Imatges de pÓgina

To see if the moorings of gay “Susan Jane"
Were able to stand the unusual strain.
The guy Susan Jane was his joy and his pride,

A beautiful yacht, and the captain's sole bride.
"I think I will wait for Sand Piper,” said he;
“A woman worth having I reckon she'll be.
My eyes!” he said earnestly,“ how she can sing!
I'm glad she's safe under her good mother's wing-
God a' mercy!" he shouted in sudden afiright,
While chattered his teeth, and his brown face grew white,
As something was flung by the waves at his feet,
With seaweed and grass for its wet winding-sheet;
With seaweed and grass in its long, clinging hair,
It was cast at his feet as if left in his care.
Great sobs from his breast told how grievous his pain,
And tears down his sun-burned cheeks rushed like the rain.
The sea-grass he brushed from the still form away,
And tenderly wiped from the fair face the spray.

My poor little messmate,” he chokingly said, “I thought you with mother, and here you lie dead.” As Angela bearing, he turned from the shore, How clearly his heart heard her sweet voice once more, From far o'er the sea the glad strain seemed to come* Yes, yes, I am going, I'm soon going bome !"


Ring out merrily,

Loudly, cheerily,
Blithe old bells from the steeple tower;

Hopefully, fearfully,

Joyfully, tearfully,
Moveth the bride from the maiden bower.
Clouds there are none in the fair summer sky;
Sunshine flings benison down from on high;
Children sing loud, as the train moves along,
“Happy the bride that the sun shineth on."

Kuell out drearily,

Measured and wearily,
Sad old bells from the steeple gray;

Priests chanting lowly,

Solemnly, slowly
Passeth the corse from the portal to-day.
Drops from the leaden clouds heavily fall,
Dripping all over the plume and the pall;
Murmur old folk, as the train moves along,
"Blessed the dead that the rain raineth on.".

Toll at the hour of prime,

Matin and vesper chime,
Loved old bells from the steeple high-

Rolling, like holy waves,

Over the lowly graves,
Floating up, prayer-fraught, into the sky.
Solemn the lesson your lightest notes teach,
Stern is the preaching your iron tongues preach;
Ringing in life from the bud to the bloom,
Ringing the dead to their rest in the tomb.

Peal out evermore

Peal as ye pealed of yore,
Brave old bells, on each Sabbath day;

In sunshine and gladness,

Through clouds and through sadness,
Bridal and burial have passed away.
Tell us life's pleasures with death are still rife;
Tell us that death ever leadeth to life;
Life is our labor, and death is our rest,
If happy the living, the dead are the blest.



BROTHER Simon.-I say, brover Horace, I hearn you giro Meriky the terriblest beating las' nite. What you and she hab a fallin' out about?

BROTHER HORACE.- Well, brover Simon, you knows yourse'f, I never has no dejection to splanifying how I rules my folks at home, and stablishes order dar when it's pintedly needed, and 'fore gracious! I leab you to say dis time ef 't wan't needed, and dat pow'ful bad.

You see, I'se allers been a plain, straight-sided nigger, an' hain't never had no use for new fandangles, let it be what it mout; 'ligion, polytix, business—don't keer what.Ole Horace say: De ole way am de bes' way, an' you fellers dat's all runnin' teetotleum crazy 'bout ebery new jim-crack dat's started, better jes' stay whar you is, an'let them things alone. But they won't do it, no ’mount of preaching won't sarve um. And that is jes’ at this partickeler p’int dat Meriky got dat dressin'. She done been off to Richimun Town a livin' in sarvice dar dis las' winter, and Saturday a week ago she comed home to make a visit. Well, dat was all good enough. Course we was all glad to see our darter. But you b'l'eve dat gal hadn't turned stark bodily naked fool? Yes, sir; she wa'n't no more like de Meriky dat went away jes? a few munts ago, dan chalk's like cheese. Dar she come in, wid her close pinned tight enuff to hinder her from settin', and her ha'r a-danglin' right in her eyes jes' for all de worl' like a sheep a-looking fru a brush-pile, and you

think she haint forgot how to talk? She jes' rolled up her eyes ebery oder word and fanned and talked like she spected to die de nex' bref. She'd toss dat mush-head ob hern and talk proper as two dixunarys. 'Stead ob she callin' ob me " Daddy,” and her mudder “Mammy," she say, “Par and Mar, how can you bear to live in setch a one-hoss town as this? Oh! I think I should die.” I jes' stared at that girl till I make her out, an' says I to myself, “ It's got to come,” but I don't say nothin' to nobody 'bout it-all de same I know it had to come fus' as las'. Well, I jes' let her hab more rope, as de sayin' is, tell she got whar I 'cluded was 'bout de end ob her tedder. Dat were on last Sunday mornin', when she went to meetin' in sich a rig, a-puttin' on a'rs, tell she couldn't keep a straight track. When she comed home she brung kumpny wid her, and, ob course,

