And after him ran Mr. Timothy Figg,
With such haste that his foot caught a vine or a twig,
The little dog led to a little neat cot,
And Mr. Figg knocked, though the house he knew not,
For the fog hung low down.
To the door came Miss Brown,
Mr. Figg's old-time love-once they loved till there came
A quarrel that parted their hearts like a flame.
And wasn't it queer
To find her right here?
And all that he uttered was "Dear! dear!"
Miss Brown then implored Mr. Figg to come in;
And the crest-fallen bachelor, damp to the skin,
One shoe in the mud,
Walked in through the hall to the fire that blazed;
And sat there a-drying, with senses quite dazed;
And then with sweet cheer
Miss Brown drew up near;
And much that they uttered was "Dear! dear!"
THE HEART'S-EASE.*-FANNIE WILLIAMS,
Tell you a story, darling,
Now in the twilight sweet?
Tell you about the pansies
Growing around our feet?
Once in the days long ended,
Just where those shadows fall,
There grew a bed of heart's-ease
Close by the old stone wall.
Then in the quaint old garden
There roved a maiden fair;
Her face was like a wild flower,
Like sunshine was her hair;
She gathered fragrant roses,
She kissed the lilies tall,
*By permission of the Author.
But best she loved the heart's-ease
Close by the old stone wall.
Oft, too, 'tis said her lover
Strolled in the garden shade;
The lassie kissed the lilies,
The laddie kissed the maid;
She learned the sweet old story
(The story learned by all)
While standing by the heart's-ease
Close by the old stone wall.
Sweet was that rosy June time
For maid and lover true:
But life will aye have shadows,
They quarreled-as lovers do.
Quarreled in the dear old garden,
Just where those shadows fall,
And parted by the heart's-ease
Close by the old stone wall.
The flowers were sweet and fragrant,
Birds sang as ne'er before,
But, oh, the girl and lover
Strolled through those paths no more;
But oft the moon in splendor,
Shining on cot and hall,
Saw tears upon the heart's-ease
Close by the old stone wall.
The lad then made a painting,-
A garden quaint and old,
And there a dainty maiden
With hair of purest gold;
Her hands were filled with pansies,
The light was over all,
But tenderest on the heart's-ease
Close by the old stone wall.
The lassie made a picture
Of that old garden sweet,
And placed therein her lover,
The pansies at his feet;
The splendid sun was deepening
Into a crimson ball,
Its last beams on the heart's-ease
Close by the old stone wall.
They carried then their treasures
Into a hall of art,
And, though they placed those pictures
So very far apart,
Each artist found the other
Knew garden, flowers and all,
For each portrayed the heart's-ease
Close by the old stone wall.
They loved each other better,
For each had found a trace
Of sweet, old, happy memories
In each wee pansy's face.
So lives so lone and dreary
Grew perfect after all,
And peaceful as the heart's-ease
Close by the old stone wall.
This is the story, darling,
I'd tell, this twilight sweet,
About the purple pansies
So near around our feet,-
The dainty pansies growing
Just where the shadows fall,
The blessed little heart's-ease
Close by the old stone wall.
A TRUE BOSTONIAN.
A soul from earth to heaven went,
To whom the saint, as he drew near, Said: "Sir, what claim do you present To us to be admitted here?"
"In Boston I was born and bred,
And in her schools was educated;
I afterward at Harvard read,
And was with honors graduated.
"In Trinity a pew I own,
Where Brooks is held in such respect,
And the society is known
To be the cream of the select.
And, last, a handsome burial lot
In dead Mount Auburn's hallowed shades."
St. Peter mused and shook his head;
Then, as a gentle sigh he drew,
"Go back to Boston, friend," he said,
"Heaven isn't good enough for you."
UNDER THE WHEELS:*-WILL Carleton.
SCENE.-A cosy cottage in the outskirts of a city. Enter, a stranger, who is addressed by the aged lady of the cottage.
You've called to see Jack, I suppose, sir; sit down.
I'm sorry to say't, but the boy's out of town.
He'll be back in an hour, if his train is not late,
And, perhaps, you'd be willing to sit here and wait,
While I give you a cup of his favorite tea-
Almost ready to pour. Oh! You called to see me?
You-called-to-see-me? Strange, I didn't understand!
But you know we old ladies aren't much in demand-
You-called-to-see-me. And your business is-say!
Let me know, now, at once! Do not keep it away
For an instant!-Oh! pardon!-You wanted to buy
Our poor little house, here. Now thank God on high
That it wasn't something worse that you came for !—
Shake hands;
I'm so glad!-and forgive an old woman's ado,
While I tell you the facts; till your heart understands
The reason I spoke up so brusquely to you:
My life lives with Jack, a plain boy, I confess;
He's a young engineer on the morning express;
But he loves me so true; and though often we part,
He never "pulls out" of one station,-my heart.
Poor Jack! how he toils!-he sinks into yon chair
When he comes home, so tired with the jar and the whirl; But he fondles my hands, and caresses my hair,
And he calls me "his love"-till I blush like a girl.
Poor Jack!-but to-morrow is Christmas, you know,
And this is his present: a gown of fine wool,
Embroidered with silk; my old fingers ran slow,
But with love from my heart, all the stitches are full!
So when Jack is gone out on his dangerous trip,
On that hot hissing furnace that flies through the air,
From "The Home Magazine," by permission.
Over bridges that tremble-past sidings that slip
Through tunnels that grasp for his life with their snare
I think of him always; I'm seldom at rest;
And last night-oh, God's mercy!--the dreams made me see My boy lying crushed, with a wheel on his breast,
And a face full of agony, beck'ning to me! Now to-day, every step that I hear on the street,
Seems to bring me a tiding of woe and despair; Each ring at the door bell, my poor heart will beat
As if Jack, the poor boy, in his grave clothes was there.
And I thought, when I saw you—I'm nervous and queer-
You had brought me some news it would kill me to hear.
Please don't be concerned, sir; I'm bound that in spite
Of my foolish old fancies, the boy is all right!
No, I don't think we'd sell. For it's this way you see:
Jack says that he never will care for the smile
Of a girl till he knows she's in love, too, with me;
And I tell him-ha! ha!-that will be a long while.
So we'll doubtless bide here a good time. And there's some
Little chance of Jack's leaving the engine, ere long,
For a place in the shops, where they say he'll become
A master mechanic;
You are death-pale, and trembling! here, drink some more
Say! why are you looking your pity at me?
What's that word in your face?--you've a message!--now find Your tongue!-Then I'll tear the truth out of your mind!
Jack's hurt? Oh how hard that you could not at first
Let me know this black news! Say! where is he? and when
Can he come home with me?-but my poor heart will burst,
If you do not speak out! Speak, I pray you again!
I can stand it; why, yonder's his own cosy bed;
I will get it all fixed-Oh! but I'm a good nurse!
His hospital's home!--here I'll pillow his head,
I will bring him to life, be he better or worse!
Oh! I tell you, however disfigured he be,
What is left of the boy shall be saved, sir, for me!
Thank God for the chance! Oh, how hard I will work
For my poor wounded child! and now let me be led
Where he is. Do not fear! I'll not falter or shirk!
Turn your face to the light, sir,
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