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toes, and to leave the rest to Providence. He accordingly plowed and dug and manured his ground in the best manner, and then confidently awaited the result.

"Some of his neighbors now determined to humor his fancy. So one bright moonlight night when Jones was sleeping as only a man can sleep who feels that his own personal responsibilities have all been met, the neighbors assembled and planted the field with the best 'pink-eyes,' and took (heir departure before break of day.

"In due course of time the dark green leaves made their appearance above the surface of the rich soil. Jones took it quite as a matter of course, and went on doing his duty by faithful weeding and hoeing. When harvest-time came, there was not such a yield within a circuit of ten miles. Mr. Jones, Mrs. Jones, and all the little Joneses lived in clover all the next winter, and in the spring he had potatoes for seed and to spare.

"However, he concluded, since he had succeeded so well before, to put his trust in Providence again, in the matter of seed potatoes. But no plants sprang up this season from his well-prepared field. Hoeing time came, but there were no potatoes to hoe; and at harvest-time a very slight experiment in digging was sufficient to convince him that the coveted edible was altogether wanting.

"Jones, having made this unweleome discovery, was sitting upon the fence in a disconsolate mood, when one of the neighbors passed, who had the year before enacted the part of Providence, and to whom Tom had often expressed his unwavering confidence that the potatoes would in due time make their appearance.

'"Well, Jones, what is your opinion now about Providence V he asked.

"' I'll tell you what it is,' replied Jones, after an interval of reflection,' Providence does well enough now and then upon a pinch; but take one year with another, 'tain't no great shakes, after all, 'cordin' to my way of thinking.'"

An adventure befell a Tennessee poet, which he narrates in very moving verse, but which we must transmute into plain prose. He had been hunting one sultry day, and being very tired, lay down under a shady tree, with his faithful dog by bis side. He there fell asleep, and dreamed the orthodox dream of all young poets. A maiden "beautiful exceedingly" approached him, and after a very brief wooing, expressed a perfect willingness to bless the poet with her affections. Hereupon—but our plain prose can not do justice to the denouement, so we must give it in the poet's own verse:

"I kissed her, but—Oh! shocking!
1 kissed a beard so rough!
Surprised, half choked, awaking—

Ah! broken was the charm;
There lay—will you believe it—
My pointer on my arm."

Very likely the following is not new; but it would be difficult to prove that it is not true:

A merchant, whose articulation has a decided tendency in the direction of a lisp, had engaged a clerk who was not aware of his vocal peculiarity.

"John," said the merchant, who wished to lay in his winter stock of pork; "go out and buy for me l«o or three thowt and pigs."

"Yes, sir," said John, much elated at the commission.

John returned late at night, looking as though he had performed a hard day's work.

"Did you get them?" asked the merchant.

"Only a part of them," was the reply. "1 bought all I could find; but there were only eight hundred to be had."

"Eight hundred! Eight hundred what, thir?" asked the astounded lispor.

"Eight hundred pigs," was the reply. "Ydu told me to buy two or three thousand pigs; but they are not to be found."

"Two or three thousand pigs! I didn't tell you to do any thuch thupid thing. I thaid you thould buy two or three thows and pigs," explained the merchant.

"That's just what I said," answered the clerk. "Two or three thousand pigs , and I bought all I could find."

The merchant now began to perceive the origin of the mistake. It was apparently a costly joke; but there was no remedy. The pigs had been fairly bought; and there was no way but to make the best of a bad bargain. The grunters were duly paid for, and shut up to be fattened for market. It happened that pork took a sudden rise at that time; so that the merchant realized a large profit on his involuntary investment.

