That's as true as the Scripturs; but if you'll believe it, Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house, how't she'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! Did you ever! Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything she says. I've knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the truth,-besides she always had a pertikkeler spite against husband and me, and between us tew I'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for I make it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin'-distracted after my husband herself, but it's a long story, I'll tell you about it some other time, and then you'll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin' me down. See, where had I got to? Oh, I remember now:

Whisky and rum he tasted not,

He thought it was a sin;

I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott
I never got married agin.

But now he's dead! the thought is killin',

My grief I can't control

He never left a single shillin'

His widder to console.

But that wa'n't his fault, he was so out o' health for a number o' year afore he died, it aint to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin; however, it dident give him no great oneasiness. He never cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back, -begrudged folks their vittals when they came to his house! did you ever! why, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born days. If I'd such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I'd hold my tongue about my neighbcrs' husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper,-used to swear like all possests when he got mad, —and I've heard my husband say (and he wa'n't a man that ever said anything that wa'n't true),-I've heard him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of

his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! "His widder to console,"―ther aint but one more verse, 'taint a very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he, What did you stop so soon for?"--but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby's she thought I'd better a' stopt afore I'd begun; she's a purty critter to talk so, I must say. I'd like to see some poitry o' hern, I guess it would be astonishin' stuff; and mor'n all that, she said there wa'n't a word o' truth in the hull on't, said I never cared tuppence for the deacon. What an everlastin' lie! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell, they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal. But that's a painful subject, I wont dwell on't. I conclude as follers:

I'll never change my single lot,

I think 'twould be a sin;

The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott

Don't intend to get married agin.

Excuse my cryin'-my feelin's always overcomes me so when I say that poitry-0-0-0-0-0-0!

CAOCH THE PIPER.-J. KEEGAN.

One winter's day, long, long ago,
When I was a little fellow,
A piper wandered to our door,

Gray-headed, blind, and yellow;
And, oh! how glad was my young heart,
Though earth and sky looked dreary,

To see the stranger and his dog,—
Poor" Pinch" and Caoch O'Leary.

And when he stowed away his bag,
Cross-barred with green and yellow,
I thought and said, "In Ireland's ground,
There's not so fine a fellow."

And Fineen Burke and Shane Magee,
And Eily, Kate, and Mary,

NUMBER FOUR.

Rushed in, with panting haste to see,
And welcome Caoch O'Leary.

Oh! God be with those happy times,
Oh! God be with my childhood,
When I, bare-headed, roamed all day,
Bird-nesting in the wild-wood.
I'll not forget those sunny hours,
However years may vary;
I'll not forget my early friends,
Nor honest Caoch O'Leary.

Poor Caoch and "Pinch" slept well that night
And in the morning early,

He called me up to hear him play,

"The wind that shakes the barley."
And then he stroked my flaxen hair,
And cried, "God mark my deary!"
And how I wept when he said “Farewell,
And think of Caoch O'Leary."

And seasons came and went, and still
Old Caoch was not forgotten,

Although I thought him "dead and gone"
And in the cold clay rotten.
And often when I walked and danced
With Eily, Kate, and Mary,
We spoke of childhood's rosy hours,
And prayed for Caoch O'Leary.

Well,-twenty summers had gone past,
And June's red sun was sinking,
When I, a man, sat by my door,

Of twenty sad things thinking.

A little dog came up the way,

His gait was slow and weary,
And at his tail a lame man limped,—
"Twas "Pinch" and Caoch O'Leary!

Old Caoch! but ah, how woe-begone!
His form is bowed an 1 bending,
His fleshless hands are stiff and wan,
Ay,-Time is even blending

The colors on his thread-bare bag,
And "Pinch" is twice as hairy
And "thin-spare" as when first I saw
Himself and Caoch O'Leary.

"God's blessing here," the wanderer cried,
"Far, far, be hell's black viper;
Does anybody hereabouts

Remember Caoch the Piper?”

With swelling heart I grasped his hand;
The old man murmured "Deary!
Are you the silky-headed child,

That loved poor Caoch O'Leary?”

"Yes, yes," I said—the wanderer wept As if his heart was breaking.

"And where, a vhic machree," he sobbed, Is all the merry-making

I found here twenty years ago?"

"My tale," I sighed, "might weary, Enough to say there's none but me To welcome Caoch O'Leary." "Vo, Vo, Vo!" the old man cried, And wrung his hands in sorrow, "Pray lead me in, asthore machree, And I'll go home to-morrow. My 'peace is made' —I'll calmly leave This world so cold and dreary,

And you shall keep my pipes and dog,

And pray for Caoch O'Leary."

With “Pinch,” I watched his bed that night,
Next day, his wish was granted;

He died-and Father James was brought,
And the Requiem Mass was chanted;

The neighbors came; we dug his grave,
Near Eily, Kate, and Mary,

And there he sleeps his last sweet sleep,--
God rest you, Caoch O'Leary.

OLD TIMES AND NEW.-A. C. SPOONER.

'Twas in my easy chair at home,

About a week ago,

I sat and puffed my light-cigar,
As usual, you must know.

I mused upon the Pilgrim flock,
Whose luck it was to land
Upon almost the only rock
Among the Plymouth sand.

In my mind's eye, I saw them leave
Their weather-beaten bark-
Before them spread the wintry wilds,
Behind, rolled ocean dark.

Alone that noble handful stood

While savage foes lurked nigh;

Their creed and watchword, "Trust in God, And keep your powder dry."

Imagination's pencil then

That first stern winter painted, When more than half their number died, And stoutest spirits fainted.

A tear unbidden filled one eye,

My smoke had filled the other.
One sees strange sights at such a time,
Which quite the senses bother.

I knew I was alone-but lo!

(Let him who dares, deride me;) I looked, and drawing up a chair, Down sat a man beside me.

His dress was ancient, and his air
Was somewhat strange and foreign;

He civilly returned my stare,

And said, "I'm Richard Warren.

"You'll find my name among the list
Of hero, sage and martyr,

Who, in the Mayflower's cabin, signed
The first New England charter.

"I could some curious facts impart,

Perhaps, some wise suggestions,-
But then I'm bent on seeing sights,
And running o'er with questions."
"Ask on," said I; "I'll do my best
To give you information,
Whether of private men you ask,
Or our renowned nation."

Says he, "First tell me what is that
In your compartment narrow,
Which seems to dry my eye-ball up,
And scorch my very marrow."