Howbeit, she was loved, and she deserved And gossip looked on her and wished she'd swerved But the Don found her out! He chanced to see A great astrologer who begged a few Hairs from the head, and he would presently Read in them all the life the wearer knew. "Ha!" quoth the Don. “ My envious friends talk much Think ill of Inez. Now they shall speak good, Shall know her perfect life, a fair life such Next time he saw fair Inez, from the wealth She knew it not-he did it so by stealth, Lest she should his vain pride in her but mock. The wise man, saying," Ho! Read thou this hair! The wise man stammered, for his voice grew weak- That meaneth witchcraft." With a double roar If he so much as found her. Don Pedro though "Why, Don," said she, her voice as sweet as thought I took your hair to the astrologer A lock I filched from its unstarry night And what dost think he told me? Do not stir! If thy heart tastes my blade." "My hair!" she said- To live were sin!" "My hair!" said she, "oh, fie!" That she whose head bore that black night of hair A finger till I finish. Everywhere The story's whispered, she whose hair he read Four husbands, and down swooping on her head And sadder still--" Just then Inez, the fair, Yawned slightly. "Pardon!" said she. "And a fig OLD FRIENDS.-B. J. M'DERMOTT. Twas on a cold and frosty night when snow and hail fast fell, And winter's chilling, wailing winds swept over hill and dell; When people who had happy homes to blazing hearthstones hied, And the wretched, houseless outcast in the bare street, frozen, died, That an aged, sightless beggar trudged along a country road, With a face by sorrow furrowed and back bent with life's load. His tattered cap and ragged coat did many patches show, And his wretched shoes, all cut and torn, let in the rain and snow. Before him walked the faithful dog that always led the way. And was the only guide and friend he'd known for many a day. Who often, too, by clever tricks would food and lodging win, The while his master played upon his treasured violin, Suddenly the mastiff stopped and slowly turned around, And sunk down by his master's feet upon the frozen ground. The blind man bent in pity o'er his faithful friend in woe, And said, “Ah, Jack, you're tired; well, we'll rest awhile, then go To an inn where we'll get meat and drink, and place to lay our heads; A warm spot by the fire will do, we will not ask for beds. "What could I do without you? What would my dark life be, If your bright eyes I did not have to choose my path for me. You have, like true and faithful friend, for me ill usage borne, And often got the savage kicks that spoke the landlord's scorn. I'll ne'er forget how e'en when sick you would not duty shirk, Though many years ago, old friend, you were too old to work. "Why don't you lick my hand, old boy; how strange you are to me. Your paw is stiff, your heart is still. Oh, God! it cannot be That you have died and left me-no, no, you are not dead. God sees my bruised and bleeding heart, he sees my old gray head. He would not leave me here alone in the turmoil and the strife; He knows I could not bear alone the heavy weight of life." He threw himself upon the corpse that now was stiff and cold; Such grief and sorrow as he felt can ne'er by pen be told. With fatal aim this time grim death had sent his fatal dart, He was too weak to stand the blow; it broke his poor old heart. For when, next morning, sunshine fell upon their snowy bed. A traveler passing by the spot found dog and master dead. OH NO, OF COURSE NOT.-JOSEPH BERT SMILEY. They were friends,-not a bit sentimental, They just talked over matters of interest In a straightforward, business-like way; They were friends, and that only;-for pleasure, They had settled the matter completely, And 'twas perfectly well understood. Then they found that the gossips pursued them, So they met and talked over the matter To decide what 'twas best they should do; Any clearer or better'n before, And they had to keep meeting and talking For they cared naught about it, they said. AT THE STAGE DOOR.*-JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY. A white-haired man, with a kindly face, Peered through the panes of the old stage door. And holding the door, but she would not stir *From “Lines and Rhymes," by permission of the Author. And I can't stand here in the draught, you know-- Thanking her gratefully, o'er and o'er, But you gave her a nickel to take the car, "So you cast your bread on the waters then, To gain the success you have seen to-night." Then the carriage stopped at the old man's door, A MOTHER'S TINDER FALIN'S.* S. JENNIE SMITH. So poor Mrs. Mulligan's gone, rist her sowl! It's a tremingus clamity for the neighborhood, Mrs. Jones, but the poor dear is betther off out of this wicked wurruld. I'd say that if it was mesilf, indade I would, and you know that for the truth, sure as my name's Biddy Reilly. *Written expressly for this Collection. "Mrs. Murphy's Recipe for Cake, Mary Ann's Escape" &c., in other Numbers, are by the same author. |