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?
Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger,
Clotted with gore. Behold that frozen corse!
See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death!
She was the mark and model of the time,
The mould in which each female face was formed,

The very shrine and sacristy of virtue.
Fairer than ever was a form created
By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild,
And never-resting thought is all on fire.
The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph
Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks,
And whispered in his ear her strains divine,
Can I conceive beyond her. The young choir
Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'Tis wonderful,
Amid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds,
Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost
Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose,
How, from the shade of those ill neighboring plants,
Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf
Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace,
Bloomed in unsullied beauty. Such perfections
Might have called back the torpid breast of age
To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind
Might have abashed the boldest libertine,
And turned desire to reverential love,
And holiest affection. O, my countrymen!

You all can witness when that she went forth
It was a holiday in Rome; old age

Forgot its crutch, labor its task,-all ran,

And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried

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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!
Say, would you seek instruction? would ye ask
What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls,
Which saw his poisoned brother,-

Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove
O'er her dead father's corse,-'twill cry, Revenge!
Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge!
Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife,
And the poor queen, who loved him as her son,
Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge!
The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens,
The gods themselves shall justify the cry,
And swell the general sound, Revenge! Revenge!
And we will be revenged, my countrymen!
Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus, a name

Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to him
Than all the noblest titles earth can boast.
Brutus your king? No, fellow-citizens!

If mad ambition in this guilty frame

Had strung one kingly fibre,-yea, but one,-
By all the gods, this dagger which I hold
Should rip it out, though it entwined my heart.

Now take the body up. Bear it before us
To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches,
And, in the blazing conflagration, rear

A pile for these chaste relics, that shall send
Her soul among the stars. On! Brutus leads you;
On to the Forum! the fool shall set you free.

J. H. Payne.

THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

The snowflakes are falling swiftly,
The children are wild with glee,
As they dream of the merry pastime
The morrow's morn will see;

And faces are bright in their youthful glow
As they watch the falling, beautiful snow.

Within that pleasant parlor,

The mother alone is still,

She feels not the snow that falls without,
But her throbbing heart is chill,

As she turns away from the fireside glow
To look abroad on the beautiful snow.

God help those eyes despairing,
That gaze at the snow-clad earth;

God pity the mad rebellion

Which in that heart had birth.

The children are gone, and a sound of woe
Breaks through the night o'er the-beautiful snow.

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
Threw a band of light on the beautiful snow.

She shrank from the mocking brightness,
That sought to win her there;
Far better to watch the snowflakes
Than gaze at a vacant chair,-

A chair that never again could know

A form now still 'neath the beautiful snow.

Many a night-watch had he known,
And many a vigil kept,

While the snowflakes fell around him,
And all his comrades slept;

For his heart was strong, in its patriot glow,
As he gazed abroad at the beautiful snow.

He too had watched the snowflakes,

And laughed as they whirled him by,—
Had watched, as they drifted round him,
With bright, undaunted eye;

But now there rests not a stone to show
The soldier's grave 'neath the beautiful snow.

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
Half murmured words, "The beautiful snow?”

With a sudden, passionate yearning,

She caught him to her breast,

And smiled in the eyes that, in their calm,
Rebuked her own unrest,-

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
Above some honored stone.

Fond hearts must bleed, and tears must flow,

For the loved who lie 'neath the beautiful snow. Caroline Griswold.