In one of the western counties of this State resides an individual who is by common consent hailed as "Judge." The manner in which this title was acquired was thus:

He was a member of a jury who had been empanneled to fix the damages to be awarded in consequence of defendant's swine making an inroad upon plaintiff's potato-patch. The counsel on both sides had had a good time in examining and cross-examining the principal witness in the case. At last our hero, who was never backward in coming forward, intimated to the court that there was one point upon which he, as one of the jurors, wished a little information. He was requested to put the question the reply to which would relievo his doubts. "I'd like to ask that ar witness jest one question; and that's a question right onto the p'int. Was them ar potatoes rooted up afore they were planted or arterwards?''

EvKRY body has heard of the gentleman who described his country seat as having a " Lemonade" in front, a " Porto-rico" to each wing, a " Pizarro" in the rear, with an "Aneedote" by which the water was conveyed into a " Resurrection" in the " Erie." If we had ever heard of that gentleman's having taken up his residence south of Mason and Dixon's line, we should have no doubt that he was identical witli the one who, as a Louisiana correspondent narrates, thus announced some contemplated architectural improvements:

"I contend," said he, "among other 'pusillanimous' things, to put a 'Disclosure' around that field, plant a 'Harbor' in the middle, and cut a 'Revenue' up to the door. And then when I have built a ' Perdition' to my house, I shall be able to receive my friends in a ' hostile' manner."

Thanes to our proof-readers wo usually succeed in presenting our own productions and those of our correspondents in a tolerably correct form; and if a slight error does now and then occur, we bear it very philosophically. A brother Editor, however, who had apparently been annoyed by some "printer's blunders," undertook to show the compositors by a practical demonstration that with proper care, there need be no errors in the proof, and that the services of a reader might be dispensed with. Here follows a " proof" of his initial effort, which he had the grace to insert uncorrected in his paper:

This is oar grsT ejnort at Tygesattiny—we presume that it wirt show that wo cau learn /ast. we sro serf. ttniSht too. we Want no holp, we Mill hove it right wrtqout assistancE. j,hc droof will nead no correciton, we donj intend to try eaary day! but we will the printejs kno& that thai we are ' 'ona off Mem." talk about tuo arj. oj drinting! it is fust is aasy as rolliiVg oju a iog

This does not look quite correct; but every proofreader can bear witness that he has often had to correct a proof quite as foul as that.

Ponch, some years ago, hit off the office-beggars who beset a new administration for places of profit if not " trust," in the following specimen of a letter to Lord Lyndhurst:

"My Loan—1 am an Irishman, in the direst distress. To say tbat I am an Irishman is, 1 know, a passport to the innermost recesses of your soul. 1 want something of about three hundred pounds per annum, but I will not refuse four hundred. At present, however, I am destitute, and terribly out of sorts. You will havo some idea of my condition, when I tell you tbat 1 have not tasted food these six weeks, and that I am so disastrously off for clothing, that the elbows of my shin are hanging out of the knees of my breeches!

'' P.S. Don't mind the hole in the bearer's trowsers: he is trustworthy."

To this missive the "noble lord" replied:

"sir—That you are an Irishman is a sufficient passport to my fireside—my purse—my heart. Come—never mind the shirt. With or without conventional ornament, you will be equally well received by

"Your devoted, Lynnhubst."

It may be added—in " point of fact" it ought to be added—that the writer "went very often to his lordship's house, but as often as he went, just so often was "his lordship not at 'ome."

It would be pleasant if not " light reading," to run over the letters and recommendations for office, which lie unopened in the waste-baskets of our President and his Secretaries at this moment, from "influential" political associates and friends!

If representations upon the stage of Shakspearo's great characters have elicited high admiration, and produced the most wonderful effects upon rapt, listening auditors, it is equally certain that the uses to which the stago has been frequently devoted, have made it a laughing-stock to those who expected personations of nature upon it. This is often the case with melodramatic performances, and always the case, to our conception, in the ballet. It has been objected to opera, even (where you have the soul of music to aid scenic effects, and the acting of passion) that it was unnatural and foolish; because no one would go out and sing to another "before company," with whom he was very angry, and pronounce him a "sc-sc-ound-rel," and the like, in a voice like the tearing of a strong rag.

