Who asked with the "don't let me bother you" air, "How are ye?" The editor rose with a smile "No-I jest called to see ye "-the visitor said; Here he ran a red handkerchief over his head, "I hev read all the pieces you've writ for your sheet, "I am glad you are pleased," said the writer," indeed; But you praise me too highly, by far Just select an exchange that you're anxious to read, By the way, I've a melon laid up for a treat I've been keeping it nestled in ice, It's a beauty, sir, fit for an angel to eat Now, perhaps, you will relish a slice?" Then the stranger rolled up half a dozen or more Of the choicest exchanges of all Helped himself to the fruit, threw the rinds on the floor, Or flung them at flies on the wall. He assured his new friend that his "pieces were wrote As he wiped his red hands on the editor's coat "By the way, I've neglected to ask you your name," "That's a fact," he replied, "I'm Abimalech Bame, I'm a-livin' out here on the Fiddletown Creek The Gazette gets around to me wunst every week- "Abimalech Bame," mused the editor, "B-a-m-e--" "'Spose not;" was the answer-" no reason it should, For ye see I jine lots with Bill Prim- He's a reg'lar subscriber and pays ye in wood, And I borry your paper o' him!" -Scribner's Monthly. OUR SWEET UNEXPRESSED.-W. F. Fox. Like pearls that lie hid 'neath the ocean's broad breast, Where its waters unceasingly roll, Are our beautiful thoughts-our sweet unexpressed, Oh! weak is the effort of language or pen To portray the bright images caught. Each voice of the soul, and each thrill of the heart, Though the drops, as they fall, may richness impart. When love would the depth of her passion reveal, Oh! how little we say of all that we feel, For our words seem as empty as air. When fancy would spread her soft wing to the air, Oh, how little we prove of all that seems there! When a landscape we'd sketch-some dearly loved spot, Though the hand may be skilled, it satisfies not: When music invites the soft flow of the soul, Though sweet be her notes in the currents that roll, As jewels incased in a casket of gold, So our purest of thoughts lie deep and untold, THE MYSTIC VEIL. This world I deem but a beautiful dream Of the things that shall meet our waking eyes. Hardly they shine thro' the outer shrine, I gaze aloof on the tissued roof, Where time and space are the warp and woof A tapestried tent, to shade us meant, From the ever radiant firmament, So the blaze of the skies comes soft to the eyes But could I see as in truth they be The glories of heaven which encompass me, Soon the whole like a parchéd scroll, Oh! who shall bear the blinding glare Ancient of days THE THREE WARM NGS.-MRS THRALE. The tree of deepest root Least willing still to qui ; found 'Twas therefore said by ncient sages, That love of life increased with years So much, that in our latter stages, When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, This great affection to believe, 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, 66 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 spokeNeighbor," he said, "Farewell! No more Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour; And farther, to avoid all blame Of cruelty upon my name, To give you time for preparation, In hopes you'll have no more to say; Well pleased the world will leave." 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, He chaffered then, he bought, he sold, Nor thought of death as near; His friends not false, his wife no shrew, He passed his hours in peace. But while he viewed his wealth increase, Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, Brought on his eightieth year. And now, one night, in musing mood Th' unwelcome messenger of fate Once more before him stood. Half killed with anger and surprise, "So soon returned!" old Dodson cries. "So soon, d'ye call it?" Death replies: "Surely, my friend, you're but in jest! 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: However, see your search be legal; And your authority-is't regal? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant. Besides, 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 66 This is a shocking tale, t'is 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 couldnot hear." Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined, These are unjustifiable yearnings; "If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, You've had your three sufficient warnings. So, come along, no more we'll part," He said, and touched him with his dart. |