one week to another. I there have my baby, my thoughts, and (woman's mighty solace !) abundance of plain sewing. Happy sex! who find our Egeria within the compass of a small wicker-work basket, while the breast of tired and toiling man beats only responsive to the voice of ambition, or the chink of riches. There's an idea going the rounds, that the sphere of woman is contracted.' She can't skate on the Delaware, nor walk down by herself to the Exchange, to hear the morning news; but there are excellent plots' in the arrangement of patch-work, and life's sweetness comes to a focus in the boiling midst of a kettle of molasses candy!' a STANZA S. • We met and we parted.' We met! I clasped as fair a hand As ever graced an earthly form; Was witching, soft, and warm. As is the eldest star of even; As beam around the queen of heaven. ! I heard a voice, whose low-breathed tone Was sweet as an Eolian strain ; The wind's first whisper on the main. Put painting's brightest tint to shame, As e'er was sipped by morning's beam. And each alternate gains the prize, When snow-white cloud-wreaths blend its dyes. With envious yet enamoured eye;. And left to her his melody. An ancient tale with truth was rife, Had warmed the marble into life. That to describe one shade were vain ; On waving fields of golden grain. Those charms around me wove their spell; Of one I learned to love too well. And cold that eye had learned to be; I pour this strain of love to thee! THE OLD TOWN PUMP. AND a good many of ye town of Boston can testifie, that evill spirits have greatly troubled them, appearing in diverse forms and shapes, and sometimes continuing their hatefull visits, at brief intervals, for nearly a whole moneth at a time.' COTTON MATHER. NEARLY a century ago, long before our good ancestors, the colonists, thought of throwing off the yoke of Great Britain, there was an old pump, situated at the foot of Copp's Hill. In its best days, it had been celebrated for supplying the North End with the purest water in Boston. It had its failings, however, as what pump has not? It resolutely refused water, save early in the morning or late at night. When morning and night came, therefore, it was thronged with regular customers,' who, notwithstanding the large numbers, peaceably took their turn, without even so much as shoving or pushing, to gain precedence. Alas! how short is human life! Not one of all the goodly company who were wont to resort to that pump, are now living. They have wasted from the face of the earth, and even their names have perished! The venerable old relic, too, its antiquated handle, its curious-crooked nose, its old-fashioned shoe, and its short, round body, and thick cap, with Timothy Block, Maker, 1700,' engraved upon it, has perished. Ah, me! that old pump! which once served as a landmark to a lost townsman in a dark night, even as the light-house guides the tempest-tossed mariner, which was the assignation-place, the trysting-tree, could it have spoken, what tales could it not have unfolded, of plots, rebellion, and treason! It could bave whispered, too, of the lover's soft tale, told beneath its friendly shadow. But it has perished; its springs have long since dried up, its body prostrated, and its ancient cap, which should have claimed respect for its antiquity, from the hand of sacrilege, laid level with the dust. Avarice and worldly gain has erected a block of buildings upon the site which it once occupied, and it is known no more. About a stone's throw from the spot upon which it stood, there still existed, in 1800, an old-fashioned two-story wooden house, once painted red, but so altered by time, that scarcely a vestige of its former color remained, when it was torn down. This was the residence of Bill Gray, a cobbler by trade, who supported his mother and himself from his earnings, by mending shoes and leggins for the good town's people of Boston. Bill was fond of an extra glass, and often in the summer season, when his day's work was over, would run down to the King George' tavern, only just for a few minutes, where, in company with congenial spirits, he was pretty sure to spend half the night. One evening in May, 1750, Bill was seated as usual in the tap-room of the 'King George. A storm had been gathering all day in the heavens, and just at nightfall had burst in all its fury upon the little town of Boston. So sudden had been its advent, that many, who but a minute before had prophesied that it would undoubtedly hold off till morning, were, in spite of their prediction, compelled to fly for shelter to the nearest cover. Of this number was Bill gray, who 'Come, look out how you hit me, Bill Gray!' said a gruff voice, close to him." Bill raised his eyes, in unfeigned astonishment, and beheld, seated across the nose of the pump, a little figure scarcely two feet in height, dressed in a black suit, with a red woollen cap on his head. He was one entire deformity. On his back he carried a miniature mountain, his head was larger than any three Bill had ever seen; his legs were like drum-sticks, and his face was lit up with a hideous expression, while from his eyes there darted an unearthly twinkle. Who who are you?' stammered Gray. 