But the ballet—the pantomimic ballet—is of all things the most ridiculous. If you don't agree with us, read the subjoined; taking in, first of all, the "stage-effects" of the speaking or melodramatic "artist:"

"The effect of his union of physical and moral power is astounding. Now he spreads an ocean over the scenic area, and ' they that go down to the sea in ships,' to do stage-business in the great waters, are drowned in the sight of the audience; now, by a blast of gunpowder, he destroys a host of con

spirators; and anon he restores the principal with a clap of thunder. We look forward, as the wag to Monk Lewis, for the production of some play, in which a water-spout shall be introduced, or a fall of snow, three or four feet deep, wherein the plot shall unfold itself by means of a general thaw! Care should be taken that the man who snows should not overstep the modesty of nature, after the manner of a careless subordinate, who, in snowing a violent storm one night at the principal theatre of a sister city, used up his fine materiel too early, and began to pour down paper-flakes two or three inches square, and finally rounded off with halfsheets, and, vexed at the prompter's importunity for' more snow,' finished with a ' bundle,' in the ream!

"One should not look, however, for too close an imitation of real life nowadays, in mimic scenes and personations. It would be in bad taste. The following, from a late English magazine, represents the manner in which the 'mirror is held up to nature' in the life-like performances of the French ballet:

"The scene is a beautiful wooded country in France, with a cottage on one side; lively music; Mr. Gilbert comes on as a peasant, in a blue satin jacket, with white silk sleeves, tight white breeches, and silk stockings, which prove that he has not been to plow that morning at any rate: he taps at the cottage-door, and Miss Ballin looks out at the window, and although it is just sunrise, she is up and dressed, with flowers in her hair, with a closefitting velvet bodice and gauze petticoat made very full, and quite enough bustle to keep up the interest of the ballet. He lifts up his leg as high as he possibly can, and asks her to be so obliging as to come down and dance with hira. She says she has no particular objection, and leaves the window to descend the stairs, or ladder which leads to her cockloft. The swain now gathers a nosegay all ready tied up; twirls round several times, to see that he is all right; hears the door of the cottage opening, trips across to give his bouquet to his love, when it is snatched by Miss Ballin's mother, who reprehends the conduct of Mr. Gilbert for coming a-courting at that time of day, tells him to go and work for his bread, and not bp idling about there. The rustic swain asks the old lady to feci how terribly his heart beats; the mother informs Mr. Gilbert that his head is more likely to feel the beating: Says he,' at my heart I've a beating;' Says I,' then take one at your back.' She drives him off, and then goes to market. Mr. Gilbert presently reappears, and clapping his hands, eight of his young companions appear. All these are in such an independent state in happy France that they are enabled to quit their village toil; and the most singular circumstance is, that all eight are accidentally attired exactly alike, with pink vests, straw-hats, and light blue smalls, with a black stripe down the seam.

"Of these youths the first named is about sixty years of age, and the latter approaching seventythree, which renders it the more kind of them to come out and fatigue themselves at that time in the morning. There appears an excellent reason for their complaisance, because eight young female villagers, also dressed alike (excepting one unfortunate, who has mislaid her white silk shoes, and is obliged to venture out in black prunella, thereby disarranging the uniformity which is so pleasing in well-regulated hamlets) come now to tie rendezvous. Eaoh youthful swain in a moment selects his partner. Then all the sixteen point simultaneously to the cottage, and then touch their hearts and wedding-ring fingers, and then point to Mr. Gilbert, who shrugs his shoulders, extends his arms widely, and nods."

The annexed beautiful and touching extract purports to come from a "Discourse on the Mission of Little Children:"

"No one feels the death of a child as a mother feels it. The father can not realize it thus. True, there is a vacancy in his home, and a heaviness in his heart. There is a chain of association that at set times comes round with its broken link; there are memories of endearment, a keen sense of loss, a weeping over crushed hopes, and a pain of wounded affection.

