me a proper cup of tea. However, I don't know how I should expect it. There never was but one woman who could make tea to my taste, and she is now in heaven. Now, Mrs. Caudle, let me hear no crying. I'm not one of the people to be melted by the tears of a woman; for you can all cry-all of you-at a minute's notice. The water's always laid on, and down it comes if a man only holds up his finger. "You didn't think 1 could be so brutal? That's it. Let a man only speak, and he's brutal. It's a woman's first duty to make a decent cup of tea. What do you think I married you for? It's all very well with your tambour-work and such trumpery. You can make butterflies on kettle-holders; but can you make a pudding, ma'am? I'll be bound not. "Of course, as usual, you've given me the corner roll, because you know I hate a corner roll. I did think you must have seen that. I did hope I should not be obliged to speak on so paltry a subject; but it's no use to hope to be mild with you. I see that's hopeless. "And what a herring! And you call it a bloater, I suppose? Ha! there was a woman who had an eye for a bloater, but-sainted creature !-she's here no longer. You wish she was? Oh, I understand that. I'm sure, if anybody should wish her back, it's-but she was too good for me. 'When I'm gone, Caudle,' she used to say, 'then you'll know the wife I was to you.' And now I do know it. "Here's the eggs boiled to a stone again! Do you think, Mrs. Caudle, I'm a canary-bird, to be fed upon hard eggs? Don't tell me about the servant. A wife is answerable to her husband for her servants. It's her business to hire proper people: if she doesn't, she's not fit to be a wife. I find the money, Mrs. Caudle, and I expect you to find the cookery. "There you are with your pocket-handkerchief again,— the old flag of truce; but it doesn't trick me. A pretty honeymoon? Honeymoon? Nonsense! People can't have two honeymoons in their lives. There are feelings-I find it now-that we can't have twice in our existence. There's no making honey a second time. "No: I think I've put up with your neglect long enough: and there's nothing like beginning as we intend to go on. Therefore, Mrs. Caudle, if my tea isn't made a little more to my liking to-morrow-and if you insult me with a herring like that--and boil my eggs that you might fire 'em out of guns-why, perhaps, Mrs. Caudle, you may see a man in a passion. It takes a good deal to rouse me, but when I am up-I say, when I am up-that's all. Where did I put my gloves? You don't know? Of course not: you know nothing." -Fireside Saints. THE UNBOLTED DOOR.-EDWARD GARRETT. A care-worn widow sat alone Her silent cottage never hears Six children once had sported there, but now the churchyard snow Fell softly on five little graves that were not long ago. She mourned them all with patient love: But since, her eyes had shed Far bitterer tears than those which dewed The child which had been spared to her, the darling of her pride, The woful mother lived to wish that she had also died. Those little ones beneath the snow, She well knew where they are; "Close gathered to the throne of God," And that was better far. But when she saw where Katy was, she saw the city's glare, The painted mask of bitter joy that need gave sin to wear. Without, the snow lay thick and white; No step had fallen there; Each thought a silent prayer ; When suddenly behind her seat unwonted noise she heard, As though a hesitating hand the rustic latch had stirred. She turned, and there the wanderer stood With snow-flakes on her hair; A faded woman, wild and worn, The ghost of something fair. And then upon the mother's breast the whitened head was laid, "Can God and you forgive me all? for I have sinned," she said. The widow dropped upon her knees Before the fading fire, And thanked the Lord whose love at last Had granted her desire; The daughter kneeled beside her, too, tears streaming from her eyes, And prayed, "God help me to be good to mother ere she dies." |