You ought to be more fortified." "Ah, brute, be quiet, do,

I know I'm not so fortified, nor fiftyfied, as you!

“Oh, men are vile deceivers all, as I have ever heard, You'd die for me you swore, and I-I took you at your word.

I was a tradesman's widow then-a pretty change I've made;

To live and die the wife of one, a widower by trade!" "Come, come, my dear, these flighty airs declare, in sober truth,

You want as much in age, indeed, as I can want in youth;

Besides, you said you liked old men, though now at me you huff.”

"Why, yes," she said, "and so I do-but you're not old enough!"

"Come, come, my dear, let's make it up, and have a quiet hive;

I'll be the best of men-I mean I'll be the best alive. Your grieving so will kill me, for it cuts me to the core."

“I thank ye sir, for telling me, for now I'll grieve the more!"

THE THREE WARNINGS.

'HE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,

That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.
This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,

If old assertions can't prevail,

Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day,

Death called aside the jocund groom
With him into another room,

And looking grave-"You must," says he, "Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." "With you! and quit my Susan's side? With you!" the hapless husband cried; "Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard! Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared: My thoughts on other matters go; This is my wedding-day, you know."

What more he urged I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke—
"Neighbor," he said, "farewell! no more
Shali Death disturb your mirthful hour:
And further, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon thy name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summoned to the grave;
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve;

In hopes you'll have no more to say;
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell :

He chaffered, then he bought and sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near:
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace.

But while he viewed his wealth increase.

While thus along life's dusty road,

The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,
The unwelcome messenger of fate
Once more before him stood.

Since I was here before 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoined; "To spare the aged would be kind:

Beside, you promised me three warnings,
Which I have looked for nights and mornings;
But for that loss of time and ease,
I can recover damages."

"I know," cries Death, "that at the best,

I seldom am a welcome guest;
But don't be captious, friend, at least;
I little thought you'd still be able

To stump about your farm and stable:
Your years have run to a great length:
I wish you joy, though' of your strength!"
"Hold!" says the farmer; "not so fast!
I have been lame these four years past."
"And no great wonder," Death replies:
*However, you still keep your eyes;

And sure to see one's loves and friends,
For legs and arms would make amends."

"Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might,
But latterly I've lost my sight."
"This is a shocking tale, 'tis true;
But still there's comfort left for you:
Each strives your sadness to amuse;
I warrant you hear all the news."

"There's none," cries he; "and if there were, I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear."

"Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined,

A LOVE LETTER FROM DAKOTA.

vases,

An'-bother the lingo of wares !

An' curtains wid camel-hair laces, Perhaps whin I married a wife

She would turn up her nose at me choosin',
Or waysht the shweet bloom of her life
Wid pretinse of contint at their usin'.
So now, I've no carpets to shweep,

Nor tables nor chairs to tip o'er;
Whin night comes I roll up an' shleep
As contint as a pig on the floor.
But ah, the shweet dreams that I dream
Of Erin's most beautiful daughter!
Until in me visions you seem
On your way to me over the water!
(-Please pardon me method ungainly,

But, hopin' the future may yoke us,
I'll try to be bould an' speak plainly,

An' bring me note down to a focus :-)
Would you marry a man wid a farrum,
An' a house most ixquisitely warrum,
Wid wall so ixcaidin'ly thick, m'am,
For they're built of a single big brick, ma'am,
Touchin' Mexico, Texas, Nebrasky-

The thickest walls iver you thought of, Why, they cover the country we bought of The sire of Alexis-Alasky!

For sure its great walls are the worruld-
In fact it's a hole in the ground;
But oh, it's the place to be curruled
Whin the whirlwinds are twirlin' around!

It is ivery bit basemint ixcipt

The parlor, that lies out-of-doors,

Where the zephyr's pure fingers have swept
Its million-ply carpeted floors.
Forgive me ixtravigant speeches,

But it's fair as the dreams of a Hindoo, 'Wid me parlor's unlimited reaches

An' the sky for a sunny bay-window. Me darlint, Dakota is new,

Sod houses are here widout number, But I'll build a broad mansion for youWhin I'm able to purchase the lumber. An' sure 'twill not take very long

Where the soil is so fertile, I'm tould:
Whin you tune up your plow for a song,
The earth hums a chorus of gould.

Thin come to your Dinnis O'Brion,
An' let his fidelity prove
That his heart is as strong as a lion,
Ixcipt that it's burstin' wid love.