"But the mother feels that one has been taken away who was still closer to her heart. Hers has been the office of constant ministration. Every gradation of feature developed before her eyes; she detected every new gleam of infant intelligence; she heard the first utterance of every stammering word; she was the refuge of its fears, the supply of its wants; and every task of affection wove a new link, and made dear to her its object. And when her child dies, a portion of her own life, as it were, dies with it. How can she give her darling up, with all these loving memories, these fond associations? The timid hands that have so often taken hers in trust and love, how can she fold them on its sinless breast, and surrender them to the cold grasp of Death. The feet whose wanderings she has watched so narrowly, how can she see them straightened to go down into the dark valley? The head that she has pressed to her lips and bosom, that she has watched in peaceful slumber and burning sickness, a hair of which she could not see harmed, oh how can she consign it to the darkness of the grave? It was a gleam of sunshine, and a voice of perpetual gladness in her home; she had learned from it blessed lessons of simplicity, sincerity, purity, faith; it had unsealed within her a gushing, never-ebbing tide of affection; when suddenly it was taken away, and that home is left dark and silent: and to the vain and heartrending aspiration, 'shall that dear child never return again?' there breaks in response through the cold gray silence,' Never more !—oh, never more!' The heart is like a forsaken mansion, and that word goes echoing through its desolate chambers."

While speaking of the death of children, these quaint and touching lines by Lydgate, an early English poet, come familiarly to the mind: "Ah, weladay! most angelike of face, A childe, young in his pore innocence, Tender of limbes, God wole full guitilesse, The goodly Cairo that lieth here speechless*. A mouth he has, but wordis hath he none; Can not complain, alas! for none outrage, Ne grutcheth not, but lies here all alone, Still as a lambe, most meke of his visage: What heart of Steele could do him damage, Or suffer him die, beholding the manere, And look benign of his twin oyen clere 1"

"We are enjoined, upon grave authority," says a witty English poet, in a letter to a friend, herself a distinguished poetess, "to 'put off the old man.' I should be very happy to do so if I could. At present, however, I am flying in the face of Scripture, and 'putting it on.' Alas! I am growing old!"

The author of the following lines, penned when the writer was seventy-eight years of age, does not seem to regard his case as at all pity-worthy. And

with such a young spirit in his bosom, one can hardly see why he should:

"Tes, I am old ; my strength declines,
And wrinkles tell the touch of Tune;
Yet might I fancy these the signs

Not of decay, but manhood's prime;
For all within is young and glowing,
Spite of old age's outward showing.

"Yes, I am old; Ambition's call,

Fame, wealth, distinction's keen pursuit,
That once could charm and cheat mc—all

Are now detected, passive, mute.
Thank God! the passions and their riot
Are bartered for content and quiet.

"Yes, I am old; but as I press

The vale of years with willing feet,''
Still do I find life's sorrows less,

And sll its hallowed joys more sweet;
Since Time, for every rose he snatches,
Takes fifty thorns, with all their scratches.

"Yes, I am old! Experience now

That best of guides, hath made me sage;
And tbus instructed, I avow
My firm conviction that old age,
4 Of all our various terms of living

Deserves the wannest, best thanksgiving."

"It is a benevolent provision of nature," said the eloquent and lamented Henry Bascom, " that in old age the memory enjoys a second spring; and that, while we forget all passing occurrences, many of which are but painful concomitants of old age, we have a vivid and delightful recollection of all the pleasures of youth. Objects become shadowy to the bodily eye as they become more remote, but to the mental eye of age the most distant are the most distinct. A man of eighty may forget that he was seventy, but he never forgets that he was once a boy. Who can doubt the immortality of the soul, when we see that the mind can thus pass out of bodily decrepitude into a state of rejuvenescence V

A Oreat many aneedotes—and some of them very amusing—are told of Jarvis, the celebrated portrait-painter, a man of rare genius and genuine humor, known and remembered by hundreds of our elder fellow-citizens. The following, which is pronounced to be entirely authentie, is one of them:

"A gentleman's son who had a vain imagination that he could make a great painter, although in his multiplied attempts he could scarcely hit the difference between a horse and a jackass, and—at least on paper—could sketch only a very faint resemblance of either, besought his father to withdraw him from college, and to allow him to study the art.

