He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child: then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer; And, as a strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently, and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.



THE BOY ARCHER.

SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

The fire and energy of Tell contrasts nobly with the youthful ambition of his son's young and noble heart. It is a charming exercise, and exceedingly effective when well delivered:

SCENE.—Exterior of TELL'S cottage. Enter ALBERT (TELL'S son) with bow and arrows, and VERNER.

Verner. Ah! Albert! What have you there?

Albert. My bow and arrows, Verner.

Ver. When will you use them like your father, boy?

Alb. Some time, I hope.

Ver. You brag! There's not an archer In all Helvetia can compare with him.

Alb. But I'm his son; and when I am a man I may be like him. Verner, do I brag, To think I some time may be like my father? If so, then is it he that teaches me; For, ever as I wonder at his skill, He calls me boy, and says I must do more Ere I become a man.

Ver. May you be such A man as he—if heaven wills, better—I'll Not quarrel with its work; yet 'twill content me If you are only such a man.

Alb. I'll show you How I can shoot (goes out to fix the mark.)

Ver. Nestling as he is, he is the making of a bird Will own no cowering wing.

Re-enter ALBERT.

Alb. Now, Verner, look! (shoots) There's within An inch!

Ver. Oh, fy! it wants a hand. [Exit VERNER.

Alb. A hand's An inch for me. I'll hit it yet. Now for it.

While ALBERT continues to shoot, TELL enters and watches him some time, in silence.

Tell. That's scarce a miss that comes so near the mark? Well aimed, young archer! With what ease he bends The bow. To see those sinews, who'd believe Such strength did lodge in them? That little arm, His mother's palm can span, may help, anon, To pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat, And from their chains a prostrate people lift To liberty. I'd be content to die, Living to see that day! What, Albert!

Alb. Ah! My father!

Tell. You raise the bow Too fast. (ALBERT continues shooting.) Bring it slowly to the eye.—You've missed. How often have you hit the mark to-day?

Alb. Not once, yet.

Tell. You're not steady. I perceive You wavered now. Stand firm. Let every limb Be braced as marble, and as motionless. Stand like the sculptor's statue on the gate Of Altorf, that looks life, yet neither breathes Nor stirs. (ALBERT shoots) That's better! See well the mark. Rivet your eye to it There let it stick, fast as the arrow would, Could you but send it there. (ALBERT shoots) You've missed again! How would you fare, Suppose a wolf should cross your path, and you Alone, with but your bow, and only time To fix a single arrow? 'Twould not do To miss the wolf! You said the other day, Were you a man you'd not let Gesler live— 'Twas easy to say that. Suppose you, now, Your life or his depended on that shot!— Take care! That's Gesler!—Now for liberty! Right to the tyrant's heart! (hits the mark) Well done, my boy! Come here. How early were you up?

Alb. Before the sun.

Tell. Ay, strive with him. He never lies abed When it is time to rise. Be like the sun.

Alb. What you would have me like, I'll be like, As far as will to labor joined can make me.

Tell. Well said, my boy! Knelt you when you got up To-day?

Alb. I did; and do so every day.

Tell. I know you do! And think you, when you kneel, To whom you kneel?

Alb. To Him who made me, father.

Tell. And in whose name?

Alb. The name of Him who died For me and all men, that all men and I Should live

Tell. That's right. Remember that my son: Forget all things but that—remember that! 'Tis more than friends or fortune; clothing, food; All things on earth; yea, life itself!—It is To live, when these are gone, when they are naught— With God! My son remember that!

Alb. I will.

Tell. I'm glad you value what you're taught. That is the lesson of content, my son; He who finds which has all—who misses, nothing.

Alb. Content is a good thing.

Tell. A thing, the good Alone can profit by. But go, Albert, Reach thy cap and wallet, and thy mountain staff. Don't keep me waiting. [Exit ALBERT.

TELL. paces the stage in thought. Re-enter ALBERT.

Alb. I am ready, father.

Tell. (taking ALBERT by the hand). Now mark me, Albert Dost thou fear the snow, The ice-field, or the hail flaw? Carest thou for The mountain mist that settles on the peak, When thou art upon it? Dost thou tremble at The torrent roaring from the deep ravine, Along whose shaking ledge thy track doth lie? Or faintest thou at the thunder-clap, when on The hill thou art o'ertaken by the cloud, And it doth burst around thee? Thou must travel All night.

Alb. I'm ready; say all night again.

Tell. The mountains are to cross, for thou must reach Mount Faigel by the dawn.

Alb. Not sooner shall The dawn be there than I.

Tell. Heaven speeding thee.

Alb. Heaven speeding me.

Tell. Show me thy staff. Art sure Of the point? I think 'tis loose. No—stay! 'Twill do. Caution is speed when danger's to be passed. Examine well the crevice. Do not trust the snow! 'Tis well there is a moon to-night. You're sure of the track?

Alb. Quite sure.

Tell. The buskin of That leg's untied; stoop down and fasten it. You know the point where you must round the cliff?

Alb. I do.

Tell. Thy belt is slack—draw it tight. Erni is in Mount Faigel: take this dagger And give it him! you know its caverns well. In one of them you will find him. Farewell.



A VENTRILOQUIST ON A STAGE-COACH.

HENRY COCKTON.

"Now then, look alive there!" shouted the coachman from the booking-office door, as Valentine and his Uncle John approached. "Have yow got that are mare's shoe made comfor'ble, Simon!"

"All right, sir," said Simon, and he went round to see if it were so, while the luggage was being secured.

"Jimp up, genelmen!" cried the coachman, as he waddled from the office with his whip in one hand and his huge way-bill in the other; and the passengers accordingly proceeded to arrange themselves on the various parts of the coach,—Valentine, by the particular desire of Uncle John, having deposited himself immediately behind the seat of the coachman.

"If you please," said an old lady, who had been standing in the gateway upwards of an hour, "will you be good enow, please, to take care of my darter?"

"All safe," said the coachman, untwisting the reins. "She shaunt take no harm. Is she going all the way?"

"Yes, sir," replied the old lady; "God bless her! She's got a place in Lunnun, an' I'm told—"

"Hook on them ere two sacks o' whoats there behind," cried the coachman; "I marn't go without 'em this time.—Now, all right there?"

"Good by, my dear," sobbed the old lady, "do write to me soon, be sure you do,—I only want to hear from you often. Take care of yourself."

"Hold hard!" cried the coachman, as the horses were dancing, on the cloths being drawn from their loins. "Whit, whit!" and away they pranced, as merrily as if they had known that their load was nothing when compared with the load they left behind them. Even old Uncle John, as he cried "Good by, my dear boy," and waved his hand for the last time, felt the tears trickling down his cheeks.

The salute was returned, and the coach passed on.

The fulness of Valentine's heart caused him for the first hour to be silent; but after that, the constant change of scene and the pure bracing air had the effect of restoring his spirits, and he felt a powerful inclination to sing. Just, however, as he was about to commence for his own amusement, the coach stopped to change horses. In less than two minutes they started again, and Valentine, who then felt ready for anything, began to think seriously of the exercise of his power as a ventriloquist.

"Whit, whit!" said Tooler, the coachman, between a whisper and a whistle, as the fresh horses galloped up the hill.

"Stop! hoa!" cried Valentine, assuming a voice, the sound of which appeared to have travelled some distance.

"You have left some one behind," observed a gentleman in black, who had secured the box seat.

"Oh, let un run a bit!" said Tooler. "Whit! I'll give un a winder up this little hill, and teach un to be up in time in future. If we was to wait for every passenger as chooses to lag behind, we shouldn't git over the ground in a fortnit."

"Hoa! stop! stop! stop!" reiterated Valentine, in the voice of a man pretty well out of breath.

Tooler, without deigning to look behind, retickled the haunches of his leaders, and gleefully chuckled at the idea of how he was making a passenger sweat.

The voice was heard no more, and Tooler, on reaching the top of the hill, pulled up and looked round, but could see no man running.

"Where is he?" inquired Tooler.

"In the ditch!" replied Valentine, throwing his voice behind.

"In the ditch!" exclaimed Tooler. "Blarm me, whereabouts?"

"There," said Valentine.

"Bless my soul!" cried the gentleman in black, who was an exceedingly nervous village clergyman. "The poor person no doubt is fallen down in an absolute state of exhaustion. How very, very wrong of you, coachman, not to stop!"

Tooler, apprehensive of some serious occurrence, got down with the view of dragging the exhausted passenger out of the ditch; but although he ran several hundred yards down the hill, no such person of course could be found.

"Who saw un?" shouted Tooler, as he panted up the hill again.

"I saw nothing," said a passenger behind, "but a boy jumping over the hedge."

Tooler looked at his way-bill, counted the passengers, found them all right, and, remounting the box, got the horses again into a gallop, in the perfect conviction that some villanous young scarecrow had raised the false alarm.

