PART TWO.

"Molly Mead, well, I declare! Who'd have thought of seeing you After what occurred last night,

Out here on the Avenue!

Oh, you awful! awful girl!

There, don't blush, I saw it all." "Saw all what?" "Ahem! last nightAt the Mathers in the hall."

"Oh, you horrid-where were you?
Wasn't he the biggest goose!
Most men must be caught, but he
Ran his own neck in the noose.

"I was almost dead to dance,
I'd have done it if I could,
But old Gray said I must stop,
And I promised ma I would.
So I looked up sweet and said
That I'd rather talk to him;
Hope he didn't see me laugh,
Luckily the lights were dim.

"My, how he did squeeze my hand!
And he looked up in my face
With his lovely big brown eyes-
Really, it's a dreadful case.

"Earnest!'-I should think he was!

Why, I thought I'd have to laugh When he kissed a flower he took,

Looking, oh! like such a calf.

I suppose he's got it now

In a wine-glass on his shelves; It's a mystery to me

Why men will deceive themselves.

"Saw him kiss me,'-oh! you wretch,

Well, he begged so hard for one—

And I thought there'd no one know
So I let him, just for fun.

"I know it really wasn't right

To trifle with his feelings, dear, But men are such stuck-up things;

He'll recover, never fear."

GEO. A. BAKER

HER LETTER.

I'm sitting alone by the fire,

Dressed just as I came from the dance
In a robe even you would admire,—
It cost a cool thousand in France,
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue:

In short, sir, "the belle of the season"
Is wasting an hour on you.

A dozen engagements I've broken;
I left in the midst of a set;
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,

That waits on the stairs-for me yet.
They say he'll be rich- when he grows up,
And then he adores me indeed.

And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.

"And how do I like my position?"

"And what do I think of New York?"

"And now in my higher ambition,

With whom do I waltz, flirt or talk?"

"And isn't it nice to have riches,

And diamonds and silks, and all that?" "And are n't it a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"

And yet, just this moment, when sitting
In the glare of the grand chandelier,---
In the bustle and glitter befitting

“The finest soirée of the year,”

In the mists of a ganze de Chambery,

And the hum of the smallest of talk,Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry," And the dance that we had on "The Fork;"

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster
Of flags festooned over the wall;

Of the candles that shed their soft luster
And tallow on head dress and shawl;
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle;
Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis;
And how I once went down the middle

With the man that shot Sandy McGee;

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping

On the hill, when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bed-clothes of snow; Of that ride, that to me was the rarest; Of--the something you said at the gate,— Ah, Joe, then I wasn't an heiress

To "the best-paying lead in the State."

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny
To think, as I stood in the glare
Of fashion and beauty and money,
That I should be thinking, right there,

Of some one who breasted high water,

And swam the North Fork, and all that,
Just to dance with old Follansbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.

My goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!
(Mamma says my taste still is low)
Instead of my triumphs reciting,

I'm spooning on Joseph,- -heigh-ho!
And I'm to be "finished" by travel,--
Whatever's the meaning of that,--
O! why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat?

Good night,--here's the end of my paper;
Good night,--if the longitude please,-
For maybe while wasting my taper,

Your sun's climbing over the trees.

But know if you haven't got riches,

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,

That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,
And you've struck it,--on Poverty Flat.

BRET HARTE.

SPEECH OF A MINGO CHIEF.

[History informs us, substantially, tha in the spring of 1774, two Indians of the Shawanese tribe murdered one of the inhabitan.S of Virginia. The infamous Colonel Cresap, accompanied by several other white men, proceeded down the Kanawha and destroyed every member of the innocent family of Logan. They concealed themselves on the bank of the river, and his women and children, who were seen coming in a canoe from the opposite shore, unapprehensive of danger, and unarmed, were all killed at one fire. Logan had long been recognized as the white man's friend. This atrocious outrage and ungrateful return, provoked him to take up arms, and he signalized himself in the battle which was tought in the autumn of the same year, at the mouth of the Great Kanawha, between the Shawanese, Mingoes, and Delawares, and a detachment of the Virginia militia. The Indians were defeated, and made a treaty for peace. Logan disdained to be seen among the suppliants; but fearing his absence would operate injuriously, he sent the following speech to be delivered to Lord Dunmore,-a speech of which Thomas Jefferson says: "I may challenge the whole orations of Demosthenes and of Cicero, and of any more eminent orator, if Europe has furnished more eminent, to produce a single passage superior to it."]

I appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him no meat; if ever he came cold and naked,

and he clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed, and said, “Logan is the friend of the white man."

I had even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, last spring, in cold blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not even sparing my women and children. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it,— I have killed many,-I have fully glutted my vengeance.

For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace; but do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

[This is an excellent exercise for the practice of quick narration-bold voiceoften rising into shouls of exultation- the poem is studded with fine points for brilliant recitation.]

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 't is at a white heat now:
The billows ceased, the flame's decreased; though on the forge's brow
The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound;
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round,
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare;
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle-chains, the black mound heaves below,
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe;

It rises, roars, rends all outright,-O Vulcan, what a glow!
'T is blinding white, 't is blasting bright, the high sun shines not so!
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show,-
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row
Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe;

As, quivering through his fleece of flaine, the sailing monster slow
Sinks on the anvil,-all about the faces fiery grow,

"Hurrah!" they shout, leap out, leap out": bang, bang, the sledges go;