"The latter, after much remonstrance, consented, and sent a slight hint to the painter Jarvis.

"' Go,' said he; 'if he is willing to instruct you, you shall have every advantage.'

"The youthful genius flew overjoyed to the artist, whom he found in his studio, and who received him with a most encouraging aspect, applauded his intentions and his enthusiasm, and willingly consented to promote his studies.

"' Come,' said he, 'in the first place you shall sketch some things, that we may form a rough estimate of your talents.'

"The ' genius' went to work, and drew a human figure, which looked like a geological specimen.

"' I see, I see,' said Jarvis, squinting equivocally over his shoulder; 'you must begin with First Principles, and gradually ascend. In this way, should you continue to rise, you will at length reach the top of the ladder!'

"Jarvis then set the young man to cleaning a multitude of brushes: this was the first step, and took him half a day.

"4 That is very well done,' said the painter, when the young roan's task was completed. 'you shall now grind some paints in a mortar, which is a preliminary step of the first importance.'

"This was the patient job of a whole day. On the third day, when he was to be inducted into the composition of colors, that youthful genius turned his back on the very threshold of the art, on the ground that he could 'better subserve the interests of philanthropy.'

"In a week after he was a freshman in Yale College, describing with a poor faculty the 'Asses' Bridge' in Ca;sar, and drawing awkwardly on a blackboard the diagram of the fifth proposition of the First Book of Euclid."

It was shrewdly suspected at the time that there was " an understanding" between the young gentleman's father and the painter, and it "came nigh to be thought so" subsequently, when the whole thing "leaked out." However, a bad painter was nipped in the bud, and a good lawyer substituted for a Daubson.

There ensues a description of" Treating a Case Actively," which made the collector of this omniumgatherum shake his sides, at the same time that it struck him as one of the most effective temperance stories he had met with for many a long day. The tale is told by a physician, who had been called in great haste to attend a "gentleman of respectabil ity," who had been discovered in his room lying senseless on the floor.

He found his " patient" in great distress of mind.

"What is the matter with Mr. H 1" asked

the Doctor.

"I am afraid it is apoplexy," said his wife; "I found him lying upon the floor, as if he had suddenly fallen from his chair. His face is purple, and he breathes with great difficulty."

The Doctor examines the "patient," and finds this report correct; although he sees no clear indications of any actual or approaching congestion of the brain.

'' Hadn't he better be bled, Doctor?" asked the anxious wife.

"I don't know that it is necessary," replied the Doctor; "I think if we let him alone it will pass off in the course of a few hours."

"A few hours! he may die in half an hour!" said the wife.

"I don't think the case is so dangerous, madam," remarked the Doctor.

"Apoplexy not dangerous!" said she.

The Doctor delicately hinted that it might possibly have been drinking too much brandy.

"No, Doctor," she said, "the disease is more deeply seated than that: surely I should know. He had better be bled. Won't you bleed him, Doctor?"

Thus urged, the Doctor took from him about eight ounces of blood, but still he lay insensible.

"Something elee must be done," urged his wife; "if he isn't relieved very soon, he must die!"

The Doctor was not the regular family physician, and felt his position to be a difficult one; he was therefore firm in his resolution not to do any thing more for the patient until the family doctor came.

At length he arrived, and the two doctors conversed aside for a few moments, and then proceeded to the bedside of the patient.

There were still no signs of approaching consciousness.

