"Look here, Mulrooney," said I, impatiently, " I want you to put about two double handfuls of bran into a pail of warm water and, after stirring the mixture well, give it to the black filly. That is what we call a bran mash in this country. Now, do you perfectly understand me?" "Good luck to yer honor!" replied Peter, looking much relieved; for he had got the information he was fishing for. "Good luck to your honor! what 'ud I be good for, if I didn't? Sure, 'tis the ould counthry mash afther all." "Perhaps so, but be sure you make no mistake." "Oh, niver fear, sir, I'll do it illegant; but about the warm wather?" There's plenty to be had in the kitchen." "An' the naygur? Will I say till her it's yer honor's orthers?" inquired Peter, earnestly. "Certainly; she'll make no difficulty." 66 'Oh, begorra! 'tisn't a traneen I care for that; but will I give her the full ov the bucket, sir?" ""Twill do her no harm," said I, carelessly. With that Peter made his best bow and left my presence. It might have been some fifteen minutes after this that my wife, who was a little unwell that day, came into the sitting-room, saying, "I wish you'd go into the kitchen, George, and see what's the difficulty between that Irishman and Phillis; I am afraid they are quarreling." At that moment we heard a crash and a suppressed shriek. I hurried from the room, and soon heard, as I passed through the hall, an increasing clamor in the kitchen beyond. First came the shrill voice of Phillis: "You jess lebe me 'lone, now will yer? I won't hab nuffin to do wid de stuff, nairaway." 'You ugly an' conthrary ould naygur, don't I tell yo 'tis the masther's orthers?" I heard Peter respond. "Tain't no sech ting. Go way, you poor white Irish trash! who ebber heard ob a 'spectable colored woman a takin' a bran mash, I'd like to know." The reality of Peter's ridiculous blunder flashed upon me at once, and the fun of the thing struck me so irresistibly, that I hesitated for a moment to break in upon it. "Arrah, be aisy, can't ye, an' be afther takin' it down like a dacent naygur," I heard Peter say. "Go way, you feller," screamed Phillis, "or I'll call missis, dat I will." "Och! be this and be that," says Peter, resolutely, "if 'tis about to frighten the beautiful misthress ye are, and she sick, too, at this same time, I'll be afther puttin' a shtop to that." Immediately afterwards came a short scuffle, and then a stifled scream. Concluding that it was now time for me to interfere, I moved quickly on, and just as the scuffling gave way to smothered sobs and broken ejaculations, I flung open the door and looked in. The first thing that caught my eye was Phillis seated in a chair, sputtering and gasping; while Mulrooney, holding her head under his left arm, was employing his right hand in conveying a tin cup of bran mash from the bucket at his side to her upturned mouth. "What in the name of all that is good are you doing now, Peter?" said I. "Sure, sir, what wud I do but give black Philly the warm mash, accordin' to yer honor's orthers? Augh! the haythen. Bad cess to her! 'tis throuble enough I've had to make her rasonable and obadient, an' that's no lie-the stupid ould thafe of a naygur." The reader may imagine the finale to so rich a scene; even my wife, sick as she was, caught the infection, and laughed heartily. As for Peter, the last I heard of him that evening was his muttering, as he walked away :"Ayeh! why didn't he tell me? If they call naygurs fillies, and horses fillies, sure an' how should I know the differ?" Peter remained in my service five years, during which period he treated Phillis with great deference. WHEN SAM'WEL LED THE SINGIN'. Of course I love the house o' God, New-fangled ways had come there. I 'low it's sorter solemn-like It kinder makes yer blood run cold, But, somehow, it don't tech the spot- No slurs-ez that bass viol did I tell ye what, when he struck up That's what you'd call sopranner— Their hull souls out with ev'ry note, An', land alive, the way they'd race I allus thought it must 'a' set The bells o' heaven a-ringin' Folks didn't sing for money then; That choir'd fetch sinners to the fold, 8FF -Boston Globe. THE RESCUE OF ALBRET.*-THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH, When Count d' Albrét had passed away, he left no son as heir; And so his many seignories fell to his daughter fair; To keep the name alive he willed that on her wedding-day The mate she chose should take the arms and title of Albrét. She dwelt within her castle old, this noble demoiselle, A white-haired priest, a saucy page, four maidens-these were all. But many a needy gentleman bethought him of the prize The free companion, John Lanceplaine, a soldier basely bred, Heard of it, too, and thought: Methinks 'tis time that I were wed. A lady passing fair is much, and more the fertile land, "I am not one to sue and court, am all devoid of grace, Advanced in years and gray of beard, with scarred and wrinkled face; I may not woo with courtly phrase, as might some silken lord. My winning shall my wooing be; I'll gain her by my sword. "She bides at home, my spies report, not twenty miles away; They say she has ten men-at-arms, no more, to guard Albrét. The dwellers in the village near, I little reck for those, We'll brush them off like trifling gnats when we the hold enclose" He called around his men-at-arms- -a base and cruel band, Part of the scum that overflowed that time the hapless landAnd said: "At daybreak forth we ride to storm a castled hold, Its walls contain a wife for me; for you, rich store of gold." A motley troop before the place next day drew bridle-rein,Two hundred ruffians, at their head the grisly John Lanceplaine,— From "The New York Ledger" by permission of Robert Bonner's Sona. Rode through the town with oath and jest, and camping on the field, Sent message to the chatelaine, and summoned her to yield. "We mean," 'twas said, "but courtesy; we promise treatment fair; But woe to those in leaguered hold who may resistance dare." The countess showed no craven fear; she sent defiance back, And waited with the garrison the robber-knaves' attack. It was not long to wait: they came with confidence elate, With scaling-ladders for the walls, and rams to force the gate. It was not long before they found their frantic efforts vain, With twenty sorely wounded men, and five among them slain. "We'll spare more loss," cried John Lance plaine; "of food they have no store; Famine shall do the work for us before a week be o'er." And so he ordered watch and ward, while careless, day by day, The ruffians, sure to win at last, before the castle lay. When bread fell short, Girard Beaujeu, the page, he eager said: "My great and noble lady, thus our fate must sure be sped. Give me to seek a mode by which an exit may be made To find some gallant gentlemen whose arms may give us aid." "Go forth, Girard," the lady said, "go forth, for yet perchance May be some knights who keep afield, and wield the sword and lance; Go forth, and if your eager search bring succor in our need, Honors and lands, as well as thanks, shall surely be your meed." From postern gate, at dead of night, with sword in hand, he steals; Now creeps by bush, now crawls by stone, now stoops half bent, now kneels; He finds the sentinels asleep, and makes his way to where The horses of the losel knaves lie in the open air. He saddles one and bridles one, and slowly leads him down The grassy slope and o'er the road, and past the sleeping town; Then mounts with care, and cautious rides, till from all hearing passed, Then urges on the wakened steed, and gallops hard and fast. |