MULLIGAN'S GOSPEL.-ANNIE HERBERT. I've a rare bit of news for you, Mary Malone, Like a dove without wings, nestling downy and tender, And the hard life so pitiless, rough, and defiled, It is strange to our eyes, but perhaps you have seen With its roots in the tarn and its face in the light; So this little one came-but it never seemed right There were children enough, heaven knows! in that Babel, Cadets for the Tombs from the bold whiskey rabble, Choked out from the love that is heaven's own light, Rank sons of the soil, cropping out for a fight, Over to Mulligan's. There was many a banquet in Mulligan Hall, Over to Mulligan's. It was twelve months or more from the time she was born, As I sat at my window one sunshiny morn, "Jist come over," the voice of Tim Mulligan said, I belave in me sowl that me baby is dead!" He had held a wild revel late into the night, And the wee, frightened dove plumed her pinions for flight; This the man saw at last, with a sudden dismay; "God forgive me!" he cried, "sure she'd niver be stayin' Wid the cursin' an' drink when me lips shud be prayin'!” And the priest came and went, little dreaming that day Then the sweetest, the saddest, the tenderest sight, Now a thing the most wonderful, Mary Malone, And he looks like a man, from his head to his feet; Though his clothes are but coarse, they are comely and trim, And the gossips do say, with wise lifting of fingers, -Christian Union. PLEASURES OF PICNIC-ING. This is the season of the year when picnics are most frequent. For real solid enjoyment we, for our part, much prefer a well conducted funeral to an ordinary picnic. You generally reach the grounds about eleven o'clock, and the exercises begin with climbing a hill, up which you are compelled to carry two heavy lunch baskets. When you reach the summit you are positively certain the thermometer must be nearly six hundred and fifty in the shade. You throw yourself on the grass, and in a few moments a brigade of black ants begin to crawl down the back of your neck, while a phalanx of ticks charge up your trouser leg. And just as you jump up, your oldest boy, who has been out in the woods, where he stirred up a yellow-jacket's nest, comes in with his head and face swelled to the size of a water-bucket, conveying the information that your other boy, William Henry, is up a tree and can't get down. After laboring to release William Henry the thermometer seems to have gone up two hundred more degrees, and you will take a swim in the creek. While you are in the water young Jones strolls out with Miss Smith, and unconscious of your presence, they sit down close to your clothes, and engage in conversation for three quarters of an hour, while you lie down in the shallow stream, afraid to budge and nearly killed with the hot sun. When they leave, you emerge and find that some wicked boy from the neighboring village has run off with your shirt and socks. You fix up as well as you can, and when you get back with the party they are eating dinner from a cloth laid on the ground. A spider is spinning a cobweb from the pickle-jar to the little end of the cold ham; straddle-bugs are frolicking around over the pound-cake, caterpillars are exploring the bread plate, grasshoppers are jumping into the butter, where they stick fast, the bees are so thick around the sugar-bowl that you are afraid to go near it, and there are enough ants in the pie to walk completely off with it. You take a seat, however, determined to try to eat something, but you get up suddenly-all at once as it were, for you have set down on a brier. Then William Henry, who has quaffed an unreasonable quantity of lemon. ade, gets the colic, and his mother goes into hysterics be cause she thinks he is poisoned with pokeberries. You lay him under an umbrella, and proceed to climb a tree in order to fix a swing for the girls. After skinning your hands, tearing your trousers and ruining your coat, you get to the top, tie the rope and undertake to come down on it. You do come down with velocity and your fingers are rubbed entirely raw. Just then it begins to rain furiously, and the whole party stampedes to the depot for shelter. When the shower slackens you go back to the ground to get the rope, and just as you get up in the tree the owner of the place comes along with a gun and a dog, and threatens to blow your brains out and eat you up if you don't leave immedi celerity, and get Going home in ately. Then you come down again with over the fence as if you were in earnest. the train all the passengers regard you, from your appearance, as an escaped convict, or a lunatic who has broken from his keepers; and when you reach your home you plunge into a shirt, cover your hands with a court-plaster, and register a solemn vow never to go on another picnic. And we are with you; we never will either. THE STIGMA.-F. DE HAES JANVIER. It is related that, some forty years ago, John C. Calhoun, a Senator of the United States, from the State of South Carolina, and at that time employed in perfecting the great Nullification Scheme of which he was the author, was, one aight, at a late hour, seated in his room, and engaged in writing, when, falling asleep, he had a dream, the incidents of which are here woven into verse. In a chamber, grand and gloomy, in the shadow of the night, Two wax tapers flaming faintly, burned with a sepulchral light, On an oval oaken table, from their silver stands they shone, Where about them in disorder, books and manuscripts were strown; Where before them sat a statesman, silent, thoughtful and alone! Suddenly a stranger entered-entered with a serious air, And with steady step advancing, near the table drew a chair! Folded in an ample mantle, carefully concealed from sight, There he sat, and his companion watched him, through the wavering light, Wondering at his bold intrusion, unannounced, and in the night. Wondering at his staid demeanor, wondering that no word he spoke, Wondering that he veiled his visage in the volume of his cloak Till, as though unwilling longer, satisfaction to postpone, "Senator from Carolina," said he in a solemn tone, "What are you engaged in writing, here at midnight and alone? Then the statesman answered promptly, ""Tis a plan which consummates, When complete, the dissolution of the Union of the States. Whereupon, rejoined the stranger, in an accent of command, "Senator from Carolina, let me look at your right hand!" And the statesman had no power that calm dictate to withstand! Slowly then uprose the stranger, and the startled states man saw, From the falling cloak emerging, one from whom he shrunk with awe! Stern and stately stood before him Freedom's first and favorite son He whose patriotic valor universal homage won He who gave the world the Union-the immortal WASHINGTON! And he thrilled with strange emotion, in the patriot's steadfast gaze, As he held the hand he proffered, held it near the taper's blaze, As he thoughtfully proceeded, "Then you would, with this right hand, Senator from Carolina, desolate your native land,— You would sign a Declaration, this fair Union to disband?" And the Senator responded: "Yes, should chance such service claim, To an Act of Dissolution I would freely sign my name." But the words were scarcely spoken, when amazed he saw expand, Dim at first, then deeper, darker, an unsightly, blackened brand, Like a loathsome, leprous plague-spot, on the back of his right hand! “What is that?" he cried with horror as the dreadful stigma spread And the Patriot's grasp relaxing, undisturbed, he gravely said: "That black blotch your hand o'erspreading is the mark by which they know One who, honored by his country, basely sought its overthrow That detested traitor, Arnold, in the dismal world below!" Pausing then, he from his mantle drew an object toward the light, Placed it on the oaken table, in the shuddering statesman's sight Placed it on the very writing which that traitorous hand had done; Still, and stark, and grim, and ghastly, 'twas a human skeleton! There it lay, and then he added calmly as he had begun: |