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So I felt kind o' stuffy and proud, and took care

To be out o' the way when that feller was there

A danglin' around; for thinks I, if it's him

That Katy likes best, what's the use lookin' grim

At Katy or Jim,—for it's all up with me;

And I'd better jest let 'em alone, do you see?

But you wouldn't have thought it; that girl never keered

The snap of a pea-pod for Jim's bushy beard.

Well, here's how it was. I was takin' some berries

Across near her garden, to leave at Aunt Mary's;

When, jest as I come to the old ellum-tree,

All alone in the shade, that June mornin', was she—

Shellin' peas—setting there on a garden settee.

I swan, she was handsomer'n ever I seen,

Like a rose all alone in a moss-work o' green.

Well, there wasn't no use; so, says I, I'll jest linger

And gaze at her here, hid behind a syringa;

But she heard me a movin', and looked a bit frightened,

So I come and stood near her. I fancied she brightened.

And seemed sort o' pleased. So I hoped she was well;

And—would she allow me to help her to shell?

For she sot with a monstrous big dish full of peas

Jest fresh from the vines, which she held on ner knees.

"May I help you, Miss Katy?" says I. "As you please,

Mr. Baxter, says she. "But you're busy, I guess "—

Glancin'down at my berries, and then at her dress.

"Not the least. There's no hurry. It ain't very late;

And I'd rather be here, and Aunt Mary can wait."

So I sot down beside her; an' as nobody seen us,

I jest took the dish, and I held it between us;

And I thought to myself I must make an endeavor

To know which she likes, Jim or me, now or never!

But I couldn't say nothin'. We sot there and held

That green pile between us. She shelled, and I shelled,

And pop went the pods; and I couldn't help thinkin'

Of popping the question. A kind of a sinkm'

Come over my spirits; till at last I got out,

"Mister Wray's an admirer of yours, I've no doubt

You see him quite often." "Well, sometimes. But why,

And what if I did?" "Oh, well, nothin'," says I;

"Some folks says you're goin' to marry him, though."

"Who says so?" says she; and she flared up like tow

When you throw in a match. "Well, some folks that I know.'

"Taint true, sir," says she. And she snapped a big pod,

Till the peas, right and left, flew all over the sod.

Then I looked in her eyes, but she only looked down

With a blush that she tried to chase on" with a frown.

"Then it's somebody else you like better," says I.

"No, it ain't though," says she: and I thought she would cry. Then I tried to say somethin': it stuck in my throat,

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And all iny ideas were upset and afloat.

But I said I knew somebody'd loved her so long—

Though he never had told her—with feelin's so strong

He was ready to die at her feet , if she chosed,

If she only could love him !—I hardly supposed

That she eared for him much, though. And so, Tom,—and so,—

For I thought that I saw how the matter would go,—

With my heart all a jumpin' with rapture, I found

I had taken her hand, and my arm was around

Her waist ere I knew it, and she with her head

On my shoulder,—but no, I won't tell what she said.

The birds sang above us; our secret was theirs;

The leaves whispered soft in the wandering airs.

I tell you the world was a new world to me.

I can talk of these things like a book now, you see.

But the peas? Ah, the peas in the pods were a mess

Rather bigger than those that we shelled, you may guess.

It's risky to set with a girl shellin' peas.

You may tease me now, Tom, just as much as you please.

THE OLD PROFESSOR.

The old professor taught no more,

But lingered round the college walks.
Stories of him we boys told o'er

Before the tire in evening talks.
I'll ne'er forget how he came in

To recitation, one March night,
And asked our tutor to begin,

"And let me hear these boys recite."

As we passed out we heard him say,

"Pray, leave me here awhile alone,
Here in my old place let me stay,

Just as I did in years long flown."
Our tutor smiled, and bowed assent,

Rose courteous from his high-backed chair,
And down the darkening stairs he went,

Leaving the old professor there.
# * » *

From out the shadows faces seemed

To look on him in his old place,
Zresh faces that with radiance beamed—

Radiance of boyish hope and graco:

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And faces that had lost their youth,
Although in years they still were young;

And faces o'er whose love and truth
The funeral anthem had been sung.