"Whit! blarm them 'ere boys!" said Tooler, "'stead o' mindin' their crows, they are allus up to suffen. I only wish I had un here, I'd pay on to their blarmed bodies; if I would n't—" At this interesting moment, and as if to give a practical illustration of what he would have done in the case, he gave the off-wheeler so telling a cut round the loins that the animal without any ceremony kicked over the trace. Of course Tooler was compelled to pull up again immediately; and after having adjusted the trace, and asking the animal seriously what he meant, at the same time enforcing the question by giving him a blow on the bony part of the nose, he prepared to remount; but just as he had got his left foot upon the nave of the wheel, Valentine so admirably imitated the sharp snapping growl of a dog in the front boot, that Tooler started back as quickly as if he had been shot, while the gentleman in black dropped the reins and almost jumped into the road.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed the gentleman in black, trembling with great energy; "How wrong, how very horribly wrong, of you, coachman, not to tell me that a dog had been placed beneath my feet."

"Blarm their carcases!" cried Tooler, "they never told me a dog was shoved there. Lay down! We'll soon have yow out there together!"

"Not for the world!" cried the gentleman in black, as Tooler approached the foot-board in order to open it. "Not for the world! un-un-un-less you le-le-let me get down first. I have no desire to pe-pe-perish of hydropho-phobia."

"Kip yar fut on the board then, sir, please," said Tooler, "we'll soon have the varmint out o' that." So saying, he gathered up the reins, remounted the box, and started off the horses again at full gallop.

The gentleman in black then began to explain to Tooler how utterly inconceivable was the number of persons who had died of hydrophobia within an almost unspeakable short space of time, in the immediate vicinity of the residence of a friend of his in London; and just as he had got into the marrow of a most excruciating description of the intense mental and physical agony of which the disease in its worst stage was productive, both he and Tooler suddenly sprang back, with their feet in the air, and their heads between the knees of the passengers behind them, on Valentine giving a loud growling snap, more bitingly indicative of anger than before.

As Tooler had tightly hold of the reins when he made this involuntary spring, the horses stopped on the instant, and allowed him time to scramble up again without rendering the slow process dangerous.

"I cannot, I-I-I positively cannot," said the gentleman in black, who had been thrown again into a dreadful state of excitement, "I cannot sit here,—my nerves cannot endure it; it's perfectly shocking."

"Blister their bowls!" exclaimed Tooler, whose first impulse was to drag the dog out of the boot at all hazards, but who, on seeing the horses waiting in the road a short distance ahead for the next stage, thought it better to wait till he had reached them. "I'll make un remember this the longest day o' thar blessed lives,—blarm un! Phih! I'll let un know when I get back, I warrant. I'll larn un to—"

"Hoa, coachman! hoa! my hat's off!" cried Valentine, throwing his voice to the back of the coach.

"Well, may I be—phit!" said Tooler. "I'll make yow run for't anyhow—phit!"

In less than a minute the coach drew up opposite the stable, when the gentleman in black at once proceeded to alight. Just, however, as his foot reached the plate of the roller-bolt, another growl from Valentine frightened him backwards, when falling upon one of the old horse-keepers, he knocked him fairly down, and rolled over him heavily.

"Darng your cloomsy carkus," cried the horse-keeper, gathering himself up, "carn't you git oof ar cooarch aroat knocking o' pipple darn?"

"I-I-I beg pardon," tremblingly observed the gentleman in black; "I hope I-I—"

"Whoap! pardon!" contemptuously echoed the horse-keeper as he limped towards the bars to unhook the leaders' traces.

"Now then, yow warmint, let's see who yow belong to," said Tooler, approaching the mouth of the boot; but just as he was in the act of raising the foot-board, another angry snap made him close it again with the utmost rapidity.

"Lay down! blarm your body!" cried Tooler, shrinking back. "Here, yow Jim, kim here, bor, and take this 'ere devil of a dog out o' that."

Jim approached, and the growling was louder than before, while the gentleman in black implored Jim to take care that the animal didn't get hold of his hand.

"Here, yow Harry!" shouted Jim, "yare noot afeared o' doogs together,—darng un, I doont like un."

Accordingly Harry came, and then Sam, and then Bob, and then Bill; but as the dog could not be seen, and as the snarling continued, neither of them dared to put his hand in to drag the monster forth. Bob therefore ran off for Tom Titus the blacksmith, who was supposed to care for nothing, and in less than two minutes Tom Titus arrived with about three feet of rod-iron red hot.

"Darng un!" cried Tom, "this ere 'll maake un quit together!"

"Dear me! my good man," said the gentleman in black, "don't use that unchristian implement! don't put the dumb thing to such horrible torture!"

"It don't siggerfy a button," cried Tooler, "I marn't go to stop here all day. Out he must come."

Upon this Tom Titus introduced his professional weapon, and commenced poking about with considerable energy, while the snapping and growling increased with each poke.

"I'll tell you what it is," said Tom Titus, turning round and wiping the sweat off his brow with his naked arm, "this here cretur here's stark raavin' mad."

"I knew that he was," cried the gentleman in black, getting into an empty wagon which stood without horses just out of the road; "I felt perfectly sure that he was rabid."

"He 's a bull-terrier too," said Tom Titus, "I knows it by 's growl. It 's the worsest and dargdest to go maad as is."

"Well, what shall us do wi' th' warment?" said Tooler.

"Shoot him! shoot him!" cried the gentleman in black.

"O, I 've goot a blunderbus, Bob!" said Tom Titus, "yow run for 't together, it 's top o' the forge."

Bob started at once, and Tom kept on the bar, while Tooler, Sam, and Harry, and Bob held the heads of the horses.

"He 's got un; all right!" cried Tom Titus, as Bob neared the coach with the weapon on his shoulder. "Yow 'll be doon in noo time," he added as he felt with his rod to ascertain in which corner of the boot the bull-terrier lay.

"Is she loarded?" asked Bob, as he handed Tom Titus the instrument of death.

"Mind you make the shot come out at bottom," shouted Tooler.

"I hool," said Tom Titus, putting the weapon to his shoulder. "Noo the Loord ha' marcy on yar, as joodge says sizes," and instantly let fly.

The horses of course plunged considerably, but still did no mischief; and before the smoke had evaporated, Valentine introduced into the boot a low melancholy howl, which convinced Tom Titus that the shot had taken effect.

"He 's giv oop the ghost; darng his carkus!" cried Tom, as he poked the dead body in the corner.

"Well, let 's have a look at un," said Tooler, "let 's see what the warment is like."

The gentleman in black at once leaped out of the wagon, and every one present drew near, when Tom, guided by the rod which he had kept upon the body, put his hand into the boot, and drew forth a fine hare that had been shattered by the shot all to pieces.

"He arn't a bull-terrier," cried Bob.

"But that arn't he," said Tom Titus. "He 's some'er aboot here as dead as a darng'd nail. I know he 's a corpse."

"Are you sure on 't?" asked Tooler.

"There arn't any barn door deader," cried Tom. "Here, I'll lug um out an' show yar."

"No, no!" shouted Tooler, as Tom proceeded to pull out the luggage. "I marn't stay for that. I 'm an hour behind now, blarm un! jimp up, genelmen!"

Tom Titus and his companions, who wanted the bull-terrier as a trophy, entreated Tooler to allow them to have it, and, having at length gained his consent, Tom proceeded to empty the boot. Every eye was, of course, directed to everything drawn out, and when Tom made a solemn declaration that the boot was empty, they were all, at once, struck with amazement. Each looked at the other with astounding incredulity, and overhauled the luggage again and again.

"Do you mean to say," said Tooler, "that there arn't nuffin else in the boot?"

"Darnged a thing!" cried Tom Titus, "coom and look." And Tooler did look, and the gentleman in black looked, and Bob looked, and Harry looked, and Bill looked, and Sam looked, and all looked, but found the boot empty.

"Well, blarm me!" cried Tooler. "But darng it all, he must be somewhere!"

"I' ll taake my solum davy," said Bill, "that he was there."

"I seed um myself," exclaimed Bob, "wi' my oarn eyes, an' didn't loike the looks on um a bit."

"There cannot," said the gentleman in black, "be the smallest possible doubt about his having been there; but the question for our mature consideration is, where is he now?"

"I 'll bet a pint," said Harry, "you blowed um away?"

"Blowed um away, you fool!—how could I ha' blowed um away?"

"Why, he was there," said Bob, "and he baint there noo, and he baint here nayther, so you mus ha' blowed um out o' th' boot; 'sides, look at the muzzle o' this ere blunderbust!"

"Well, of all the rummest goes as ever happened," said Tooler, thrusting his hands to the very bottom of his pockets, "this ere flogs 'em all into nuffin!"

"It is perfectly astounding!" exclaimed the gentleman in black, looking again into the boot, while the men stood and stared at each other with their mouths as wide open as human mouths could be.

"Well, in wi' 'em agin," cried Tooler, "in wi' 'em!—Blarm me if this here arn't a queer un to get over."

The luggage was accordingly replaced, and Tooler, on mounting the box, told the men to get a gallon of beer, when the gentleman in black generously gave them half a crown, and the horses started off, leaving Tom with his blunderbuss, Harry, Bill, Sam, and their companions, bewildered with the mystery which the whole day spent in the alehouse by no means enabled them to solve.



THERE'S BUT ONE PAIR OF STOCKINGS TO MEND TO-NIGHT.

Recite this in a simple unaffected manner; carefully avoiding anything like rant. At times the voice should sink tremulously low, as the good dame recalls memories of her departed children:

An old wife sat by her bright fireside, Swaying thoughtfully to and fro, In an ancient chair whose creaky frame Told a tale of long ago; While down by her side, on the kitchen floor, Stood a basket of worsted balls—a score.

