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Richard was wong after all—to tell a fellah to buy what he has no n-need of—and as for s-selling my necessaries -I—I'm dash'd if I'll do anything of the kind—n-10– not for P-poor Richard-nor-nor ANY OTHER MAN.
But there's one vewy nonthensical pwoverb which says “ A b-bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”
Th-the man who invented that pwoverb must have been a b-born idiot. How the dooth can he t-tell the welative v-value of poultry in that pwomithcuous manner? Suppothe I've got a wobbing-wedbweast in my hand(I nearly had the other morning—but he flew awayconfound him !)—Well-suppothe the two birds in the bush are a bwace of partwidges-you-you don't mean to t-tell me that that wobbin-wedbweast would fetch as m-much as a bwace of partwidges ? Abthurd! P-poor Richard can't gammon me in that sort of way.
Then there's another
“ The pitcher goes oft to the well, but the pitcher at last may be broken.”
Now this I take to be a sort of alle— What is that word now, which m-means something diffewent to what it weally means ?—an alle—alligator ?-no-allicompane?
— alkali?-all--no-allegory—that's it. The pitcher is a sort of allegowy—and means, of courth, a person. Well -if—if a person goes t-to the well, it stands to all weason th-that he can't go to the bad ; and if he dothn't go to the b-bad-he can't be bwoken-so Poor Richard's out again there. But if he weally means a pitcher-a thing for holding water, you know—why, suppothing it is bwoken-(as any weal pitcher may be--any day of the week), the only thing a fellah can do is to b-buy another. They're not so vewy expensive, after all. I d-dare say you could buy a stunner for half-a-crown- so what's the use of making such a jolly wow about it?
This eccentwic old party then goes on to say, that “ Those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. Now, considewing what a vewy small pwoportion of
people occupy tenements of this descwiption, I should have thought the best thing to say would have been, “Th-those who d-don't live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.” I–I'm sure it would have embwaced a gweater n-number of the community-p-particularly ththose little b-blackguards in the stweets, who can never even have been in the Cwystal Palace in their lives—and yet are always shying things about–b-beathly balls that hit you and then webound back in a mistewious sort of way into their hands—and playing at t-tip cat—a howwid kind of game, in which a fellah strikes a bit of wood on the ground that flies up into the air-and-if it doesn't hit you, he wins—that is, he gets it back again—and ifif it does hit you, you lose--that is, you lose your temper
— -at least I know I do. But the m-most widiculous makthim of all is
“ Take care of the pence, and the pounds will take care of themselves."
Did you ever hear such nonthense? If there's one thing I hate to cawwy about with me it'th coppers. Somehow or other-I never had but vewy few pence in my life—and those—1—I gave away to one of t-those organ fellahs in the stweet. Ha, ha!—I suppose he bought m-monkeys or some howwid thing with it-I–I don't care. I only hope I shall never see any more b-beathly coppers again—howwid things! Fancy !—I had to put them in my pocket—1—I hate putting things in my pocket. Th-that's a sort of thing no fellah should do—it spoils the shape of one's clothes so. And then the muff says that the pounds will take care of themselves! I don't believe a word of it. Besides—I don't mind cawwying pounds—I mean pounds sterling, not pounds weight, of course, I rather like pounds. They—they'd be pwetty little things—if it wasn't for the change. But then a fellah can always give the change away, if he likes.
Let me see—th-there's something more about money that Poor Wicbard says—Oh, I wemember
By Jove!-yes-he-he's wite there-he's wite at last -Poor Richard is.:-(If he'd been Rich Richard he wouldn't have hit that off so well.)-Yes—if you would know the value of money, twy to bowwow some. Vewy twue—and I'll tell you another thing—when you've found out how valuable it is—ha, ha!—NEVER LEND IT. Th-that's my makthim.
THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN.
BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years ? They are leaving their young heads against their
And that cannot stop their tears.
The young birds are chirping in the nest,
The young flowers are blowing toward the west-
They are weeping bitterly !-
In the country of the free.
Do you question the young children in their sorrow,
Why their tears are falling so?-
Which is lost in Long Ago;
The old year is ending in the frost-
The old hope is hardest to be lost:
Do you ask them why they stand
In our happy Fatherland ?
They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,
Down the cheeks of infancy ;
Our grave-rest is very far to seek.
For the outside earth is cold,
And the graves are for the old.
That we die before our time,
Like a snowball, in the rime.
Was no room for any work in the close clay :
Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.'
With your ear down, little Alice never cries;
For the smile bas time for growing in her eyes ;
The shroud by the kirk-chime!
· Tbat we die before our time.”
Death in life, as best to have !
With a cerement from the grave.
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do;
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
Like our weeds anear the mine?
“For oh," say the children, "we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap ;
To drop down in them and sleep.
We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
Through the coal-dark underground; Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.
For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning
Their wind comes in our faces,
And the walls turn in their places ;
Turns the long light that drops adown the wallTurn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling
All are turning, all the day, and we with all. And all the day, the iron wheels are droping;
And sometimes we could pray, • O ye wheels' (breaking out in a mad moaning),
“Stop! be silent for to-day!'"
Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing
For a moment, mouth to mouth-
Of their tender human youth!
Is not all the life God fashions or reveals ;
That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!
Grinding life down from its mark; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward,
Spin on blindly in the dark.