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She was sweet sixteen last summer,
And her mother often tried
To teach her “city manners,”
And to be more dignified.
But that brown-eyed country beauty
Was a jolly, cunning elf,
Said she “never could be happy
If she didn’t act herself.”

She could run and jump and whistle,
She could handle papa's plows,
She could “ride a mule to meetin’,”
She could drive and milk the cows.
And when she churned for butter,
In her bare feet, near the spring,
The birds in congregations

Gathered near to hear her sing.

She could beat her mother washing,
She could cook and iron, too,
And she’d always sing or whistle
At the work she had to do.
She could shoot a gun or rifle,
Climb a rail fence low or high,
And I’ve seen her skin a rabbit
'Fore a cat could wink its eye.

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She could ride a horse a-straddle,
She could climb the tallest trees,
She could wade the creek in summer,
With her dress above her knees.
She could feed the hogs and chickens,
And 'twould make an angel laugh
To see that country beauty
Run a foot-race with a calf.

She is healthy, hearty, happy,
As life's flowery path she'll roam,
With the birds for her companions,
And the country for her home.
She's a queen among the “young set,”
And I’ve heard her neighbors say
That they love that country lassie
Who's the Boy-girl of to-day.

THE MILKMAID.

JEFFREYS TAYLOR.

A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on her head, Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said: “Let me see,_I should think that this milk will

procure One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure. “Well, then, stop a bit, it must not be forgotten,

Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten;

But if twenty for accident should be detached,

It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched.

“Well, sixty sound eggs, no, sound chickens, I
IIlean :
Of these some may die, -we'll suppose seventeen,
Seventeen! not so many, say ten at the most,
Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast.

“But then there's their barley: how much will they need? Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed, So that's a mere trifle; now then, let us see, At a fair market price how much money there’ll

be.

“Six shillings a pair—five—four—three-and-six,

To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix;

Now what will that make? fifty chickens I said,

Fifty times three-and-sixpence—I’ll ask Brother Ned.

“O, but stop, three-and-sixpence a pair I must sell 'em;

Well, a pair is a couple, now then let us tell 'em;

A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain!)

Why, just a score of times, and five pair will remain.

“Twenty-five pair of fowls—now how tiresome it is That I can't reckon up so much money as this! Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess, I’ll say twenty pounds, and it can't be no less.

“Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow,

Thirty geese, and two turkeys, eight pigs and a sow;

Now if these turn out well, at the end of the year,

I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 'tis clear.”

Forgetting her burden, when this she had said,
The maid superciliously tossed up her head;
When, alas for her prospects! her milk-pail de-
scended,
And so all her schemes for the future were ended.
This moral, I think, may be safely attached,

“Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched.”

28

“THERE'S A BOWER OF BEAN-
VINES.”

PHOEBE CAREY.

There's a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's
yard,
And the cabbages grow round it, planted for

greens; In the time of my childhood 'twas terribly hard

To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.

That bower and its products I never forget,
But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,

I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,
Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin's

yard?

No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used

to wave, But some beans had been gathered, the last that

hung on, And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was

gone.

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it awfully hard:

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