The old man dozed o'er the latest news, Till the light of his pipe went out, And, unheeded, the kitten, with cunning paws, Rolled and tangled the balls about; Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair, Swaying to and fro, in the firelight glare.

But anon a misty tear-drop came In her eye of faded blue, Then trickled down in a furrow deep, Like a single drop of dew; So deep was the channel—so silent the stream— The good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam.

Yet he marvelled much that the cheerful light Of her eye had weary grown, And marvelled he more at the tangled balls; So he said in a gentle tone, "I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow, Conceal not from me thy sorrows now."

Then she spoke of the time when the basket there Was filled to the very brim, And how there remained of the goodly pile But a single pair—for him. "Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light, There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

"I cannot but think of the busy feet, Whose wrappings were wont to lie In the basket, awaiting the needle's time, Now wandered so far away; How the sprightly steps to a mother dear, Unheeded fell on the careless ear.

"For each empty nook in the basket old, By the hearth there's a vacant seat; And I miss the shadows from off the wall, And the patter of many feet; 'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

"'Twas said that far through the forest wild, And over the mountains bold, Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves Were gemmed with the rarest gold; Then my first-born turned from the oaken door, And I knew the shadows were only four.

"Another went forth on the foaming waves And diminished the basket's store— But his feet grew cold—so weary and cold— They'll never be warm any more— And this nook in its emptiness, seemeth to me To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea.

"Two others have gone towards the setting sun, And made them a home in its light, And fairy fingers have taken their share To mend by the fireside bright; Some other baskets their garments fill— But mine! Oh, mine is emptier still.

"Another—the dearest—the fairest—the best— Was ta'en by the angels away, And clad in a garment that waxeth not old, In a land of continual day. Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light, While I mend the one pair of stockings to-night."



A LOVE OF A BONNET

(FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY.)

CHARACTERS.

MRS. CLIPPER, a Widow. KITTY, her Daughter. AUNT JEMIMA HOPKINS, a leetle inquisitive. MRS. HORTENSIA FASTONE, very genteel. DORA, her Daughter. KATY DOOLAN, Irish Help.

SCENE.—Room in MRS. CLIPPER'S House. Lounge, L.; Chairs, C.; Table and Rocking-chair, Looking-glass, R.

Enter MRS. CLIPPER and KITTY, R.

Mrs. C. But really, Kitty, I cannot afford it.

Kitty. O, yes, you can, mother; just this once. It's such a love of a bonnet! it's so becoming! and it only costs fifteen dollars.

Mrs. C. Fifteen dollars! Why, child, you are crazy! We cannot afford to be so extravagant. The income derived from the property your dear father left will only allow us to dress in the most economical manner.

Kitty. But this bonnet is not extravagant. Dora Fastone wears a bonnet which cost twenty-five-dollars, and her father has failed five or six times. I don't see why I can't have a new bonnet as well as that proud, stuck-up—

Mrs. C. Hush, my child! never speak ill of our neighbors because they dress better than we do. If they spend money foolishly, we should endeavor to use ours to better purpose. I am sure I should be glad to gratify you, but we have so many expenses. Your music lessons cost a great deal of money; and your brother Harry, off at school, is really suffering for a new suit of clothes. I must send him some money to-day.

Kitty. O, he can wait; he's only a boy; and no one cares how he looks; but young ladies must dress, or they are thought nothing of. O, you must let me have the bonnet, mamma!

Mrs. C. If you have this bonnet, Kitty, Harry must go without his new suit.

Kitty. If you could just see it! It's such a love of a bonnet! Do let me run down and ask Miss Thompson to send it up for you to look at.

Mrs. C. I've no objection to that; and if you think you need it more than Harry does his new suit, why—

Kitty. You'll let me have it. That's a good, dear mother. I know you wouldn't refuse. I'll run to Miss Thompson's. I won't be gone long. I suppose I am selfish; but then, mother, it's such a love of a bonnet. [Exit, L.

Mrs. C. (Sits in a rocking-chair.) Dear child, it is hard to refuse her! But one should be made of money to keep up with the extravagant fashions of the day.

Enter AUNT HOPKINS, R.

Aunt H. Angelina, what on airth have them air Joneses got for dinner? I've sot and sot at that air front winder till I've got a crick in my back a tryin' to find out whether it's lamb or mutton. It's something roasted, anyhow.

Mrs. C. Aunt Hopkins, you are very inquisitive!

Aunt H. Inquisitive! Law sakes, do hear the child talk! Neow, what harm kin there be in tryin' to find eout what your neighbors have got for dinner? I mean to put on my bunnet and run acrost and see. I know they've got apple dumplin's, for I see the hired gal throw the parin's out into the yard.

Mrs. C. Run across! Don't dream of such a thing!

Aunt H. Well, I'm goin' up stairs to git my specs and have another good look, anyhow; for I'm jest dyin' to know whether it's lamb or mutton. Land sakes! what's the use of livin', ef you can't know how other folks live? [Exit, R.

Mrs. C. Aunt Hopkins!—She's gone! Dear me, she does worry me terribly! What will our neighbors think of us?

Enter KATY DOOLAN, L.

Katy. If you plase, mam, may I coome in?

Mrs. C. Certainly, Katy. What's the matter?

Katy. If you plase, mam, I have a letther; and would you plase rade it for me?

Mrs. C. (Takes letter.) Certainly, Katy. From your lover?

Katy. Indeed, mam, I have no lover. It's my cousin, mam.

Mrs. C. O, your cousin. (Opens letter.) "Light ov my sowl!" Why, this cannot be your cousin.

Katy. Indade, indade, it be, sure! It's only the insinivatin' way he has, mam!

Mrs. C. (Reads.) "Bewitchin' Katy! and how are ye's onyhow? I take my pin in hand to till ye's I am yurs, in good hilth and sphirits; and it's hopin' ye's the same, truly! The pulsitations uv my heart are batin' wid the love I bears ye's, darlin' Katy! the fairest flower—niver mind the blot—that iver bloomed an the family tree uv Phil Doolan uv Tipperary, dead and gone this siven years, bliss his sowl,—and how are ye's? An' by the same token that I loves ye's much, I sind by the ixpriss, freight paid, a new bunnit, which my cousin Biddy Ryan, for my dear love, have made for ye's charmin' Katy Doolan! Wear it nixt ye's heart! And if ye git it before this letther coomes to hand, ye's may know it is from

Your ever sighin', Wid love for ye's dyin', CORNALIUS RYAN.

P.S. If ye's don't resave this letther, sind me word uv mouth by the man who fetches the bunnit."

Mrs. C. That's a very loving epistle.

Katy. Pistol, it is? Faith, I thought it was a letther.

Mrs. C. And so it is; and a very loving one! Your cousin has sent you a new bonnet.

Katy. Is it in the letther, mam!

Mrs. C. It is coming by express.

Katy. Sure, he might sind it in the letther, and save expinse. What will I do?

Mrs. C. Wait patiently until the bonnet arrives.

Katy. Will Cornalius coome wid it?

Mrs. C. I think not. The expressman will bring it.

Katy. Sure, I don't want the ixpressman. It's Cornalius I want.

Mrs. C. This cousin of yours seems very affectionate. Are you going to marry him some day?

Katy. Some day?—yis, mam. He tould me, Would I? and I axed him, Yes. What will I do with the letther, mam?

Mrs. C. Keep it with your treasures. It should be precious to you.

Katy. Faith, thin I'll put it in the savings bank with my money. I'm obliged, to ye's Mrs. Clipper, mam. If you plase, what was that last in the letther?

Mrs. C.

"Your ever sighin', Wid love for ye's dyin', Cornalius Ryan."

Katy. O, don't, ma'am! Ye's make me blush wid the shame I fail. Och! it's a quare darlin', wid all his sighin', is Cornalius Ryan! Och, musha! it's an illigant lad he is, onyhow! [Exit, L.

Mrs. C. So we are to have another new bonnet in the family! Well, Katy is a good girl, and I hope will get a good husband, as well as a new bonnet.

[Exit, L.

Enter AUNT HOPKINS, R., with a bandbox.

Aunt H. It's mutton! I was determined to find eout, and I have! I saw that air Jones boy a playin' in the street, and I asked him what his folks had got for dinner, and he said mutton, and neow I'm satisfied on that air p'int. I wonder what's in this 'ere bandbox! I saw that express cart stop here, and the man said it was for Miss Kitty somebody; of course, Angelina's darter. I do wonder what it is! (Opens box.) Well I declare! A spic span new bunnet! (Takes out a very large, gaudily-trimmed bonnet.) And sich a bunnet! Ribbons and lace, flowers and feathers! Now that's jest what I call a tasty bunnet! I mean to try it on. It'll jest suit my complexion. Law sakes! here comes Kitty! 'Twon't do to let her know I've been at her things! (Puts bonnet back into box, and places it behind the table.)

Enter KITTY, L.,

Kitty. O, aunt Hopkins! Where's mother?

Aunt H. Land sakes! I don't know no more than the child unborn!

Kitty. Dear me! Here are Mrs. Fastone and Dora coming up the steps! What shall I do?