&

W. W. FINK.

THE DEACON'S CONFESSION.

ES, surely the bells in the steeple

Were ringing; I thought you knew why.
No? Well, then, I'll tell you, though mostly
It's whispered about on the sly:

Some six weeks ago a church meeting
Was held, for-no one knew what ;
But we went, and the parson was present,
And I don't know who, or who not.

Some twenty odd members, I calc'late

Which mostly was wimmin, of course;
But I don't mean to say aught agin 'em-
I seen many gatherings look worse.
And in the front row sat the deacons ;
The eldest was old Deacon Pryor,
A man countin' fourscore and seven,
And ginerally full of his ire.

Beside him his wife, aged fourscore,
A kind-hearted, motherly soul;
And, next to her, young Deacon Hartley,
A good Christian man, on the whole.
Miss Parsons, a spinster of fifty,

And long ago laid on the shelt,
Had wedged herself next, and beside her
Was Deacon Munroe-that's myself.

The meeting was soon called to order,
The parson looked glum as a text;
We silently stared at each other,

And every one wondered "What next?"

When straightway uprose Deacon Hartley,

His voice seemed to tremble with fear As he said: "Boy and man, you have known me, My friends, for this nigh forty year.

"And you scarce may expect a confession

Of error from me-but-you know
My dearly loved wife died last Christmas-
It's now over ten months ago.
The winter went by long and lonely—
But the spring-time crep' forward apace;
The farm work begun, and I needed
A woman about the old place.
"My children were wilder than rabbits,
And all growing worse every day ;
I could find no help in the village,
Although I was willing to pay.
I declare I was near 'bout discouraged,
And everything looked so forlorn,
When good little Patience McAlpine
Skipped into our kitchen one morn.

"She had only run in of an errand,

But she laughed at our woe-begone plight,
And set to work just like a woman,
A-putting the whole place to right.
And though her own folks was so busy,
And illy her helpin' could spare,
She'd flit in and out like a sparrow,
And 'most every day she was there.
"So the summer went by sort o' cheerful;
But one night my baby, my Joe,

Was restless and feverish, and woke me,
As babies will often, you know.

I was tired with my day's work, and sleepy,
And couldn't no way keep him still;
So at last I grew angry and spanked him,
And then he screamed out with a will.
"Twas just then I heard a soft rapping
Away at the half open door-
And then little Patience McAlpine
Stepped shyly across the white floor.
Says she: 'I thought Josie was crying;
I guess I'd best take him away-

I knew you'd be getting up early

6

To go to the marshes for hay,

"'So I staid here to-night to get breakfast

I guess he'll be quiet with me.

Come, baby, kiss papa, and tell him
What a nice little man he will be.'
She was bending low over the baby,

And saw the big tears on his cheek;
But her face was so near to my whiskers
I daresn't move scarcely, or speak.
"Her arms were both holding the baby,
Her eyes by his shoulder was hid-
But her mouth was so near and so rosy
That-I kissed her-that's just what I did."

Then down sat the trembling sinner :

The sisters they murmured: "For shame!" And "she shouldn't oughter a let him; No doubt she was mostly to blame."

When slowly uprose Deacon Pryor,

"Now, brethren and sisters," he said (And we knowed then that suthin' was coming, And we sot as still as the dead :) "We've heard Brother Hartley's confession, And I speak for myself, when I say, That if my wife was dead, and my children Were all growing wuss every day;

"And if my house needed attention,

And Patience McAlpine should come And tidy the cluttered-up kitchen,

And make the place seem more like homeAnd if I was tired out and sleepy,

And my baby wouldn't lie still,

But cried out at midnight and woke me,

As babies, we know, sometimes will;

"And if Patience came in to hush him,

And 'twas all as our good brother says,
I think, friends-I think I should kiss her,
And abide by the consequences."
Then down sat the el lerly deacon;
The younger one lifted his face,
And a smile rippled over the meeting,
Like light in a shadowy place.

Perhaps, then, the matronly sisters
Remembered their far-away youth,

Or the daughters at home by their firesides,
Shrined each in her shy, modest truth.
For their judgments grew gentle and kindly;
And well, as I started to say,

The solemn old bells in the steeple
Were ringing a bridal to-day.

N. S. EMERSON.

THE SOFT GUITAR.

SCENE: Moonlight. Beneath the lady's window appeareth the lover, and singeth, with guitar accompaniment.

Lover.

PEN thy lattice, O lady bright!

