I'd no idee then that Sal Smith was a gwine to be married to Sam Pendergrass. pany with Mose Hewlitt for better'n a year, She'd ben keepin' combody said that was a settled thing, and, lo and behold! and everyall of a sudding she up and took Sam Pendergrass. Well that was the first time I ever see my husband, and if a body'd a told me then that I should ever marry him, I fanyshould a said-but, lawful sakes! I most forgot, I was gwine to tell you what he said to me that evenin', and when a body begins to tell a thing, I believe in finishin' on't some time or other. Some folks have a way of talkin' round and round and round for evermore, and never comin' to the pint. Now there's Miss Jinkins, she that was Poll Bingham afore she was married, she is the tejusest indiwidooal to tell a story that ever I see in all my born days. husband said. He says to me, says he, "Silly;" says I, But I was gwine to tell you what "What?" I dident like his name. The first time I ever heard it I near killed "What Hezekier?" for I dident say myself a laffin'. "Hezekier Bedott;" says I. I would give up if I had such a name;" but then you "Well, know I had no more idee o' marryin' the feller than you have this minit o' marryin' the governor. I s'pose you think it's curus we should ha' named our oldest son Hezekier. Well, we done it to please father and mother Bedott; it's father Bedott's name, and he and mother Bedott both used to think that names had ought to go down from gineration to gineration. But we always call him Kier, you know. Speakin o' Kier, he is a blessin', ain't he? and I ain't the only one that thinks so, 1 guess. Now don't you never tell nobody that I said so, but between you and me, I rather guess that if Kezier Winkle thinks she's a gwine to ketch Kier Bedott, she's a leetle out o' her reckonin'. But I was gwine to tell what husband said. He says to me, says he, "Silly;" I says, says I, "What?" If I dident say what," when he said Silly," he'd a kept on sayin' "Silly" from time to eternity. He always did, because, you know, he wanted me to pay pertikkeler attention, and I ginerally did; no woman was ever more attentive to her husband than what I was. Well, he says to me, says he, "Sifly;" says I, "What?" though I'd no idee what he was gwine to say; dident know but what 'twas something about his sufferings, though he wa'n't apt to complain, but he frequently used to remark that he wouldent wish his worst enemy to suf fer one minnit as he did all the time, but that can't be called grumblin'; think it can? Why, I've seen him in sitivations when you'd a thought no mortal could a helped grumblin', but he dident. He and me went once in the dead o' winter in a one-hoss shay out to Boonville, to see a sister o' hisen. You know the snow is amazin' deep in that section o' the kentry. Well, the hoss got stuck in one o' them 'ere flambergasted snow-banks, and there we sot, onable tq,stir, and to cap all, while we was a-sittin' there husband was took with a dretful crick in his back. Now that was what I call a perdickerment, don't you? Most men would a swore, but husband dident. He only said, says he, "Consarn it!" How did we get out, did you ask? Why, we might a been sittin' there to this day, fur as I know, if there hadent a happened to come along a mess o' men in a double team, and they hysted us out. But I was gwine to tell you that observation o' hisen. Says he to me, says he, "Silly." I could see by the light of the fire, (there dident happen to be no candle burnin', if I don't disremember, though my memory is sometimes ruther forgetful, but I know we wa'n't apt to burn candles 'ceptin' when we had company.) I could see by the light of the fire that his mind was oncommonly sollemnized. Says he to me, says he, "Silly;" I says to him, says I, "What?" He says to me, says he, "We're all poor critters!" F. M. Whitcher BRUTUS OVER THE DEAD LUCRETIA. Would you know why I summoned you together? The very shrine and sacristy of virtue. You all can witness when that she went forth Forgot its crutch, labor its task,-all ran, And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried 66 - There, there's Lucretia!" Now, look ye, where she lies! That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose, Torn up by ruthless violence,-gone! gone! gone! Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to him If mad ambition in this guilty frame Had strung one kingly fibre,-yea, but one,- Now take the body up. Bear it before us A pile for these chaste relics, that shall send J. H. Payne. THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW. The snowflakes are falling swiftly, And faces are bright in their youthful glow Within that pleasant parlor, The mother alone is still, She feels not the snow that falls without, As she turns away from the fireside glow God help those eyes despairing, God pity the mad rebellion Which in that heart had birth. The children are gone, and a sound of woe The woman's face, all ghastly, Lies pressed to the window pane, But no sound of human anguish Escapes her lips again; 'Twas the cry of a woman's heart crushed low, Whose hopes lay dead 'neath the beautiful snow. The firelight glanced and sparkled, In contrast to her gloom, It gilded the books and pictures, And lit up the cheerful room,— While, through the casement, its crimson glow She shrank from the mocking brightness, A chair that never again could know A form now still 'neath the beautiful snow. Many a night-watch had he known, While the snowflakes fell around him, For his heart was strong, in its patriot glow, He too had watched the snowflakes, And laughed as they whirled him by,— But now there rests not a stone to show The mourner's eye roved sadly, In search of the vacant chair, To rest in loving wonder On a young child slumbering there; And she caught from his baby lips the low With a sudden, passionate yearning, She caught him to her breast, And smiled in the eyes that, in their calm, Eyes that had caught their kindling glow From the father that lay 'neath the beautiful snow. Again she stood at the casement, And smiled at her baby's glee, As he turned from the feathery snowflakes Her answering smile to see, Her little child, that never could know The father that lay 'neath the beautiful snow. Ah! many a widowed heart doth throb In its bitterness alone, And many an orphan's tears still fall Fond hearts must bleed, and tears must flow, For the loved who lie 'neath the beautiful snow. Caroline Griswold. |