Aunt H. Why, let 'em in, of course!

Kitty. Has my new bonnet come yet?

Aunt H. Indeed it has! And sich a beauty!

Kitty. O, I'm so glad! But where is it?

Aunt H. Down there behind the table. I hain't teched it; only jest took a peep.

Kitty. I'll let Miss Dora see that some people can dress as well as some other people. Aunt Hopkins, you must manage to draw attention to my new bonnet while the visitors are here, to give me an opportunity to show it.

Aunt H. Why, I'll take it right eout the fust hing.

Kitty. No, no! that would be too abrupt. Manage to speak of bonnets; but do not show it until they ask to see it.

Aunt H. Well, I guess I know heow to do it genteelly.

Enter KATY, L.

Katy. Two ladies to see you, miss. (Crosses to R.)

Kitty. Where's mother, Katy?

Katy. Gone to the butcher's, miss. [Exit R.

Aunt H. Butcher's? Wal, I do hope she'll git some mutton, for the Joneses has it; and we ought to be as genteel as our neighbours.

Enter MRS. FASTONE and DORA, L., very elegantly attired.

Mrs. F. My dear child, how do you do?

Kitty. (Shaking hands with her, and afterwards with DORA.) I'm delighted to see you! Hope you are quite well, and Dora.

Mrs. F. Quite well—aren't you, Dora?

Dora. Quite, mamma.

Kitty. Pray be seated, ladies. (They sit on lounge.) Mrs. Hopkins, Mrs. Fastone.

Aunt H. (Steps over and shakes hands.) Hope you are pretty well, ma'am, and you, too, miss, though you do look awful delicate! And how's your husband? He's a broker—ain't he? (Sits in rocking-chair, and keeps it in motion.)

Mrs. F. Yes, Mrs. Hopkins, Mr. Fastone is a broker, engaged day after day in the busy vortex of fluctuating enterprises.

Aunt H. Well, I never hearn tell of that business afore; but I s'pose it's profitable, or you couldn't afford to dress so. Is that a silk or a poplin you've got on?

Kitty. (Brings her chair; sits, C.) Aunt Hopkins!—Mother has stepped out to make a call.

Aunt H. No, she hain't; she's only gone to the butcher's.

Kitty. Aunt Hopkins!—Mrs. Fastone, what is the news?

Mrs. F. Well, really nothing. I am dying of ennui, the world is so quiet; no excitement to move the placid waters of fashionable society—is there, Dora?

Dora. Nothing, mamma.

Mrs. F. Nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to wear,—is there, Dora?

Dora. Nothing, mamma.

Aunt H. Nothing to wear! Yes, there's bunnets.

Kitty. Aunt Hopkins!—Mrs. Fastone, you are quite correct.

Mrs. F. Mrs. Hopkins spoke of bonnets. I have been so disappointed! Thompson had a perfect love of a bonnet that I had quite set my heart upon for Dora; but it is gone, and the poor child is almost broken-hearted—ain't you, Dora?

Dora. Quite, mamma.

Kitty. I am very sorry, for bonnets are so hard to find. I have been very much perplexed about them myself. They are so very commonplace; no air of refinement about them.

Mrs. F. None, whatever—is there, Dora?

Dora. None, mamma.

Kitty. I've just had a new one sent home, but it doesn't suit me.

Aunt H. Why, Kitty, how you talk! It's a regular beauty!

Kitty. Aunt Hopkins!—It is not what I wanted, but Thompson said it was the most stylish she had.

Mrs. F. Thompson! Did you get it of Thompson?

Kitty. Yes, all my bonnets come from Thompson.

Mrs. F. Do let me see it!

Aunt H. (Jumps up.) I'll show it to you right off. It's an eligunt bunnet. (Gets bandbox.)

Kitty. Aunt Hopkins!

Aunt H. Neow don't aunt Hopkins me! for I'm going to show 'em jest how it looks on yer; set still; for if there's anything I pride myself on, it's showin' off a bunnet. (Stands behind KITTY, puts the bonnet on her head, and ties it.) There! ain't that a beauty?

Mrs. F. Why! what a hor—a handsome bonnet! Did you ever see anything like it, Dora?

Dora. Never, mamma!

Aunt H. That's the style, marm.

Mrs. F. Really! I want to know! And this is Thompson's most stylish bonnet! Really, how the fashions do change! Did you ever, Dora!

Dora. Never, mamma!

Kitty. (Aside.) I do believe they are laughing! Aunt Hopkins, I cannot get it off! You've tied it in a hard knot!

Mrs. F. It's very becoming—isn't it, Dora?

Dora. O, very, mamma.

Mrs. F. (Aside to DORA.)—What a horrid fright!

Dora. Frightful, mamma!

Mrs. F. I believe we must be moving, for I must hurry to Thompson's and order just such a bonnet for Dora. Good day. You have such a charming taste—hasn't she, Dora?

Dora. Charming, mamma! (They bow, and exeunt, L., with their handkerchiefs to their mouths, endeavouring to conceal their laughter.)

Kitty. Good day. Call again.—The hateful things! They are laughing at me. What ails this bonnet. (Goes to glass.) Goodness gracious; what a fright! This is not my bonnet. Aunt Hopkins, you've ruined me! I shall be the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood. (Tears off the bonnet.)

Enter MRS. CLIPPER, R.

Mrs. C. Have the Fastones gone?

Kitty. I hope so. O, mother, send aunt Hopkins home; she's made me look ridiculous!

Aunt H. Well, I declare! this comes of trying to please folks!

Mrs. C. Is that your love of a bonnet, Kitty?

Kitty. No, indeed! Aunt Hopkins, where did you get this hateful thing?

Aunt H. Out of that bandbox.

Kitty. (Takes up the cover.) It's marked "Miss Katy Doolan." You've made a pretty mess of it!

Aunt H. Sakes alive! It's the hired gal's! Well, I never!

Mrs. C. But where's the bonnet you sent from Thompson's?

Katy. (Outside.) O, murder! that iver I should say this day!

Enter KATY, R., (holding in her hand an elegant bonnet.)

The mane, stingy blackgurd has sint me this whisp of a bunnet, that I'll niver git on my head at all at all!

Kitty. That's my bonnet!

Katy. Is it, indade? and perhaps ye's be afther claiming the letther Cornalius Ryan sint wid it.

Mrs. C. No, no, Katy; there's a little mistake here. This is your bonnet.

Katy. Faith, now, isn't that a darling, jist! I'll wear it to church to-morrow, sure.

Kitty. Put it on now, Katy; and then take this wisp of a bonnet, as you call it, to Miss Thompson, with my best compliments and tell her I have decided not to keep it.

Mrs. C. Why, Kitty, I thought your heart was set upon having it.

Kitty. So it was, mother; but I shall never dare to wear it, after the ridiculous appearance I have just made. It's too fine for me. My conscience gave me a little twinge as I was coming home. Send Harry the money for his new suit. My old bonnet is quite good enough for me.

Aunt H. Neow that's what I call a self-denyin' gal. I'll fix it up for you; for if there's anything I pride myself on doin', it's fixing up old bunnets.

Kitty. And trying on new ones! No, I thank you, aunt Hopkins. Hereafter I'll look after my bonnets myself. I think our acquaintance with Mrs. Fastone will be broken off by this adventure; and so I will make a merit of necessity, abandon fashionable society, and be more humble in my demeanor and in my dress.

Mrs. C. Ah, my child, you will be better satisfied with your decision, as you grow older, and see how frivolous are the demands of fashion, and how little happiness can be obtained by lavish display. And I think this little adventure, though a severe lesson, will be far more profitable than the possession of that "love of a bonnet."



DRAFTED.

MRS. H.L. BOSTWICK.

The opening stanzas of this poem should be recited in an agitated, broken voice, as though the fond mother could not fully realize the fact of her boy being drafted:—in the end the voice changes to a firmer and gentler tone, as a spirit of resignation fills the mother's heart:

My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books; No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie—as delicate, too, in his looks. Why, it seems but a day since he helped me girl-like, in my kitchen at tasks; He drafted! Great God, can it be that our President knows what he asks?

He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best; Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at rest. Too slender for over much study—why, his master has made him to-day Go out with his ball on the common—and you have drafted a child at his play!

"Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I wimper when Robert stood up with his gun, And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run? Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall, "There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert, "if I am to fall."

"Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot for Clay. Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, "A new morsel of fame We'll lay on the candidate's altar"—and christened the child with his name.

Oh, what have I done, a weak woman, in what have I meddled with harm, (Troubling only my God for the sunshine and rain on my rough little farm,) That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and whetted before my eyes, That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice?

Oh, 'tis true there's a country to save, man, and 'tis true there is no appeal, But did God see my boy's name lying the uppermost one in the wheel? Five stalwart sons has my neighbour, and never the lot upon one; Are these things Fortune's caprices, or is it God's will that is done?

Are the others too precious for resting where Robert is taking his rest, With the pictured face of young Annie lying over the rent in his breast? Too tender for parting with sweet hearts? Too fair to be crippled or scarred? My boy! Thank God for these tears—I was growing so bitter and hard!

* * * * *

Now read me a page in the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack to-night, Of the eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in flight; Talk of something that's nobler than living, of a Love that is higher than mine, And faith which has planted its banner where the heavenly camp-fires shine.

