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HOW TO SAVE ONE'S BACON.
EARLY one fine morning, as Terence O'Fleary was hard at work in his potatoe-garden, he was accosted by his gossip, Mick Casey, who he perceived had his Sunday clothes on.
“ God's 'bud! Terry, man, what would you be afther doing there wid them praties, an Phelim O'Loughlin's berrin' goin' to take place ? Come along, ma bochel ! sure the praties will wait ?"
“Och ! no,” sis Terry, “I must dig on this ridge for the childer's breakfast, an' thin I'm goin' to confession to Father O'Higgins, who holds a stashin beyont there at his own house.”
“Bother take the stashin !" sis Mick, “sure that 'ud wait too." But Terence was not to be persuaded.
Away went Mick to the berrin’; and Terence, having finished " wid the praties," as he said, went down to Father O'Higgins, where he was shown into the kitchen, to wait his turn for confession. He had not been long standing there, before the kitchen fire, when his attention was attracted by a nice piece of bacon, which hung in the chimney-corner. Terry looked at it again and again, and wished the childer “ had it at home wid the praties.”
“ Murther alive !" says he,“ will I take it? Sure the priest can spare it; an it would be a rare thrate to Judy an' the gorsoons at home, to say nothin' iv myself, who hasn't tasted the likes this many's the day.” Terry looked at it again, and then turned away, saying—" I won't take it—why wou'd' I, an' it not mine, but the priest's? an' I'd have the sin iv it, sure! I won't take it," replied he, “an' it's nothin' but the Ould Boy himself that's timptin' me! But sure it's no harm to feel it, any way,” said he, taking it into his hand, and looking earnestly at it ; “ Och ! it's a beauty ; and why wouldn't I carry it home to Judy and the childer? An' sure it won't be a sin afther I confesses it !"
Well, into his great coat pocket he thrust it: and he had scarcely done so, when the maid came in and told him that it was his turu for confession.
“Murther alive! I'm kilt and ruin’d, horse and foot, now, joy, Terry ; what'll I do in this quandary, at all, at all ? By gannies ! I must thry an’ make the best of it, any how,” says he to himself, and in he went.
He knelt to the priest, told his sins, and was about to receive absolution, when all at once he seemed to recollect himself, and cried out
“Oh! stop-stop, Father O'Higgins, dear ! for goodness sake, stop ! I have one great big sin to tell yit ; only sir, I'm frightened to tell id, in the regard of never having done the like afore, sur, niver !"
“ Come,” said Father O'Higgins, “ you must tell it to me.”
“ Why, then, your Riverince, I will tell id; but, sir, I'm ashamed like ?" “Oh, never mind ! tell it,” said the priest.
Why, then, your Riverince, I went out one day to a gintleman’s house, upon a little bit of business, an' he bein' ingaged, I was shewed into the kitchen to wait. Well, sur, there I saw a beautiful bit iv bacon hanging in the chimbly-corner. I looked at id, your Riverince, an' my teeth began to wather. I don't know how it was, sur, but I suppose the Divil timpted me, for I put it into my pocket; but, if you plaze, sur, I'll give it to you," and he put his hand into his pocket.
“Give it to me!” said Father O'Higgins ; “no, certainly not ; give it back to the owner of it.”
Why, then your Riverince, sur, I offered id to him, and he wouldn't take id.” “Oh! he wouldn't, wouldn't he ?" said the priest ;
" then take it home, and eat it yourself, with your family."
“ Thank your Riverince kindly !" says Terence, “an' I'll do that same immediately, plaize God: but first and foremost, I'll have the absolution, if you plaize, sir.”
Terence received absolution, and went home rejoicing that he had been able to save his soul and his bacon at the same time.
HAMLET'S MEDITATION ON DEATH.
To be, or not to be, that is the question,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
THE WOLF AND THE MASTIFF.
A WOLF that long had ranged the wood,
“Well then," says snap, “ since 'tis agreed,
FUNERAL AT SEA.
The sun had just risen, and not a cloud appeared to obstruct his rays--a light breeze played on the bosom of the ocean—the stillness of the morning was only disturbed by the ripple of the waters; it seemed as if the calm and noiseless spirit of the deep was brooding over the waters—the national flag, displayed half way down the royal mast, played in the breeze, uuconscious of its solemn import ; the vessel seemed tranquil as the element on whose surface she moved—she knew not the sorrows that were in her own bosom, and seemed to look down on the briny expanse beneath her, in all the confidence and security of strength. To the minds of her brave crew it was a morning of gloom ; they had been boarded by the angel of death, and the forecastle now contained all that was mortal of his victim-his soul had fled to its final audit. They grouped around the windlass, and were left to their own reflections. The hardy sons of the ocean mingled their sympathies with each other :
they seemed to think of their own mortality-Conscience was at her post—they spoke of the virtues of their deceased messmate, of his honesty, his sensibility, his generosity; one remembered to have seen him share the last dollar of his hard earned wages with a distressed shipmate. All could attest his liberality—they spoke too of his accomplishments as a sailor, of the nerve of his arm and the intrepidity of his soul ; they had all seen him in the hour of danger, when the winds of heaven were let loose in all their fury, and destruction was on the wing, seize the helm, and hold the ship securely within his grasp till the danger was passed by.
They could have indulged longer in their reveries, but they were summoned to prepare for the rites of the sepulchre, and pay the last honour to their dead companion. Then the work of preparation commenced with heavy hearts and many a sigh -a rude coffin was soon constructed, and the body was deposited within it—all was ready for the final scene. The main hatches were his bier, a spare sail was his pall ; his surviving comrades, in their tar-stained habiliments, stood around; all were silent'; the refreshing breeze mourned through the cordage, the main topsail was hove to the mast, the ship paused on her course, the funeral service began ; his body was committed to the deep—the knell of the ship’s bell was heard—I heard the plunge of the coffin- I saw the tears start from the eyes of the generous tars-my soul melted within me, as I reverted to the home scenes of him whom we had buried in the deep-to hopes that were to be dashed with woe, to joys that were to be drowned with lamentation.
THE MAIL COACH.
TUNE---The Country Club.
COME listen to my story;
We make no longer stay :
Let Momus rule the day;
Get a snack before we go-
Some gravy soup-hollo !