I couldn't do nuthin' then; but, I jes' kept my ears open, an’ ef dat gal didn't disqualify me dat day, you can have my hat. Bime-by dey all gits to talkin' bout 'ligion and de chu'ches, and den one young fellow, he step up, an’ says he, "Miss Meriky, give us your 'pinion 'bout de matter?" Wid dat she flung up her head proud as de Queen Victory, an’ says she, “ I takes no intelligence in sich matters ; dey is all too common for me. Baptisses is a foot or two below my grade. I tends de Pisclopian chu'ch whar I resides, an' 'spects to jine dat one de nex' anniversary ob de bishop. Oh! dey does ebery thing so lovely, and in so much style. I declar', nobody but common folks in de city goes to de Baptiss chu'ch. It made me sick at my stomick to see so much shoutin' and groanin' dis mornin', 'tis so ungenleel wid us to make so much sarcumlocutions in meetin'."

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And thar she went on a giratin' 'bout de preacher a-comin' out in a white shirt, and den a-runnin' back and gittin' on a black one, and de people a-jumpin' up and a-jawin' ob de preacher outen a book, and a-bowin' ob dey heads, and a-sayin' ob long rigamaroles o' stuff, tell my liead fa'rly buzzed, and I were dat mad at de gul I jus' couldn't see nuffin in dat room. Well, I jes' waited tell the kumpny riz to go, and den I steps up, and, says I, “Young folks, you needn't let what Meriky told you 'bout dat chu'ch put no change inter you. She's sorter out ob her right mine

now, but de nex' time you comes, she'll be all right on dat and seberal oder subjicks;" and den dey stared at Meriky mighty hard, and goes away.

Well, I jes' walks up to her and I says, “ Darter," says I, what chu'ch are dat you say you gwine to jine ?"--and, says she, very prompt like, “ De Pisclopian, Par," and says I,

Meriky, I'se mighty consarned 'bout you, kase I knows your mine aint right, and I shall jis' hab to bring you 'roun' de shortest way possible.” So I retch me a fine bunch ob hick’ries I done prepared for dat 'casion. And den she jumped up, and says she, “What make you think I loss my senses?" “Bekase, darter, you done forgot how to walk, and to talk, and dem is sure signs," and wid dat I jes' let in on her, tell I 'stonished her 'siderably. 'Fore I were done wid her she got ober dem dyin' a’rs and jumped as high as a hoppergrass. Bime-by she 'gins to holler, “Oh, Lordy! daddy! daddy! don't give me no more!" And, says I, “You're improvin', dat's a fac'—done got your nat’ral voice back. What chu'ch does you ’long to, Meriky?” And says she, a-cryin', “I don't ’long to none, Par.”

Well, I gib her anodder lettle tetch, and says I, “What chu'ch does you ’long to, darter ?" and, says she, all choked like, “I doesn't ’long to none.” Den I jes make dem hick'ries ring for 'bout five minutes, and den I say, "What chu'ch you ’long to now, Meriky ?" And says she, fa’rly shoutin',

Baptiss, I'se a deep-water Baptiss." Bery good," says I, " you don't 'spect to hab your name tuck offen dem chu'ch books?” And

No, sar; I allus did despise dem stuck up Pisclopians; dey ain't got no 'ligion nohow.”

Brover Simon, you never see a gal so holpen by a good



says she,

genteel thrashin' in all your days. I boun’ she won't never stick her nose in dem new fandangle chu'ches no more. Why, she jes' walks as straight dis morning, and looks as peart as a sunflower. I'll lay a tenpence she'll be a-singin' before night dat good old hymn she usened to be so fond ob. You knows, brover Simon, how de words run:

Baptis', Baptis' is my name,

My name's written on high ; 'Spects to lib an' die de same,

My name's written on high.” BROTHER SIMON. - Yes, dat she will, I be boun'; ef I does ay it, brove Horace, you beats any man on chu'ch gubernment an'immily displinement ob any body I ever has seen.

Brother HORACE. –Well, brover, I does my bes'. You mus' pray for me, so dat my hands may be strengthened. Dey feels mighty weak after dat conversion I give dat Meriky las' night.


'Mid many strangely thrilling tales

That time to a wondering world consigns,
Is one from the rock-rent hills of Wales;

Where men, down deep in its dark coal mines,
Were there enclosed by the fire-damp's shock,

Imprisoned fast in the fearful gloom;
While countless tons of the ruptured rock

Confined them there in a living tomb.
Grouped overhead were the weeping wives,

And men with faces stern and still,
Who sadly thought of the hundred lives

That death had claimed in the trembling hill;
Or watched, impatient, the curling sinoke

That rose from the burning mine below;
And the roaring flames, that raged and broke

Like the waves of hell in their crimson flow.
Long hours they waited, then work began-

With a fierce desire to seek their dead;
And no one shrank from the risk he ran,

But hearts were heavy with grief, as lead.
And they vainly hoped that a chosen few,

In the chambers somewhere beneath the ground,
Had refuge sought, and perhaps lived through,

And 'scaped the fate that the rest had found.


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