Talk of something that watches us softly, as the shadows glide down in the yard; That shall go with my soldier to battle, and stand with my picket on guard. Spirits of loving and lost ones—watch softly with Harry to-night, For to-morrow he goes forth to battle—to arm him for Freedom and Right!



AN ERUPTION OF MOUNT VESUVIUS.

BULWER.

The following magnificent description of perhaps the most awful phenomenon in nature, gives full scope for almost every tone and gesture. Care should, however, be taken that the natural grandeur of the subject be not marred by a stilted, pompous, or affected delivery. Let the speaker try to realize the thought and feelings of a spectator of the dark scene of desolation, and he cannot go amiss:

The eyes of the crowd beheld, with ineffable dismay, a vast vapour shooting from the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic pine-tree; the trunk, blackness; the branches, fire, that shifted and wavered in its hues with every moment: now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare.

Then there arose on high the universal shrieks of women; the men stared at each other, but were dumb. At that moment they felt the earth shake beneath their feet; the walls of the theatre trembled; and beyond, in the distance, they heard the crash of falling roofs. An instant more, and the mountain-cloud seemed to roll toward them, dark and rapid like a torrent; at the same time it cast forth from its bosom a shower of ashes, mixed with fragments of burning stone! Over the crushing vines, over the desolate streets, over the amphitheatre itself,—far and wide,—with many a mighty splash in the agitated sea, fell that awful shower!

The cloud advanced, darker, disgorging showers of ashes and pumice stones; and, amid the other horrors, the mighty mountain now cast up columns of boiling water. Blent and kneaded with the half-burning ashes, the streams fell like seething mud over the streets, in frequent intervals.

The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the day, at length settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. But in proportion as the blackness gathered did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase in their vivid and scorching glare.

Nor was their horrible beauty confined to their hues of fire. Now brightly blue, as the most azure depth of a southern sky; now of a livid and snake-like green, darting restlessly to and fro, as the folds of an enormous serpent; now of a lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the columns of smoke far and wide, and lighting up all Pompeii; then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the ghost of its own life!

In the pauses of the showers were heard the rumbling of the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea; or, lower still, and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant mountain.

The ashes, in many places, were already knee-deep; and in some places immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house-roofs, bore down along the streets masses of confused ruin, which yet more and more, with every hour, obstructed the way; and, as the day advanced, the motion of the earth was more sensibly felt; the footing seemed to slide and creep, nor could chariot or litter be kept steady, even on the most level ground.

Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each other as they fell, broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught whatever was combustible within their reach; and along the plains beyond the city the darkness was now terribly relieved, for several houses and even vineyards had been set on flames; and at various intervals the fire rose fiercely and sullenly against the solid gloom. The citizens had endeavoured to place rows of torches in the most frequented spots; but these rarely continued long; the showers and the wind extinguished them.

Suddenly arose an intense and lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through the darkness which closed around it, the mountain shone, a pile of fire! Its summit seemed riven in two; or rather, above its surface, there seemed to rise two monster-shapes, each confronting each, as demons contending for a world. These were of one deep blood-red hue of fire, which lighted up the whole atmosphere; but below, the nether part of the mountain was still dark and shrouded, save in three places, adown which flowed serpentine, and irregular rivers of molten lava. Darkly red through the profound gloom of their banks, they flowed slowly on, as towards the devoted city. And through the still air was heard the rattling of the fragments of rock, hurling one upon another, as they were borne down the fiery cataracts, darkening for one instant the spot where they fell, and suffused the next in the burnished hues of the flood along which they floated!

Suddenly a duller shade fell over the air; and one of the two gigantic crests into which the summit had been divided, rocked and waved to and fro; and then, with a sound, the mightiness of which no language can describe, it fell from its burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of fire, down the sides of the mountain. At the same instant gushed forth a volume of blackest smoke, rolling on, over air, sea and earth. Another, and another, and another shower of ashes, far more profuse than before, scattered fresh desolation along the streets, and darkness once more wrapped them as a veil.

The whole elements of civilization were broken up. If in the darkness, wife was separated from husband, or parent from child, vain was the hope of reunion. Each hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing was left save the law of self-preservation.



A PLEA FOR THE OX.

DUGANNE.

This beautiful poem should be recited with a calm, even devout dignity; occasionally rising into energetic expression as the poet apostrophizes the Deity in behalf of the down-trodden:

Of all my Father's herds and flocks, I love the Ox—the large-eyed Ox! I think no Christian man would wrong The Ox—so patient, calm, and strong!

How huge his strength! and yet, with flowers A child can lead this Ox of ours; And yoke his ponderous neck, with cords Made only of the gentlest words.

By fruitful Nile the Ox was Lord; By Jordan's stream his blood was poured; In every age—with every clan— He loves, he serves, he dies for MAN!

And, through the long, long years of God, Since labouring ADAM delved the sod, I hear no human voice that mocks The hue which God hath given His Ox!

While burdening toils bow down his back, Who asks if he be white or black? And when his generous blood is shed, Who shall deny its common red?

"Ye shall not muzzle"—God hath sworn— "The Ox, that treadeth out the corn!" I think no Christian law ordains That Ox or Man should toil in chains.

So, haply, for an Ox I pray. That kneels and toils for us this day; A huge, calm, patient, large-eyed Ox, Black-skinned, among our herds and flocks.

So long, O righteous Lord! so long Bowed down, and yet so brave and strong— I think no Christian, just and true, Can spurn this poor Ox for his hue!

I know not why he shall not toil, Black-skinned, upon our broad, free soil; And lift aloft his dusky frame, Unbranded by a bondman's name!

And struggling still, for nobler goal, With wakening will and soaring soul, I know not why his great free strength May not be our best wealth at length:

That strength which, in the limbs of slaves— Like Egypt's—only piles up graves! But in the hands of freemen now May build up states, by axe and plough!—

And rear up souls, as purely white As angels, clothed with heavenly light; And yield forth life-blood, richly red As patriot hearts have ever shed.

God help us! we are veiled within— Or white or black—with shrouds of skin; And, at the last, we all shall crave Small difference in the breadth of grave!

But—when the grass grows, green and calm, And smells above our dust, like balm— I think our rest will sweeter be, If over us the Ox be—free!



HERE SHE GOES, AND THERE SHE GOES.

JAMES NACK.

Two Yankee wags, one summer day, Stopped at a tavern on their way, Supped, frolicked, late retired to rest, And woke, to breakfast on the best. The breakfast over, Tom and Will Sent for the landlord and the bill; Will looked it over:—"Very right— But hold! what wonder meets my sight? Tom! the surprise is quite a shock!" "What wonder? where?" "The clock, the clock!"

Tom and the landlord in amaze Stared at the clock with stupid gaze, And for a moment neither spoke; At last the landlord silence broke,—

"You mean the clock that's ticking there? I see no wonder, I declare! Though maybe, if the truth were told, 'Tis rather ugly, somewhat old; Yet time it keeps to half a minute; But, if you please, what wonder in it?"

"Tom, don't you recollect," said Will, "The clock at Jersey, near the mill, The very image of this present, With which I won the wager pleasant?" Will ended with a knowing wink; Tom scratched his head and tried to think. "Sir, begging your pardon for inquiring," The landlord said with grin admiring, "What wager was it?"

"You remember It happened, Tom, in last December: In sport I bet a Jersey Blue That it was more than he could do To make his finger go and come In keeping with the pendulum, Repeating, till the hour should close, Still—'Here she goes, and there she goes.' He lost the bet in half a minute."

"Well, if I would, the deuce is in it!" Exclaimed the landlord; "try me yet, And fifty dollars to be bet." "Agreed, but we will play some trick, To make you of the bargain sick!" "I'm up to that!"

"Don't make us wait,— Begin,—the clock is striking eight." He seats himself, and left and right His finger wags with all its might, And hoarse his voice and hoarser grows, With—"Here she goes, and there she goes!"

"Hold!" said the Yankee, "plank the ready!" The landlord wagged his finger steady, While his left hand, as well as able, Conveyed a purse upon the table, "Tom! with the money let's be off!" This made the landlord only scoff. He heard them running down the stair, But was not tempted from his chair; Thought he, "The fools! I'll bite them yet! So poor a trick sha'n't win the bet." And loud and long the chorus rose Of—"Here she goes, and there she goes!" While right and left his finger swung, In keeping to his clock and tongue.

His mother happened in to see Her daughter: "Where is Mrs. B——?" "When will she come, do you suppose?" Son!—" "Here she goes, and there she goes!" "Here!—where?"—the lady in surprise His finger followed with her eyes; "Son! why that steady gaze and sad? Those words,—that motion,—are you mad? But here's your wife, perhaps she knows, And—" "Here she goes, and there she goes!"

His wife surveyed him with alarm, And rushed to him and seized his arm; He shook her off, and to and fro His finger persevered to go, While curled his very nose with ire That she against him should conspire; And with more furious tone arose The—"Here she goes, and there she goes!"

