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The dry and embalming air of the mine
Had arrested the natural hand of decay,
Nor faded the flesh, nor dimmed a line.

Who was he, then? No man could say
When the passage had suddenly fallen in—
Its memory, even, was pass'd away!

In their great rough arms, begrimed with coal,

They took him up, as a tender lass

Will carry a babe, from that darksome hole

To the outer world of the short warm grass.
Then up spoke one, " Let us send for Bess,
She is seventy-nine, come Martinmas;

Older than any one here, I guess!

Belike, she may mind when the wall fell there,

And remember the chap by his comeliness."

So they brought old Bess with her silver hair,
To the side of the hill, where the dead man lay,
Ere the flesh had crumbled in outer air.

And the crowd around him all gave way,
As with tottering steps old Bess drew nigh,
And bent o'er the face of the unchanged clay.

Then suddenly rang a sharp, low cry!
Bess sank on her knees, and wildly tossed
Her withered arms in the summer sky—

"O Willie! Willie! my lad! my lost!
The Lord be praised! after sixty years
I see you again! . . . . The tears you cost,

O Willie darlin', were bitter tears!
They never looked for ye underground,
They told me a tale to mock my fears!

They said ye were auver the sea—ye'd found
A lass ye loved better nor me, to explain
How ye'd a-vanished fra sight and sound!

O darlin', a long, long life o' pain

1 ha' lived since then! . . . . And now I'm old, 'Seems a'most as if youth were come back again,

Seeing ye there wi' your locks o' gold,
And limbs as straight as ashen beams,
I a'most forget how the years ha' rolled

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Between us! .... O Willie! how strange it seems

To see ye here as I've seen ye oft,
Auver and auver again in dreams!"

In broken words like these, with soft
Low wails she rocked herself. And none
Of the rough men around her scoffed.

For surely a sight like this, the sun

The old dead love, and the living one!

The dead, with its undimmed fleshly grace,
At the end of threescore years; the quick,
Puckered and withered, without a trace

Of its warm girl-beauty. A wizard's trick
Bringing the youth and the love that were,
Back to the eyes of the old and sick!

Those bodies were just of one age; yet there
Death, clad in youth, had been standing still,
While life had been fretting itself threadbare!

But the moment was come;—as a moment will
To all who have loved, and have parted here,
And have toiled alone up the thorny hill;

When, at the top, as their eyes see clear,

Over the mists of the vale below,

Mere specks their trials and toils appear

Beside the eternal rest they know.

Death came to old Bess that night, ana gave

The welcome summons that she should go.

And now, though the rains and winds may rave,
Nothing can part them. Deep and wide,
The miners that evening dug one grave.

And there, while the summers and winters glido
Old Bess and young Willie sleep side by side.

A BOY.—N. T. Willis.

There's something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,

With his unchec ked, unbidden joy,
His dread of books and love of fun,—

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Face to face,

LORD DUNDREARY PROPOSING.—F. J. Skill.

"Any fellah feelth nervouth when he knowth he 'th going 1.o make an ath of himthelf."

That's vewy twue,—I—I've often thed tho before. But the fact is, evewy fellah dothn't make an ath of himthelf, at least not quite such an ath as I've done in my time. I— don't mind telling you, but 'pon my word now,—I—I've made an awful ath of mythelf on thome occathious. You ion't believe it now,—do you? I—thought you wouldn't— but I have now—weally. Particularly with wegard to women.

To tell the twuth, that is my weakneth,—I s'pose I'm what they call a ladies' man. The pwetty cweachaws like me,—I know they do,—though they pwetend not to do so. It—it's the way with some fellahs. There was hith late Majesty, George the Fourth. I never thaw him mythelf, you know, but I've heard he had a sort of way with him that no woman could wesist. They used to call him a cam—what is it? a camelia —no, camel-leopard, no—chameleon, isn't it? that attwacts people with its eyes—no, by the way that—that's the bwute that changes color—it couldn't have been that you know,— Georgius Wex—never changed color,—he—he'd got beyond blushing, he had—he only blushed once—early—vewy early in life, and then it was by mistake—no, cam—chameleon's not the word. What the dooth is it? O, stop,—it begins with a B. By the way, it's 'stonishing how many words begin with a B. O, an awful lot! No—no wonder Dr. Watts talked about the—the busy B. Why, he's more work than all the west of the alphabet. However, the word begins with a B, and its Bas—Basiloose—yes, that's it—stop, I'd better look it out in the dictionary to make certain. I—I hate to make mistakes—I do—especially about a thimple matter like this. O, here we are—B. Basilica.

No, it—that can't be the word you know—George was king, and if—if Basilica means a royal palace—they—they might have been—welations—but that's all—no, it isn't Basilica—it—it's Basilisk—yes, I've got it now—it's Bathilith. That's what his Majesty was—a Bathilith, and fascinated fair cweachaws with his eye. Let me see—where waa

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