Our fair, young boy-with free and happy soul, Not my loved parents! take thou not from me My own dear brother? no, thy ways pursue All-all too dear! each golden link so bright- Frances B. M. Brotherson. MRS. CAUDLE URGING THE NEED OF It's If there's anything in the world I hate-and you know it-it is, asking you for money. I am sure, for myself, I'd rather go without a thing a thousand times, and I do, the more shame for you to let me. What do I want now? As if you didn't know! I'm sure, if I'd any money of my own, I'd never ask you for a farthing-never! painful to me, gracious knows! What do you say? If it's painful, why so often do it? I suppose you call that a joke-one of your club-jokes! As I say, I only wish I'd any money of my own. If there is anything that humbles a poor woman, it is coming to a man's pocket for every farthing. It's dreadful! Now, Caudle, you shall hear me, for it isn't often 1 speak. Pray, do you know what month it is? And did you see how the children looked at church to-day-like nobody else's children? What was the matter with them? Oh! Caudle how can you ask? Weren't they all in their thick merinoes and beaver bonnets? What do you say? Whut of it? What! You'll tell me that you didn't see how the Briggs girls, in their new chips, turned their noses up at 'em? And you did n't see how the Browns looked at the Smiths, and then at our poor girls, as much as to say, "Poor creatures! what figures for the first of May?" You didn't see it! The more shame for you! I'm sure, those Briggs girls-the little minxes!—put me into such a pucker, I could have pulled their ears for 'em over the pew. What do you say! I ought to be ashamed to own it? Now, Caudle, it's no use talking; those children shall not cross over the threshold next Sunday if they haven't things for the summer. Now mind-they shan't; and there's an end of it! I'm always wanting money for clothes? How can you say that? I'm sure there are no children in the world that cost their father so little; but that's it-the less a poor woman does upon, the less she may. Now, Caudle, dear! What a man you are! I know you'll give me the money, because, after all, I think you love your children, and like to see 'em well dressed. It's only natural that a father should. How much money do I want? Let me see, love. There's Caroline, and Jane, and Susan, and Mary Anne, and—What do you say? 1 needn't count 'em? You know how many there are? That's just the way you take me up! Well, how much money will it take? Let me see—I'll tell you in a minute. You always love to see the dear things like new pins. I know that, Caudle; and though I say it, bless their little hearts they do credit to you, Caudle. How much? Now, don't be in a hurry! Well, I think, with good pinching-and you know, Caudle, there's never a wife who can pinch closer than I can-I think, with pinching, I can do with twenty pounds. What did you say? Twenty fiddlesticks? What! You won't give half the money? Very well, Mr. Caudle; I don't care; let the children go in rags; let them stop from church, and grow up like heathens and cannibals; and then you'll save your money, and, I suppose, be satisfied. What do you say? Ten pounds enough? Yes, just like you men; you think things cost nothing for women; but you don't care how much you lay out upon yourselves. They only want frocks and bonnets? How do you know what they want? How should a man know anything at all about it? And you won't give more than ten pounds? Very well. Then you may go shopping with it yourself, and see what you'll make of it! I'll have none of your ten pounds, I can tell you-no sir! No; you've no cause to say that. I don't want to dress the children up like countesses! You often throw that in my teeth, you do; but you know it's false, Caudle; you know it! I only wish to give 'em proper notions of themselves; and what, indeed, can the poor things think, when they see the Briggses, the Browns, and the Smiths, and their fathers don't make the money you do, Caudle-when they see them as fine as tulips? Why, they must think themselves nobody. However, the twenty pounds I will have, if I've any; or not a farthing! No, sir; no,-I don't want to dress up the children like peacocks and parrots! I only want to make 'em respectable. What do you say? You'll give me fifteen pounds? No, Caudle, no, not a penny will I take under twenty. If I did, it would seem as if I wanted to waste your money; and I'm sure, when I come to think of it twenty pounds will hardly do! Douglos elā. SONG OF THE DRUNKARD. A figure all dirty and ragged, As it rocked itself to and fro 'Twas the picture of woe and despair. It rocked, rocked, rocked Itself on the chair to and fro, And sang aloud, in a doleful strain, Drink-drink-drink! And destroy the vigor of youth; And blight all virtue and truth. Better, far better 'twould be With the savage and heathen to dwell, Than with swillers of brandy, beer and wine, Drink-drink-drink! Till the brain begins to swim; Drink-drink-drink! Till eyes are blood-shot and dim; While all around is drear, And the landlord refuses a drink Of burning, fiery rum, to cheer The soul on perdition's brink. Oh, talk not of Hell or Death! My life's but a living death; Alas! I must reap what I've sown! Oh, let me drink of the drunkard's cup!-In hell I must wear his crown. Drink-drink-drink! The appetite never flags; What are its wages? Beds of straw- A roofless house-a naked floor; No chairs nor tables are there ;A house that's a picture of woe and want, With walls all blank and bare. Drink-drink-drink! And waste your precious time; Drink-drink-drink! Though it lead to sin and crime. Ah! never stop to think Where your downward course will end; But laugh and quaff of the devil's drink, If you do to hell descend! Ye never can drown the voice Oh, for an hour of youth! Ere to drink I did begin; When I loved religion, virtue, and truth, And hated crime and sin. Oh, moderate drinker, beware! Ere the drunkard's death you die. My fate is already sealed; Repentance comes too late; Once there was time, but now, alas! Thus the inebriate sang, And rocked on his chair to and fro; He gave a shriek, when his song was done, Oh, temperate drinker, beware! Once felt as safe-and spoke as loud God gives us power to banish rum, And save all from the drunkard's hell! THE MANIAC. STAY, jailer, stay, and hear my woe! I am not mad, I am not mad! My tyrant husband forged the tale He smiles in scorn, and turns the key; |