he says,

66

'No.'

6

An' I axes, Is it the musicianger?' An' he says, 'No, Pete. They's werry good, but I feels somebody else, too. I don't know who it is, but I thinks I'm finding 'em out, an' I'll know werry soon, Pete― werry soon, indeed.' An' they is one thing wot is queer: he says that so often that kinder gets to b'lieve somethin' too. I don't know wot it is, 'cept that it ain't anythin' about Santy Klaus; but I believes somethin'. An' I's sure of it, one mornin', w'en he's sittin' up in bed, an' the woman's there, an' the musicianger's helpin' him to hold the fiddle, for he's learned a chune at last, an' he wants to play it to me. He plays it werry soft, an' feeble, an' shaky, an' he has to stop sometimes to rest, but he plays it, an' he won't guv it up till he comes to the end of it. Then he says, 'Pete, that's my chune, an' its name is Home, Sweet Home. I used to think it meant home weer me an' fader an' this fiddle lived, an here weer the woman lives, but it ain't- it's someweers else. An', Pete,' he says, huggin' of his fiddle, 'you must keep my Chrismus tree till — till —’

"You see, sir, the little chap was set on it that he was a-goin'- but he didn't go. A week from that day he took a turn, and mended faster'n he'd gone down. But he was allus kind o' saint-wise arter that, and kind o' got me to bein' so blamed putikular agin doin' wrong things that that—well, you see, sir, it's led me inter good, honest, steady bizness, an' I don't look upon lyin' same as I used to, nohow. As fur the young un hisself, sir, he was coaxed away agin his will an’ my own, by the musicianger who's been a-teachin' an' doin' so well by him, that, if you'll believe me, sir, he's soon goin' into a orkistry, my young un is."

PROGRAMME NO. 9.

DORA.

With Farmer Allan at the farm abode
William and Dora. William was his son,
And she his niece. He often look'd at them,
And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife."
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,

And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth because
He had been always with her in the house,

Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day
When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son,
I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die;
And I have set my heart upon a match.
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty, too, beyond her age.
She is my brother's daughter: he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred

His daughter Dora; take her for your wife;
For I have wished this marriage, night and day
For many years. But William answer'd short:
"I cannot marry Dora; by my life,

I will not marry Dora." Then the old man
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said,
"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!
But in my time a father's word was law,
And so shall it be now for me. Look to it:
Consider, William: take a month to think,
And let me have an answer to my wish,
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,
And never more darken my doors again.'
But William answered madly; bit his lips,
And broke away. The more he looked at her

The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
The month was out he left his father's house,
And hired himself to work within the fields;
And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd
His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well;
But if you speak with him that was my son,
Or change a word with her he calls his wife,
My home is none of yours. My will is law."'
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,
"It cannot be; my uncle's mind will change ! '

And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he passed his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father helped him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest-time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat

And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said,
"I have obeyed my uncle until now,
And I have sinned, for it was all through me
This evil came on William at the first.

But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
And for your sake,—the woman that he chose,—
And for this orphan, I am come to you;

You know there has not been for these five years
So full a harvest: let me take the boy,
And I will set him in my uncle's eye
Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy,

And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."
And Dora took the child and went her way
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound
That was unsown, where many poppies grew,
Far off, the farmer came into the field

And spied her not; but none of all his men
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;
And Dora would have risen and gone to him,

But her heart failed her; and the reapers reaped,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she arose and took
The child once more, and sat upon the mound !
And made a little wreath of all the flowers
That grew about, and tied it round his hat,
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.
Then, when the farmer passed into the field,
He spied her, and he left his men at work,
And came and said, "Where were you yesterday?
Whose child is that? What are you doing here?
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,

And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!"'
"And did I not," said Allan, "did I not
Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again,
"Do with me as you will, but take the child,
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"
And Allan said, "I see it is a trick

Got up betwixt you and the woman there.

I must be taught my duty, and by you!
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared
To slight it. Well-for I will take the boy;
But go you hence, and never see me more.

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell
At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands,
And the boy's cry came to her from the field,
More and more distant. She bowed down her head,
Remembering the day when first she came,

And all the things that had been. She bowed down
And wept in secret; and the reapers reaped,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
To God, that helped her in her widowhood.
And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you;
He says that he will never see me more.
Then answered Mary, "This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself;
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight