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We think of the many dear ones,

Whose lives touched ours, at times,
Whose loving thoughts and smiles

Float back like vesper chimes;
And sadly remember burdens

We might have lightened then,—
Ah, gladly would we ease them

Could we " begin again!"

And yet, how vain the seeking!

Life's duties press all of us on,
And who would shrink from the burden,

Or sigh for the sunshine that's gone?
And it may be, not far on before us,

Wait fairer places than then; Our paths may lead by still waters,

Though we may not " begin again."

Yes, upward and onward forever

Be our path on the hills of life!
But ere long a radiant dawning

"Will glorify trial and strife,
And Our Father's hand will lead us

Tenderly upward then,—
In the joy and peace of the better world

He'll let us " Degin again."


The gloomiest day hath gleams of light,
The darkest wave hath bright foam near it;

And twinkles through the cloudiest night
Some solitary star to cheer it.

The gloomiest soul is not all gloom,
The saddest hour is not aU sadness;

And sweetly o'er the darkest doom
There shines some lingering beam of gladnew.

Despair is never quite despair,
Nor life, nor death, the future closes;

And round the shadowy brow of care
Will hope and fancy "twine their roses.


While on a visit to a relation in the celebrated city of York, I was acquainted with an honest farmer in the neighborhood, who, having resided there from a youth, was respected, and admitted into the society of most of the count ry gentlemen. He was a constant visitor at the house of my uncle; and his conversation, teeming with merry stories which served to delight the ear at the expense of our sides, told in his simple, unadorned manner, could not but render Jiis society agreeable to me.

Honest old Farmer Burton had an only son, who had reached the age of forty without entering into the matrimonial state; he was, in fact, as true a picture of a country bumpkin as ever graced a pitchfork. One day our discourse happening to turn upon the said bumpkin, I expressed my surprise that he should never have had the good fortune to get married. "Why," said the farmer, " it be not the fem't o' his face, I reckon; for he be as pratty a lad as here and there be one ; ees, an' he ha' had his chances, by my feekins! and, had he been as 'cute as mysen, he might ha' had a buxom lass, with no little o' money eitlter.* This excited my curiosity; and I requested the farmer to acquaint me with the particulars, which he did as follows:

"You mun know, that my son used to work wi' me in the field; that is, he drived plough, sowed, and reaped, and all other 'cultural works loike; and a steady, hard-working lad he wur too; till all on a sudden he becomed lazy loike, and wouldn't work at all. So I couldn't tell what to make on't: If I snubbed un 'twere all the same; and so at last, thinks I to mysen, I'll speak to un about it calmly loike; an' so I did, and axt un what wur the matter wi' un; and so says he, 'Why, I dosen't know disactly, he, he, he! but ever sin' I ha' seed Molly Grundy at our village church, feather, I ha' felt all over in sic'conflagration loike, he, he, he!' 'Why, ye beant in love, be ye?' 'Why, he, he, he! I can't say for sartin; haply I mought; but dang my buttons, feather! if I dosen't think Molly bees in love wi' I, he, he, he!' 'Be she?'says I: 'odds dickens! then you mmi mind your p's and q's, lad; for she ha' money. But did she speak to ye I' 'Ees; to be sure she did, and said I wur a pratty lad, he, he, he!' 'And what answer did you make?' 'Why, I—I—la'ft'' 'Ah, but,' said I,' you should ha' made love to her.' 'But I don't know how, feather: what be I to say?' 'Why, I'll tell ye. When you see her again, you thus address her: O thou most incomparable of thy sex! Thy eyes of diamond light have pierced my heart's core; thy cheeks are carnation red; thy lips like coral, thy alabaster skin, thy teeth, good lack i —and graceful mien, have scorched and burned up all the particles of my heart. Deign, then, to dispense thy passions to me alone, thy faithful swain, who is this moment ready to espouse thee, thou irresistible and adorable woman!'"

"Well," said I, " and did he say so?"

"Why, no," said the farmer: "a sad blunder he made on it, all through his being no scholard; and lost both his sweetheart Molly, and her money into the bargain. When he got to Molly Grundy's, he dropped on both knees, scratched his head, and thus began :—

"' O Molly Grundy! feather ha' sent I here to dress ye. O thou most unbearable of my sex! Thy eyes of light have pierced my heart sore; thy cheeks are tarnation red; thy lips like mackerel, thy plaster skin, thy teeth so black and hateful and mean,—have scorched and burned up all the articles of my heart. Feign, then, to expend thy passion on me alone thy hateful swine, who is this moment ready to spouse thee, thou detestable and deplorable 'ooman!'"

"Molly Grundy no sooner heard his speech, than she took up a long hair broom, wopped poor Robin out o' the house; and he has never been able to get a wife, or had courage enough to make love to another woman since."

THE MISER.—George W. Cutter.

An old man sat by a flreless hearth,

Though the night was dark and chill,
And mournfully over the frozen earth

The wind sobbed loud and shrill.
His locks were gray, and his eyes were gray,

And dim, but not with tears;
And his skeleton form had wasted away

With penury, more than years.

A rush-light was casting its fitful glare

O'er the damp and dingy walls,
Where the lizard hath made his slimy lair,

And the venomous spider crawls;
But the meanest thing iii this lonesome room

Was the miser worn and bare,
Where he sat like a ghost in an empty tomb,

On his broken and only chair.

He had bolted the window and barred the door,

And every nook had scanned; And felt the fastening o'er and o'er,

With his cold and skinny hand;
And yet he sat gazing intently round,

And trembled with silent fear,
And started and shuddered at every sound

That fell on his coward ear.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the miser: "I'm safe at last,

From this night so cold and drear,
From the drenching rain and driving blast,

With my gold and treasures here.
I am cold and wet with the icy rain,

And my health is bad, 'tis true; Yet if I should light that fire again,

It would cost me a cent or two.

"But I'll take a sip of the precious wine:

It will banish my cold and fears:
It was given long since by a friend of mine—

I have kept it for many years."
So he drew a flask from a mouldy nook,

And drank of its ruby tide;
And his eyes grew bright wilh each draught he took

And his bosom swelled with pride.

"Let me see: let me see!" said the miser then,

'Tis some sixty years or more Since the happy hour when I began

To heap up the glittering store;
And well have I sped with my anxious toil,

As my crowded chest will show:
I've more than would ransom a kingdom's spoil.

Or an emperor could bestow."

He turned to an old worm-eaten chest,

And cautiously raised the lid,
And then it shone like the clouds of the west,

With the sun in their splendor hid:
And gem after gem, in precious store,

Are raised with exulting smile:

And It; counted and counted them o'er and o'er, In many a glittering pile.

Why comes the Bush to his pallid brow,

While his eyes like his diamonds shine? Why writhes he thus in such torture now?

What was there in the wine? He strove his lonely seat to gain:

To crawl to his nest he tried; But finding his efforts all in vain,

He clasped his gold, and—died.


It stands in a sunny meadow,
The house so mossy and brown,

With its cumbrous old stone chimneys,
And the gray roof sloping down.

The trees fold their green arms round it—

The trees a century old,—
And the winds go chanting through them,

And the sunbeams drop their gold.

The cowslips spring in the marshes,

The roses bloom on the hill,
And beside the brook in the pasture

The herds go feeding at will.

Their children have gone and left them;

They sit in the sun alone;
And the old wife's ears are failing,

As she harks to the well-known tone

That won her heart in her girlhood,—
That has soothed her in many a care

And praises her now for the brightness
Her old face used to wear.

She thinks again of her bridal—
How, dressed in her robes of white,

She stood by her gay young lover,
In the morning's rosy light.

Oh! the morn is as rosy as ever,
But the rose from her check is fled:

And the sunshine still is golden,
But it falls on a silvery head.

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