The earth lis calm in the fair moonlight;
Gaze on the glint of each glancing star,
And list to the notes of my soft guitar.

At the lady's window a vision shone-
'Twas the lady's head with a night-cap on.
LOVER.
(In ecstacy.)

See! at the casement appearing now,
With lily fingers she hides her brow.

Oh, weep not-though bitter thy sorrows are,
I will soothe them to rest with my soft guitar.

Then the lady answered, "Who's going to weep? Go 'way with your fiddle, and let me sleep."

LOVER.

(Saddened, but still hopeful.)

Then sleep, dear lady: thy fringed lids close,
Pinions of cherubim fan thy repose,
While through thy casement, slightly ajar,
Steal the sweet notes of my soft guitar.

Then the lady her "secret pain" confessed

With the plaintive murmur, "Oh, give us a rest!"

LOVER.

(Slightly discouraged.)

Chide me not harshly, O lady fair!

Bend from thy lattice, and hear my prayer.
Sighing for thee, I wander afar,
Mournfully touching my soft guitar.

And the lady answered: "You stupid thing,
If you've got the catarrh, stop trying to sing !"

LOVER.

(Filled with natural and righteous indignation.)
Cruel but fair one, thy scorn restrain!
Better death's quiet than thy disdain.
I go to fall in some distant war,
Bearing in battle my loved guitar.

Answered the lady: "Well, hurry and go!
I'm holding the slop-basin ready to throw."

LOVER.

(Making immediate preparations to depart.) False one, I leave thee! When I'm at rest Still shall my memory haunt thy breast; A spectral vision thy joy shall marA skeleton playing a soft guitar!

And the lady cried, in a scornful tone,
"Old skeleton, go it—and play it alone!"

Then the lover in agony roamed afar-
Fell drunk in the gutter, and smashed his guitar.
P. H. BOWNE.

THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.

HE Lady Jane was tall and slim,

The Lady Jane was fair

And Sir Thomas, her lord, was stout of limb,
And his cough was short, and his eyes were
dim,

And he wore green "specs" with a tortoise shell rim,
And his hat was remarkably broad in the brim,
And she was uncommonly fond of him-

And they were a loving pair!

And wherever they went, or wherever they came,
Every one hailed them with loudest acclaim;

Far and wide,

The people cried,

All sorts of pleasure, and no sort of pain,
To Sir Thomas the good, and the fair Lady Jane !
Now Sir Thomas the good, be it well understood,
Was a man of very contemplative mood—
He would pour by the hour, o'er a weed or a flower,
Or the slugs, that came crawling out after a shower;
Black beetles, bumble-bees, blue-bottle flies,
And moths, were of no small account in his eyes;
An "industrious flea," he'd by no means despise,
While an "old daddy long-legs," whose long legs and
thighs

Passed the common in shape, or in color, or size,
He was wont to consider an absolute prize.
Giving up, in short, both business and sport, he
Abandoned himself, tout entier, to philosophy.

Now as Lady Jane was tall and slim,
And Lady Jane was fair,

And a good many years the junior of him,

There are some might be found entertaining a notion,
That such an entire, and exclusive devotion,
To that part of science, folks style entomology,
Was a positive shame,

And, to such a fair dame,

Really demanded some sort of apology;
Ever poking his nose into this, and to that-

At a gnat, or a bat, or a cat, or a rat,

At great ugly things, all legs and wings,

With nasty long tails, armed with nasty long stings;—
And eternally thinking, and blinking, and winking,
At grubs-when he ought of her to be thinking.
But no! ah no! 'twas by no means so
With the fair Lady Jane,

Tout au contraire, no lady so fair,
Was e'er known to wear more contented an air;
And-let who would call-every day she was there,
Propounding receipts for some delicate fare,
Some toothsome conserve, of quince, apple or pear,
Or distilling strong waters—or potting a hare-
Or counting her spoons, and her crockery ware;
Enough to make less gifted visitors stare.

Nay more; don't suppose

With such doings as those

This account of her merits must come to a close;
No!-examine her conduct more closely, you ll find
She by no means neglected improving her mind;
For there all the while, with an air quite bewitching,
She sat herring-boning, tambouring, or stitching,
Or having an eye to affairs of the kitchen.
Close by her side,

Sat her kinsman, MacBride-
Captain Dugald MacBride, Royal Scots Fusiliers ;-
And I doubt if you'd find, in the whole of his clan,
A more highly intelligent, worthy young man;
And there he'd be sitting,
While she was a-knitting,