"Don't you think his head ought to be shaved and blistered?" asked the wife anxiously.

"Yes, by all means," said the Doctor. "Send for the barber and a blister at once."

The barber came; the head was shaved, and the blister applied.

For two hours the burning blister parched the poor man's skin; but finally the pain ceased, and he slept. When he awoke, his first exclamation was,

"What's the matter with my head? It feels as if it was scalded. Where's my hair? And what's my arm tied up for in this way V

His wife told him to be quiet, and he sunk back on his pillow with a sullen groan. Presently, however, he said to his wife,

"Sarah, why in the name of goodness did you let the doctors butcher me in this way f"

"It was to save your life, dear."

"Save thed—1!"

"Hush, dear'. every thing depends upon your being quiet."

He only moaned, " Too bad! too bad!"

Now the facts of the case were, that he couldn't take wine nor strong drink without being tempted into excess. To tee, was to taste—to taste, was to fall. At last his friends urged him to shut himself up at home for a certain time, and see if total abstinence would not give him strength.

He got on very well for a few days—particularly so, as his coachman kept a well-filled bottle for him in the carriage-house, to which he not unfrequently resorted; but a too ardent devotion to the bottle brought on the supposed apoplexy. The cure was effectual!

The patient kept quiet on the subject, and bore his shaven head upon his shoulders with as much philosophy as he could muster. A wig, after the sores had disappeared that had been made by the blister, concealed the barber's work until his own hair had grown again. He never ventured upon wine or brandy afterward, for fear of apoplexy.

When the truth leaked out—as all such things will—his friends had nmny a hearty laugh, but they wisely concealed from the object of their merriment the fact that they knew any thing more than appeared of the cause of his supposed illness.

The following incident, it is authoritatively alleged, actually occurred at one of our Broadway hotels, not a hundred'years ago:

A "gentleman" who had been "participating" a little too freely at dinner, was about to leave town by one of the Hudson river steamboats. A fine lobster-salad, of which he had last partaken, had suggested to him the purchase of a lobster to take home with him. He ordered the servant boy to buy him a fine large one, which was at once obtained. He had only a small carpet-bag for his luggage, and into this he directed the servant to thrust the lobster. The waiter came down, saying that he couldn't do it.

This roused the gentleman's ire. He told the waiter to follow him up to his room, and see him do it. But this was to do one of those things which Paul said were "not convenient." There was not room for the fish, and he violently "opposed the motion."

Asa last resort, the lobster was tied up in a strong brown-paper wrapper, carried down with the carpetbag to the boat, and placed in a corner of the gentleman's berth.

But "look you what befell!" In the night the lobster escaped; one of his claws had become unpegged, and he had crawled up to the head of the berth, and seized his owner by the car, who, awaking suddenly from his maudlin sleep, roused the whole boat with cries of " Murder! murder!"

It was a scene to be long remembered by the many who were made to witness it!

Werster's Dictionary has at least one advantage over others; there is more overcoming of the difference between sight and sound to the reader—a great advantage to any person, but an especial relief to foreigners learning our language. Surely there are enough words in our language that can not be changed in their pronunciation, without perpetuating the number of those that can be changed, and changed for the better.

At a collegiate exhibition, some years ago, the following story was told, in illustration of the difficulty which a foreigner encounters in learning to pronounce the English language, whose orthography is so much at variance with its elementary sounds:

"The gentleman said, that the first time he ever visited London, he caught cold on the passage. He had studied English at the French University, and made about as much progress in giving correct sounds to the words as a green Yankee might be supposed to do in the French tongue, with nothing but a dictionary for a guide. Some things he knew, and some things he didn't know; one thing he knew, however, and that was, that he needed a physician to cure his cold.

"Accordingly he sent for a physician; and wishing to show Dr. John Bull how well he could talk English, he took a dictionary, and found that'toux' was 'cough' in the latter tongue.

