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I'd no idee then that Sal Smith was a gwine to be married to Sam Pendergrass. She'd ben keepin' company with Mose Hewlitt for better'n a year, and everybody said that was a settled thing, and, lo and behold! all of a sudding she up and took Sam Pendergrass. Well that was the first time I ever see my husband, and if any. body'd a told me then that I should ever marry him, I should 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 finisbin' on’t some time or other. Some folks have a way of talkin' round and round and round forevermore, and never comin' to the pint. Now shere's Miss Jinkins, she that was Poll Bingliam afore she was married, she is the tejusest indiwidooal to tell a story that ever I see in all my born days. But I was gwine to tell you what husband said. He says to me, says he, “Silly;” says I, “What?” I dident say “What Hezekier ?" for I dident like his name. The first time I ever heard it I near killed myself a laffin'. “ Hezekier Bedott;” says I. “Well, I would give up if I had such a name;" but then you 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 liezekier. 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’ ber 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

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 suffer 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. IIc and me went once in the dead o'winter in a one-loss 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 badent 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

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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 forni 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, liemlock, and base weeds,
Which now spring rise 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
“ 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!

Now take the body up. Bear it before us
To Tarquin's palace; there we'll liglit our torches,
And, in the blazing conilagration, 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 briglit 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 lieart 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 anguislı

Escapes her lips again;

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 le known,

And many a vigil kept,
While the snowflakes fell around him,

And all his comrades slept;
For lis lieart was strong, in its patriot glow,
As he gazed abroad at the beautiful snow.

He too had watched the snowílakes,

And laughed as they whirled him by, -
Had watched, as they drifted round liim,

With bright, unduvate eye;
But now tliere rests not a stone to slow
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 luis baby lips the low
Half murmured words, “The beautiful showi”

With a sudden, passionate yearning,

She caught liim to her breast,
And smiled in the eyes that, in their calm,

Rebuked hier own unrest,-
Eyes that had caught their kindling glow
From the father that lay 'neath the beautiful stom.

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 filow,
For the loved who lie 'neath the beautiful sno'.

Caroline liriscoledo

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