'My name is Knippercrack,' answered the same gruff voice: 'I am the tutelar genius of this pump. I preside over its destinies, and I won't permit it to be abused, especially by one upon whom it has been in the habit of conferring its favors.' As he said this, the little man clapped his hands, and gave vent to something between a screech and a howl, which rëechoed through the neighborhood, until it seemed that it would lift the very roofs of the houses; and our hero fancied he could hear the same cry repeated in chorus by a thousand voices, on the summit of Copp's. 'Now, tell me,' growled the genius-'tell me truly, or I'll pass you over to the good people up the hill there what are you doing here, at this time of night?' ་ Bill made out to say that he was after water. Hoo! hoo! hoo!' yelled Knippercrack. Hoo! hoo! hoo!' repeated the chorus on the hill. Tell that to those whom you can make believe it!' continued Knippercrack, with a laugh of derision; come after water at this time of night? All fudge! You lie, Bill Gray! you know you lie!' Although Bill was undoubtedly the biggest coward in Boston, still he could not stand and hear himself thus berated, without feeling a hearty good will to upset the little gentleman into the shoe of the pump-if he only dared! Such thoughts did indeed flit across his mind; and growing bolder by degrees, he ventured to survey more closely the person of the diminutive imp, and to institute a comparison between his strength and his own, and the probable result of a rough-and-tumble. I'll bet I can wallop him!' exclaimed Bill, mentally, right between his peepers. I'll try it !' 'No you won't, Bill; you'll wish you had n't, if you do!' growled Knippercrack. Bill started back in amazement. secret thoughts! I didn't say nothin',' said Gray. The little man had read his most 'No, but you thought so,' retorted the genius. 'I'll thank you for my bucket; I'll be goin' home, I guess,' said Bill, after a short pause, during which time he had been screwing up his courage to make the demand. "Your bucket! Hoo! hoo! hoo!' And again the chorus on the hill repeated, Hoo! hoo! hoo!' 'Look here, Bill Gray!' cried Knippercrack; and therewith he kicked the bucket into the shoe of the pump. Bill sprang toward it, but before he reached it, he found himself unaccountably rooted to the spot on which he stood. So strong and potent were the invisi. 6 ble chains which bound him, that he could not move a limb an inch; and to add to his distress, the imp still maintained his position across the nose of the pump, rubbing his hands in great glee, and ever and anon yelling forth his fearful Hoo! hoo! hoo!' * Run for your bucket, Bill !" cried Knippercrack, giving it a kick toward the grave-yard on the hill. Bill, released from the spell which bound him, darted after it Away it went, rolling over tombstones, graves, and tablets; and away went Bill in pursuit, buffeting with the ghosts, giving out and receiving blows, but all in vain; for no sooner did he think he had his bucket safe, than it was snatched away by some invisible hand. Thus it continued, until near morning, and Bill at last gave it up in despair. Leaving the bucket to its fate, he sought his humble dwelling: When the regular troop repaired to the pump, in the morning, to draw their accustomed supplies of water, they found a bucket filled to the brim, suspended under its nose. Our hero often related his adventure, but as none of the good town's people had ever heard of Knippercrack, they all came to the conclusion that Bill must have either been drunk or dreaming. OFT would she sit and look upon the sky, When rich clouds in the golden sunset lay That come like music at the close of day She was gay, A clear transparent color, sat awhile; And round her mouth there play'd a gentle smile, It could not, though it strove, at last beguile; Men love or woman boast of, was decaying, Before the touch of Death, who seem'd delaying, That maiden to his home. At last, arraying Cold and as white as marble: and her eye, Was, after the fashion of mortality, None could withstand, were gone; and there did lie 32 VOL. XII. |