"Lawks!" screamed the wife, "I'm in a whirl! Run down and bring the little girl; She is his darling, and who knows But—" "Here she goes, and there she goes!" "Lawks! he is mad! What made him thus? Good Lord! what will become of us? Run for a doctor,—run, run, run,— For Doctor Brown and Doctor Dun, And Doctor Black and Doctor White, And Doctor Grey with all your might!"

The doctors came, and looked, and wondered, And shook their heads, and paused and pondered. Then one proposed he should be bled,— "No, leeched you mean," the other said,— "Clap on a blister!" roared another,— "No! cup him,"—"No! trepan him, brother." A sixth would recommend a purge, The next would an emetic urge; The eighth, just come from a dissection, His verdict gave for an injection. The last produced a box of pills, A certain cure for earthly ills: "I had a patient yesternight," Quoth he, "and wretched was her plight, And as the only means to save her, Three dozen patent pills I gave her; And by to-morrow I suppose That—" "Here she goes, and there she goes!"

"You are all fools!" the lady said,— "The way is, just to shave his head. Run! bid the barber come anon." "Thanks, mother!" thought her clever son; "You help the knaves that would have bit me, But all creation sha'n't outwit me!" Thus to himself, while to and fro His fingers perseveres to go, And from his lips no accent flows But—"Here she goes, and there she goes!" The barber came—"Lord help him! what A queerish customer I've got; But we must do our best to save him,— So hold him, gemmen, while I shave him!" But here the doctors interpose,— "A woman never—" "There she goes!"

"A woman is no judge of physic, No even when her baby is sick. He must be bled,"—"No, no, a blister,"— "A purge, you mean,"—"I say a clyster,"— "No, cup him,"—"Leech him,"—"Pills! pills! pills!" And all the house the uproar fills.

What means that smile? what means that shiver? The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver, And triumph brightens up his face, His finger yet shall win the race; The clock is on the stroke of nine, And up he starts,—"'Tis mine! 'tis mine!" "What do you mean?"

"I mean the fifty; I never spent an hour so thrifty. But you who tried to make me lose, Go, burst with envy, if you choose! But how is this? where are they?" "Who?"

"The gentlemen,—I mean the two Came yesterday,—are they below?" "They galloped off an hour ago." "O, purge me! blister! shave and bleed! For, hang the knaves, I'm mad indeed!"



DAVID AND GOLIATH.

Goliath gives vent to his arrogance in a bombastic style. This should be borne in mind by the speaker. David, on the other hand, expresses himself with modesty, but in a tone of confident courage:

Goliath. Where is the mighty man of war, who dares Accept the challenge of Philistia's chief? What victor-king, what general drenched in blood, Claims this high privilege? What are his rights? What proud credentials does the boaster bring To prove his claim? What cities laid in ashes, What ruined provinces, what slaughtered realms, What heads of heroes, or what hearts of kings, In battle killed, or at his altars slain, Has he to boast? Is his bright armory Thick set with spears, and swords, and coats of mail, Of vanquished nations, by his single arm Subdued? Where is the mortal man so bold, So much a wretch, so out of love with life, To dare the weight of this uplifted spear? Come, advance! Philistia's gods to Israel's. Sound, my herald, Sound for the battle straight!

David. Behold thy foe.

Gol. I see him not.

Dav. Behold him here.

Gol. Say, where? Direct my sight. I do not war with boys.

Dav. I stand prepared; thy single arm to mine.

Gol. Why, this is mockery, minion; it may chance To cost thee dear. Sport not with things above thee: But tell me who, of all this numerous host, Expects his death from me? Which is the man Whom Israel sends to meet my bold defiance?

Dav. The election of my sovereign falls on me.

Gol. On thee! on thee! by Dagon, 'tis too much! Thou curled minion! thou a nation's champion! 'Twould move my mirth at any other time; But trifling's out of tune. Begone, light boy! And tempt me not too far.

Dav. I do defy thee, Thou foul idolator! Hast thou not scorned The armies of the living God I serve! By me he will avenge upon thy head Thy nation's sins and thine. Armed with his name, Unshrinking, I dare meet the stoutest foe That ever bathed his hostile spear in blood.

Gol. Indeed! 'tis wondrous well! Now, by my gods! The stripling plays the orator! Vain boy! Keep close to that same bloodless war of words, And thou shalt still be safe. Tongue-valiant warrior! Where is thy sylvan crook, with garlands hung, Of idle field-flowers? Where thy wanton harp, Thou dainty-fingered hero? Now will I meet thee, Thou insect warrior; since thou dar'st me thus, Already I behold thy mangled limbs, Dissevered each from each, ere long to feed The fierce, blood-snuffing vulture. Mark me well, Around my spear I'll twist thy shining locks And toss in air thy head all gashed with wounds.

Dav. Ha, say'st thou so? Come on, then; Mark us well. Thou com'st to me with sword and spear, and shield; In the dread name of Israel's God, I come; The living Lord of Hosts, whom thou defi'st; Yet though no shield I bring; no arms, except These five smooth stones I gathered from the brook With such a simple sling as shepherds use; Yet all exposed, defenceless as I am, The God I serve shall give thee up a prey To my victorious arm. This day, I mean To make the uncircumcised tribes confess There is a God in Israel. I will give thee, Spite of thy vaunted strength and giant bulk, To glut the carrion-kites. Nor thee alone; The mangled carcasses of your thick hosts Shall spread the plains of Elah; till Philistia, Through all her trembling tents and flying bands, Shall own that Judah's God is God indeed! I dare thee to the trial!

Gol. Follow me. In this good spear I trust.

Dav. I trust in Heaven! The God of battles stimulates my arm, And fires my soul with ardor not its own.

In this dialogue, the first speech of Goliath is simple vaunt. Confident in his huge bulk and strength, he strides occasionally from side to side while speaking, elevating his arms and throwing his limbs about as if anxious to display his powerful sinews and muscular proportions. He speaks very loud, as if willing to terrify all Israel with his voice.

In this second speech, Goliath partly stoops, half shuts his eyes like a person endeavouring to discern some diminutive object, and, after looking intently a short time, suddenly straightens himself up to his full height, and says arrogantly: "I see him not."

In his third speech, Goliath maintains the same ground, till, in the conclusion, he seems, at last, to have perceived David, and, turning away contemptuously, adds: "I do not war with boys."

In the latter part of the dialogue, Goliath becomes really furious, and is in haste to transfix David with his spear; while David, on the other hand, becomes more calm, collected, and observant as the critical moment approaches, thus denoting his firm and unwavering trust in the God of Israel. David makes but few gestures, but always assumes a reverential attitude when he mentions the name of God—not puritanical by any means, but expressive of humble hope and smiling confidence.



THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY.

FRANCES M. WHITCHER.

Yes,—he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 't was Poll Bingham), she says, I never found it out till after he died, but that 's the consarndest lie, that ever was told, though it 's jest a piece with everything else she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to his memory, nobody wouldn 't think I dident set store by him. Want to hear it? Well, I 'll see if I can say it; it ginerally affects me wonderfully, seems to harrer up my feelin's; but I'll try. Dident know I ever writ poitry? How you talk! used to make lots on 't; hain't so much late years. I remember once when Parson Potter had a bee, I sent him an amazin' great cheese, and writ a piece o' poitry, and pasted on top on 't. It says:—

Teach him for to proclaim Salvation to the folks; No occasion give for any blame, Nor wicked people's jokes.

And so it goes on, but I guess I won't stop to say the rest on now, seein' there's seven and forty verses.

Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it; used to sing it to the tune o' Haddem. But I was gwine to tell the one I made in relation to husband; it begins as follers:—

He never jawed in all his life, He never was unkind,— And (tho' I say it that was his wife) Such men you seldom find.

(That's as true as the Scripturs; I never knowed him to say a harsh word.)

I never changed my single lot,— I thought 't would be a sin—

(though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a chance.) Now 't ain't for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o' chances or not, but there 's them livin' that might tell if they wos a mind to; why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon, three year after husband died. I guess the ginerality o' folks knows what was the nature o' Major Coon's feelin's towards me, tho' his wife and Miss Jinkins does say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, Miss Coon feels wonderfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her "Jack at a pinch,"—seein' he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get,—but I goes on to say—

I never changed my single lot, I thought 't would be a sin,— For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott, I never got married agin.

If ever a hasty word he spoke, His anger dident last, But vanished like tobacker smoke Afore the wintry blast.

And since it was my lot to be The wife of such a man, Tell the men that's after me To ketch me if they can.

If I was sick a single jot, He called the doctor in—

That's a fact,—he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me. Now only jest think,—widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she 'twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by me, or he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him no way. Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin', and when he wa' n't there, who was ther, pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all come on Deacon Bedott,—and he was always ready and willin' to do his duty, you know; as long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence meetin'; why, I've knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely crawl on account o' the pain in the spine of his back. He had a wonderful gift, and he wa' n't a man to keep his talents hid up in a napkin,—so you see 't was from a sense o' duty he went when I was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was I? Oh!—

If I was sick a single jot, He called the doctor in— I sot so much by Deacon Bedott I never got married agin.

A wonderful tender heart he had, That felt for all mankind,— It made him feel amazin bad To see the world so blind.