"These are my boys," he murmured then;

"My boys, as in the years long past;
Though some are angels, others men,

Still as my boys I hold them fast.
There's one don't know his lesson now,

That one of me is making fun,
And that one's cheating—ah! I see—

I see and love them every one.

"And is it, then, so long ago

This chapter in my life was told?
Did all of them thus come and go,

And have I reallv grown so old?
No! here are my old pains and joys,

My book once more is in my hand.
Once more I hear these very boys,

And seek their hearts to understand."
» * ♦ »

They found him there, with open book,

And eyes closed with a calm content;
The same old sweetness in his look

There used to be when fellows went
To ask him questions and to talk,

When recitations were all o'er;
We saw him in the college walk

And in his former place no more.

KENTUCKY BELLE—Constance F. Woolson.

Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone awaj—
Gone to the county-town, sir, to sell our first load of hay—
We lived in the log house yonder, poor as ever you've wieen;
Roschen there was a baby, and I was only nineteen.

Conrad, he took the oxen, but he left Kentucky Belle.
How much we thought of Kentuck, I couldn't begin to tell—
Came from the Blue-Grass country; my fathsr gave her
to me

When I rode North with Conrad, away from the Tennessee. Conrad lived in Ohio—a German he is, you know— The house stood in hroad corn-fields, stretching on, row after row.

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The old folks made me welcome; they were kind as kind could be;

But I kept longing, longing, for the hills of the Tennessee.

Oh! for a sight of water, the shadowed slope of a hill!
Clouds that hang on the summit, a wind that never is still!
But the level land went stretching away to meet the sky—
Never a rise, from north to south, to rest the weary eye!

From east to west, no river to shine out under the moon,
Nothing to make a shadow in the yellow afternoon:
Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked out, all forlorn;
Only the " rustle, rustle," as I walked among tha corn.

When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more,
But moved away from the corn-lands, out to this river-shore—
The Tuscarawas it's called, sir—off there's a hill, you see—
And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee.

I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like mad
Over the bridge and up the road—Farmer Rotif's little lad.
Bareback he rode ; ho had no hat; he hardly stopped to say,
"Morgan's men are coming, Frau; they're galloping on this
way.

"I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind; He sweeps up all the horses—every horse that he can find. Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men, With bowie-knives and pistols, are galloping up the gleu!"

The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door; The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor;

Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man was gone. Near, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on!

Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture-bar. "Kentuck!" I called—" Kentucky!" She knew me ever so far!

I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right, And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight.

As I ran back to the log house, at once there came a sound— The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground—

Commg into the turnpike out from the White-Woman Glen— Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men.

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As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm; But still I stood in the door-way with baby on my arm. They came; they passed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along—

Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his baud, six hundred strong.

Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and

through day; Pushing on East to the river, many long miles away, To the border-strip where Virginia runs up into the West, And fording the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest.

On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance; Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance;

And I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain, When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein.

Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face, As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place.

I gave him a cup, and he smiled—'twas only a boy, you see;
Faint and worn, with dim-blue eyes; and he'd sailed on the
Tetmessee.

Only sixteen he was, sir—a fond mother's only son—
Off and away with Morgan before his life had begun!
The damp drops stood on his temples; drawn was the boy-
ish mouth;

And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South.

Oh! pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and through;

Boasted and bragged like a trooper; but the big words

wouldn't do ;— The boy was dying, sir, dying, as plain as plain could be, Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee.

But when I told the laddie that I too was from the South, Water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth. "Do yon know the Blue-Grass country?" he wistful began to say;

Then swayed like a willow-sapling, and fainted dead away.

I had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to;

I fed him, and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do; And when the lad got better, and the noise in his head was

gone,

Morgan's men were miles away, galloping, galloping on.

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