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on 'em, and see that they didn't run away with it. Bimeby in they came agin, and then they said somebody was guilty of something, who had just said he was innocent, and didn't know nothing about it no more than the little baby that had never subsistence. I come away soon afterwards; but I couldn't help thinking how trying it must be to sit there all day, shut out from the blessed air !”
Benjamin Penhallon Shillaber
THERE are three ways in which men take
One's money from his purse,
hard it is to tell
To make a body curse.
You're riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains;
And takes your horse's reins,
A bullet in your brains.
It's hard to meet such pressing friends,
In such a lonely spot;
But harder to be shot;
Though you would rather not.
Perhaps you're going out to dine,
Some odious creature begs
That carried off his pegs,
it is a dreadful thing
He tells you of his starving wife,
His children to be fed,
All clamorous for bread,-
A bachelor to bed.
You're sitting on your window-seat,
Beneath a cloudless moon;
The semblance of a tune,
To drown a cracked bassoon.
And nearer, nearer still, the tide
Of music seems to come;
And something like a drum ;
Until your ear is numb
Poor “Home, sweet home” should seem to be
A very dismal place;
Is altered in the face;
Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.
You think they are crusaders, sent
From some infernal clime,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,
And break the legs of Time.
But hark! the air again is still,
The music all is ground,
To heal the blows of sound;
A hat is going round!
the dentist when he leaves A fracture in your jaw, And pay
the owner of the bear That stunned you with his paw, And buy the lobster that has had
Your knuckles in his claw;
But, if you are a portly man,
Put on your fiercest frown,
To turn them out of town;
And shut the window down !
And, if you are a slender man,
Not big enough for that,
Because you are a flat,
A button in the hat!
Oliver Wendell Holmes. MISS CRUMP'S SONG.
MISS CRUMP was inexorable
. She declared that she was entirely out of practice. “She scarcely ever touched the piano;” “Mamma was always scolding her for giving so much of her time to French and Italian, and neglecting her music and painting; but she told mamma the other day that it really was so irksone to her to quit Racine and Dante, and go to thrumming upon the piano, that, but for the obligations of filial obedience, she did not think she should ever touch it again."
Here Mrs. Crump was kind enough, by the merest accident in the world, to interpose, and to relieve the company from farther anxiety.
Augusta, my dear,” said she, “go and play a tune or two; the company will excuse your hoarseness.”
Miss Crump rose immediately at her mother's bidding, and moved to the piano, accompanied by a large group of smiling faces.
“Poor child,” said Mrs. Crump, as she went forward, “she is frightened to death. I wish Augusta could overcome her diffidence."
Miss Crump was educated in Philadelphia; she had been taught to sing by Madame Piggisqueaki, who was a pupil of Ma’m’selle Crokifroggietta, who had sung with Madame Catalani; and she had taken lessons on the piano from Seignor Buzzifussi, who had played with Paganini.
She seated herself at the piano, rocked to the right, then to the left, leaned forward, then backward, and began. She placed her right hand about midway the keys, and her left about two octaves below it. She now puts off to the right in a brisk canter up the treble notes, and the left after it. The left then led the way back, and the right pursued it in