Whiskey and rum he tasted not—

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 gall, and she never knowed how to speak the truth—besides she always had a pertikkler 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,—

Whiskey 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 ain't 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 neighbors' 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 posset 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 ain't but one more verse, 't ain't 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 Crosbys 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 two cents 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 won't dwell on 't. I conclude as follers:—

I'll never change my single lot,— I think 't would be a sin,— The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott Don't intend to get married agin.

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



THE TWO WEAVERS.

HANNAH MORE.

This piece should be spoken in a simple, unaffected conversational manner; still it admits of much quiet emphasis, and subdued irony:

As at their work two weavers sat, Beguiling time with friendly chat, They touched upon the price of meat, So high, a weaver scarce could eat.

"What with my brats and sickly wife," Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tired of life; So hard my work, so poor my fare, 'Tis more than mortal man can bear.

"How glorious is the rich man's state His house so fine, his wealth so great! Heaven is unjust, you must agree; Why all to him? Why none to me?

"In spite of what the Scripture teaches In spite of all the parson preaches, This world (indeed I've thought so long) Is ruled methinks extremely wrong.

"Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 'Tis all confused and hard and strange; The good are troubled and oppressed, And all the wicked are the blest."

Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause Why thus we blame our Maker's laws; Parts of his ways alone we know; 'Tis all that man can see below.

"See'st thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun? Behold the wild confusion there, So rude the mass it makes one stare!

"A stranger, ignorant of the trade, Would say, no meaning's there conveyed; For where's the middle? where's the border? Thy carpet now is all disorder."

Quoth Dick, "My work is yet in bits, But still in every part it fits; Besides, you reason like a lout— Why, man, that carpet's inside out."

Says John, "Thou say'st the thing I mean, And now I hope to cure thy spleen; This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt Is but a carpet inside out.

"As when we view these shreds and ends, We know not what the whole intends; So, when on earth things look but odd, They're working still some scheme of God.

"No plan, no pattern, can we trace; All wants proportion, truth, and grace The motley mixture we deride, Nor see the beauteous upper side.

"But when we reach that world of light, And view those works of God aright, Then shall we see the whole design, And own the workman is divine.

"What now seem random strokes, will there All order and design appear; Then shall we praise what here we spurned, For then the carpet shall be turned."

"Thou'rt right," quoth Dick; "no more I'll grumble That this sad world's so strange a jumble; My impious doubts are put to flight, For my own carpet sets me right."



MISS MALONEY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION.

MARY MAPES DODGE.

Och! don't be talkin'. Is it howld on, ye say? An' did n't I howld on till the heart o' me was clane broke entirely, and me wastin' that thin you could clutch me wid yer two hands? To think o' me toilin' like a nager for the six year I 've been in Ameriky,—bad luck to the day I iver left the owld counthry! to be bate by the likes o' them (faix an' I'll sit down when I 'm ready, so I will, Aunt Ryan, an' yed better be listnin' than drawin' yer remarks)! an' is it mysel, with five good characters from respectable places, would be herdin' wid the haythens? The saints forgive me, but I 'd be buried alive sooner 'n put up wid it a day longer. Sure an' I was the granehorn not to be lavin' at onct when the missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver about the new waiter man which was brought out from Californy.

"He 'll be here the night," says she, "and, Kitty, it 's meself looks to you to be kind and patient wid him, for he 's a furriner," says she, a kind o' lookin' off.

"Sure an it 's little I 'll hinder nor interfare wid him nor any other, mum," says I, a kind o' stiff, for I minded me how these French waiters, wid their paper collars and brass rings on their fingers, isn 't company for no gurril brought up dacint and honest.

Och! sorra a bit I knew what was comin' till the missus walked into me kitchen smilin', and says kind o' shcared: "Here 's Fing Wing, Kitty, an' you 'll have too much sinse to mind his bein' a little strange."

Wid that she shoots the door, and I, misthrusting if I was tidied up sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper collar, looks up, and—Howly fathers! may I niver brathe another breath, but there stud a rale haythen Chineser a grinnin' like he'd just come off a tay-box. If you'll belave me, the crayture was that yeller it ud sicken you to see him; and sorra stitch was on him but a black nightgown over his trousers, and the front of his head shaved claner nor a copper biler, and a black tail a-hangin' down from behind, wid his two feet stook into the heathenestest shoes you ever set eyes on.

Och! but I was up stairs afore you could turn about, a givin' the missus warnin', an' only stopt wid her by her raisin' me wages two dollars, and playdin' wid me how it was a Christian's duty to bear wid haythins and taitch 'em all in our power,—the saints have us!

Well, the ways and trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I couldn't be tellin'. Not a blissed thing cud I do but he'd be lookin' on wid his eyes cocked up'ard like two poomp-handles, an' he widdout a speck or smitch o' whiskers on him, an' his finger-nails full a yard long. But it 's dyin' you'd be to see the missus a' larnin' him, and he grinnin' an' waggin' his pig-tail (which was pieced out long wid some black stoof, the haythen chate), and gettin' into her ways wonderful quick, I don't deny, imitatin' that sharp you'd be shurprised, and ketchin' an' copyin' things the best of us will do a-hurried wid work, yet don't want comin' to the knowledge of the family,—bad luck to him!

Is it ate wid him? Arrah, an' would I be sittin' wid a haythen an' he a-atin' wid drum-sticks,—yes, an' atin' dogs an' cats unknownst to me, I warrant you, which it is the custom of them Chinesers, till the thought made me that sick I could die. An' did n't the crayture proffer to help me a wake ago come Toosday, an' me a foldin' down me clane clothes for the ironin', an' fill his haythin mouth wid water, an' afore I could hinder squirrit it through his teeth stret over the best linen table-cloth, and fold it up tight, as innercent now as a baby, the dirrity baste! But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd be doin' till ye'd be dishtracted. It's yersel' knows the tinder feet that's on me since ever I 've bin in this counthry. Well, owin' to that, I fell into a way o' slippin' me shoes off when I 'd be settin' down to pale the praities or the likes o' that, and, do ye mind! that haythin would do the same thing after me whiniver the missus set him to parin' apples or tomaterses. The saints in heaven could n't have made him belave he cud kape the shoes on him when he'd be palin' anything.

Did I lave for that? Faix an' I did n't. Did n't he get me into trouble wid my missus, the haythin? You're aware yersel' how the boondles comin' in from the grocery often contains more 'n 'll go into anything dacently. So, for that matter, I'd now and then take out a sup o' sugar, or flour, or tay, an' wrap it in paper and put it in me bit of a box tucked under the ironin' blankit the how it cuddent be bodderin' any one. Well, what shud it be, but this blessed Sathurday morn the missus wos a spakin' pleasant and respec'ful wid me in me kitchen when the grocer boy comes in an' stands fornenst her wid his boondles, an' she motions like to Fing Wing (which I never would call him by that name ner any other but just haythin), she motions to him, she does, for to take the boondles an' empty out the sugar an' what not, where they belongs. If you'll belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that blatherin' Chineser do but take out a sup o' sugar, an' a handful o' tay, an' a bit o' chaze right afore the missus, wrap them into bits o' paper, an' I spacheless wid shurprise, an' he the next minute up wid the ironin' blankit and pullin' out me box wid a show o' bein' sly to put them in.

Och, the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, and missus sayin', "O Kitty!" in a way that 'ud cruddle your blood.

"He 's a haythin nager," says I.

"I 've found you out," says she.

"I 'll arrist him," says I.

"It 's you ought to be arristed," says she.

"You won't," says I.

"I will," says she; and so it went till she give me such sass as I cuddent take from no lady,—an' I give her warnin' an' left that instant, an' she a-pointin' to the doore.



THE BIG OYSTER.

A LEGEND OF RARITAN BAY.

GEORGE ARNOLD.

'Twas a hazy, mazy, lazy day, And the good smack Emily idly lay Off Staten Island, in Raritan Bay, With her canvas loosely flapping, The sunshine slept on the briny deep, Nor wave nor zephyr could vigils keep, The oysterman lay on the deck asleep, And even the cap'n was napping.

The smack went drifting down the tide,— The waters gurgling along her side,— Down where the bay glows vast and wide,— A beautiful sheet of water; With scarce a ripple about her prow, The oyster-smack floated, silent and slow, With Keyport far on her starboard bow, And South Amboy on her quarter.

But, all at once, a grating sound Made the cap'n awake and glance around; "Hold hard!" cried he, "we've run aground, As sure as all tarnation!" The men jumped up, and grumbled and swore; They also looked, and plainly saw That the Emily lay two miles from shore, At the smallest calculation.

Then, gazing over the side, to see What kind of a bottom this shoal might be, They saw, in the shadow that lay to the lee, A sight that filled them with horror! The water was clear, and beneath it, there, An oyster lay in its slimy lair, So big, that to tell its dimensions fair Would take from now till to-morrow.

And this it was made the grating sound; On this the Emily ran aground; And this was the shoal the cap'n found,— Alack! the more is the pity. For straight an idea entered his head: He'd drag it out of its watery bed, And give it a resting-place, instead, In some saloon in the city.

So, with crow, and lever, and gaff, and sling, And tongs, and tackle, and roller, and ring, They made a mighty effort to bring This hermit out of his cloister. They labored earnestly, day and night, Working by torch and lantern light, Till they had to acknowledge that, do what they might, They never could budge the oyster!