"' Co-u-g-h!' spelled the Frenchman: 'how they say that?—eh? 0, I have him! "P-l-o-u-g-h" is plow, and e-o-u-g-h is cow: ah, I have a cowV

"The Doctor entered, and began to feel his pulse, and found that all was right.

"4 I aves no troubles dtre' said the Frenchman: 'I aves got de cow V

"' Well, I am not a cow-doctor' said the surgeon, indignantly; 'why do you send to me to visit your cow V

"' But you shall not understand me!' said the disconcerted Frenchman ; 'here is my cow—here!' and he thumped his breast in desperation that he could not be comprehended.

"The Doctor shook his head, as though he thought him demented.

"The Frenchman again had recourse to his dictionary; thinking that if he could get the precise locality of his 'cow,' the Doctor could not fail to understand him. Accordingly he looked for the 'chest,' and found the definition to be 4 a box :then, shouting as loud as a Frenchman always does when excited, he exclaimed:

"' Now you understands ?—eh? I got a cow in my box I'

"The Doctor burst into a roar of laughter, and the poor Frenchman almost died of chagrin.

"When the Frenchman told the story, the audience were perfectly convulsed; and they 'roared again,' when he added:

''' If you can do any thing for my "coir," it will be great thing!'"

The following aneedote of the eccentric Lorenzo Dow, of whom every body has heard, is not only exceedingly characteristie, but is authentic:

Dow, in one of his quaint, original discourses, declared that ha had "known sinners who were so very wicked that they had actually burst."

This statement threw an old, ignorant, and fat impenitent present into a state of great alarm and perspiration, and he went home in mortal terror. At night, in the horror of his anticipated explosion, he rolled about until he could no longer bear it. He fancied he was already swelling!

He rose and attempted to dress himself. Who can paint his consternation, when he found that he could but just strain the garments over his limbs, and even then they would not meet! He was suffering a rapid and fatal sin-dropsy: his iniquities were coming to light. He screamed in the agony of his fear; and a lamp being brought in, he found that in his haste he had put on his brother's clothes!

The impression, however, it is stated by the informant (himself a clergyman), was a favorable one. It changed the whole course of the terrified culprit's after conduct.

Probably Dow had, as usual, some odd similitude in his mind, but he was taken literally by this alarmed hearer.

We hope there are many old-fashioned people among the readers of the " Drawer," who have not outlived the desire to be useful, in their day and generation, who will peruse these adroitly-sarcastic lines with pleasure. We transcribe them from a rare depository of similar good things, belonging to a fair and refined, although not strictly "fashionable" lady, as fashion is considered "nowadays:"


* * Alas! how every thing has changed

Since 1 was sweet sixteen,
When ali the girls wore homespun frocks.

And aprons nice and clean;
With bonnets made of braided straw

That tied beneath the chin,
The shawl laid neatly on the neck,

And fastened with a pin.
"I recollect the time when I

Rode father's horse to mill,
Across the meadow, rock, and field,

And up and down the hul:
And when 'our folks' were out at work

tIt never made me thinner),
I jumped upon a horse, bare back,

And earned them their dinner.
"Dear me'. young ladies nowadays

Would almost faint away
To think of riding all alone

In wagon, chaise, or sleigh:
And as for giving 'pa' his meals,

Or helping ' ma' to bake,
Oh dear! 'twould spoil their lily hands,

Though sometimes they make cake.

"When winter came, the maiden's heart

Began to beat and flutter;
Each beau would take his sweetheart out

Sleigh-riding, in a cutter.
Or, if the storm was bleak and cold,

The girls and beaux together
Would meet and have the best of fun,

And ' never mind the weather!'

"But now, indeed it grieves me much

The circumstance te mention,
However kind the young man's heart,

And honest his intention;
He never asks the girls to ride,

But such a man is caged;
And if he sees her once a week,

Why, surely 'they're engaged!'"

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