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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

I 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

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

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

And none

In broken words like these, with soft
Low wails she rocked herself.
Of the rough men around her scoffed.

For surely a sight like this, the sun
Had rarely looked upon. Face to face,
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, and 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 glide
Old Bess and young Willie sleep side by side.

A BOY.-N. P. WILLIS.

There's something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,
His dread of books and love of fun,-

And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepressed by sadness,-
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,

And felt its very gladness.

And yet, it is not in his play,

When every trace of thought is lost,
And not when you would call him gay,
That his bright presence thrills me most.
His shout may ring upon the hill,
His voice be echoed in the hall,
His merry laugh like music trill,
And I in sadness hear it all,-
For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now,—

But when, amid the earnest game,
He stops, as if he music heard,
And, heedless of his shouted name
As of the carol of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air,
As if some dream were passing there,
'Tis then that on his face I look-
His beautiful but thoughtful face-
And, like a long forgotten book,
Its sweet familiar meanings trace;

Remembering a thousand things
Which passed me on those golden wings,
Which time has fettered now;
Things that came o'er me with a thrill,
And left me silent, sad, and still,
And threw upon my brow
A holier and a gentler cast,
That was too innocent to last.

'Tis strange how thoughts upon a child
Will, like a presence, sometimes press;
And when his pulse is beating wild,
And life itself is in excess-

When foot and hand, and ear and eye,
Are all with ardor straining high-
How in his heart will spring

A feeling whose mysterious thrall
Is stronger, sweeter far than all!
And on its silent wing,

How, with the clouds, he'll float away,
As wandering and as lost as they.

LORD DUNDREARY PROPOSING.-F. J. SKILL.

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

But

That's vewy twue,-I-I've often thed tho before. 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 occations. You don'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 was

I? O, I rekomember-or weckolect--which is it? Never mind, I was saying that I was a ladies' man.

I wanted to tell you of one successful advenchaw I had,— at least, when I say successful, I mean it would have been as far as I was concerned,--but, of course, when two people are engaged--or wather-when one of 'em wants to be engaged, one fellah by himthelf can't engage that he'll engage affections that are otherwise engaged. By the way, what a lot of 'gages that was in one thentence, and yet-it seems quite fruitless. Come, that's pwetty smart, that is-for me. Well, as I was saying,-I mean, as I meant to have said,when I was stopping down at Wockingham, with the Widleys, last autumn, there was a mons'ous jolly girl staying there too. I don't mean two girls you know-only-only one girl- But stop a minute,—is that right? How could one girl be stopping there two? What doosid queer expressions there are in the English language!... Stopping there too! It's vewy odd I-I'll swear there was only one girl,—at least, the one that I mean was only one-if she'd been two, of course, I should have known it-let me see now, one is singular, and two is plural,—well, you know, she was a singular girl-and she-she was one too many for me. Ah, I see now, that accounts for it,-one two many--of course--I knew there was a two somewhere. She had a vewy queer name, Miss-miss-Missmiss, no not Miss Missmiss--I always miss the wrong I mean the right name,-Miss Chaffingham,— that's it, Charlotte Chaffingham. I weckomember Charlotte, because they called her Lotty,-and one day at bweakfast-I made a stunning widdle--I said-" Why is Miss Charlotte like a London cabman?" Well, none of them could guess it. They twied and twied, and at last my brother Tham, -he gave a most stupid anther,--he said, “I know," he said, —“ She's like a London cabman because she's got a fair back.” Did you ever hear anything so widiculous? Just as if her face wasn't much pwettier than her back! Why, I could see that, for I was sitting opposite her. It's twue Tham was just behind her, offering some muffins, but-you know he'd seen her face, and he weally ought to have known better. I told him so,-I said, "Tham, you ought to be athamed of yourthelf, that 'th not the anther!"

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