The cap'n fretted, and fumed, and fussed,— He swore he'd "have that 'yster, or bust!" But, for all his oaths, he was quite nonplussed; So by way of variation, He sat him quietly down, for a while, To cool his anger and settle his bile, And to give himself up, in his usual style, To a season of meditation.

Now, the cap'n was quite a wonderful man; He could do almost anything any man can, And a good deal more, when he once began To act from a clear deduction. But his wonderful power,—his greatest pride,— The feat that shadowed all else beside,— The talent on which he most relied,— Was his awful power of suction!

At suction he never had known defeat! The stoutest suckers had given in, beat, When he sucked up a quart of apple-jack, neat, By touching his lips to the measure! He'd suck an oyster out of its shell, Suck shrimps or lobsters equally well; Suck cider till inward the barrel-heads fell,— And seemed to find it a pleasure.

Well, after thinking a day or two, This doughty sucker imagined he knew About the best thing he could possibly do, To secure the bivalvular hermit. "I'll bore through his shell, as they bore for coal, With an auger fixed on the end of a pole, And then, through a tube, I'll suck him out whole,— A neat little swallow, I term it!"

The very next day, he returned to the place Where his failure had thrown him into disgrace; And there, with a ghastly grin on his face, Began his submarine boring. He worked for a week, for the shell was tough, But reached the interior soon enough For the oyster, who found such surgery rough,— Such grating, and scraping, and scoring!

The shell-fish started, the water flew, The cap'n turned decidedly blue, But thrust his auger still further through, To quiet the wounded creature. Alas! I fear my tale grows sad, The oyster naturally felt quite bad In spite of its peaceful nature.

It arose, and, turning itself on edge, Exposed a ponderous shelly wedge, All covered with slime, and sea-weed, and sedge,— A conchological wonder! This wedge flew open, as quick as a flash, Into two great jaws, with a mighty splash One scraunching, crunching, crackling crash,— And the smack was gone to thunder.



A PRECIOUS PICKLE.

(FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY.)

CHARACTERS.

MISS REBECCA PEASE. MRS. GABBLE. JENNY FROST, } City girls on a vacation BESSY SNOW, } in the country. SADIE BEAN, } SISSY GABBLE. JUNO, Miss Pease's coloured help.

SCENE.—MISS PEASE'S best room. Table, C., back. Chairs, R. and L. Rocking-chair, C. Chair directly in front of the table.

Enter, L., JUNO; costume, calico dress, handkerchief about her head in shape of a turban, broom in her hand.

Juno. Bress my soul! Nebber see, in de whole co'se ob my life, sich a galloping set as dem are city gals—nebber! For all de worl', jes like a flock ob sheep. Shoo! away dey go, from de cellar to de top ob de house—pell-mell inter de barn. Skipterty shoo, ober de fields; skersplash into de brook; don't keer for nuffin nor nobody. Can't keep de chairs straight, nor de flo' clean nor nuffin. (Looks off, R.) Now, now, now, jes look a dar! jes look a dar! See 'em scootin' round, chasin' dat are poor orphanless calf, what ain't got no mudder. Never did see nuffin like it, nebber. (Sweeps violently.)

Jenny. (Outside, R.) Ha, ha, ha! If you don't stop, girls, I shall die.

Bessie. (Outside, R.) Ha, ha, ha! O, dear, there goes my hat!

Sadie. (Outside, R.) Ha, ha, ha! Do see him jump! [All three enter, R, laughing.

Jenny. O, isn't this splendid! A country life for me.

Bessie. It's glorious! I could live here forever.

Sadie. So could I. No more city life for me.

Juno. Bress my soul! Goin' fur to stay here forebber! I'll jes' pack up my jewelry, and slope, for sartin'.

Jenny. Ah, there's Juno. O, Juno, isn't it most dinner-time? I'm so hungry!

Bessie. So am I—ravenous.

Sadie. I'm starving; slowly, but surely, starving.

Juno. Dinner! Why, bress my soul! yer hain't got yer breakfast digesticated yet. Well, I nebber, in de whole co'se ob my life, seed sich eaters—nebber. Six biscuit, four b'iled eggs apiece, and chicken; chicken by de dozen for dar breakfast; and now want dar dinner! Bress my soul! Doesn't yer git nuffin to eat in de city?

Sadie. O, yes, plenty; but not such biscuits as Juno makes.

Jenny and Bessie. Never, never!

Jenny. And eggs, girls! None cooked as Juno cooks them.

Bessie and Sadie. Never, never!

Bessie. And chickens! never so nice as those broiled by Juno.

Jenny and Sadie. Never, never!

Juno. Doesn't yers, honies? (Grinning.) Dat's mean; dat's raal mean. Well, poor dears, I s'pose yers is hungry. Now you jes' wait and see what Juno can find for a lunch. [Exit, L.

Jenny. "A little flattery, now and then, is relished by the wisest men."

Bessie. And the darkest of our sex, Jenny.

Sadie. Yes; and "a soft answer turneth away wrath." O, ain't we having a splendid time, girls?

Jenny. How kind of our parents, after eight months' hard study, to send us to this delightful place!

Sadie. O, it's splendid. We want nothing here.

Bessie. No, indeed. There's nothing left in that dry, hot city to be regretted.

Jenny. Stop. There is one thing I should like.

Sadie and Bessie. What is that?

Jenny. One of mother's pickles.

Sadie and Bessie. What! a pickle?

Jenny. Yes. I'm dying for one of mother's sour, peppery pickles.

Sadie. O, don't, Jenny. Do you want to make me homesick?

Bessie. My mouth puckers at the thought. I want to go home.

Enter, R., SISSY GABBLE, a very small girl, with a very large cape bonnet on her head, and a tin pail in her hand.

Sissy. If yer pleath, Mith Peath, if, if—Mith Peath, if you pleath—

Jenny. Why, who in the world is this?

Sadie. What do you want, little girl?

Sissy. Mith Peath, if you pleath, if, if—Mith Peath, to home, my mother thed—my mother thed. What did my mother thed? O, my mother thed, if Mith Peath is to home, to give Mith Peath her com—her com—to give Mith Peath her com—

Jenny. Her compliments?

Sissy. Yith ma'am, I geth tho; and tell Mith Peath, the thent her thome of her pickleth.

Sadie and Bessie. Pickles! O, you dear little thing!

Jenny. O, isn't she a darling! (They all crowd round SISSY, take off her bonnet, kiss and hug her.) Isn't she splendid?

Bessie. I'll take the pail, little girl.

Sissy. (Putting pail behind her.) Yith marm; I geth not. My mother thed I muthn't give it to nobody but Mith Peath.

Bessie. Well, take off the cover, little girl. The pickles will spoil.

Sissy. I geth not. My mother's pickleth never thpoil.

Jenny. The little plague! Say, Sissy; do you like candy?

Sissy. Candy? Merlatheth candy?

Jenny. Yes.

Sissy. Ith it pulled?

Jenny. Yes, indeed; pulled white as snow. Give me the pail, and I'll find you a long stick of it.

Sissy. You ain't Mith Peath; and I don't like merlatheth candy white ath thnow. Where ith Mith Peath?

Sadie. Little girl, don't you want some red and white peppermints?

Sissy. No, I don't. I want Mith Peath.

Bessie. Or some splendid gum drops?

Sissy. No. I want Mith Peath.

Enter MISS PEASE, L.

Miss P. And here she is, Sissy Gabble. What have you for me? (The girls fall back in confusion, and whisper together.)

Sissy. Thome pickleth, Mith Peath, my mother thent you, with her com—her com—her com—

Miss P. Her compliments, Sissy. I understand. I'm very much obliged to her for sending them, and to you, Sissy, for bringing them so carefully. Here, Juno!

Enter, JUNO, L.

Juno. Yes, missis. Why, bress my soul! if dar ain't Sissy Gabble! Come right here, yer dear chile.

Miss P. Take her to the kitchen, Juno. Perhaps you can find a cake for her.

Juno. Guess I can, missis, sure for sartin. Come, Sissy Gabble, come right along wid Juno.

Sissy. Thay, Juno, who ith them? (Pointing to girls.)

Juno. Why, bress yer soul, dem ar's de young ladies from de city, on dar vex—vex—on dar vexation. O, Sissy, dar drefful sweet.

Sissy. Thweet, Juno? I thpothe tho; they've got thuch loth of candy. But they didn't git my pail, tho!

Juno. Come along to de kitchen. Come.

[Exeunt JUNO and SISSY, L. The girls gather about MISS PEASE.

Jenny. O, Miss Pease, I'm so glad Mrs. Gabble sent you those pickles, I'm so fond of them!

Bessie. Yes, Miss Pease; they're so nice!

Sadie. O, they're splendid! Do give us a taste.

Miss P. Stop, stop young ladies. While I cannot but be grateful to Mrs. Gabble for her kindness, I wish it had taken some other shape. I have long been of the opinion that pickles are unwholesome, and have never allowed them to be placed upon my table. And I am sure I should be disobeying the instructions I received from your parents—to provide you only wholesome food—did I permit you to taste them. For the present, I shall leave them here. (Places pail on the table.) If you believe I have your interest at heart, you will not touch that which I have condemned. I know I can trust you. Exit, L.