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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
BRUTUS OVER THE DEAD LUCRETIA.
The very shrine and sacristy of virtue.
Amid the darnel, liemlock, and base weeds,
Say, would you seek instruction ? would ye ask
And we will be revenged, my countrymen!
Now take the body up. Bear it before us
J. H. Payne.
THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW.
The snowflakes are falling swiftly,
The children are wild with glee,
The morrow's morn will see;
Within that pleasant parlor,
The mother alone is still,
But her throbbing heart is chill,
God help those eyes despairing,
That gaze at the snow-clad earth;
Which in that lieart had birth.
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;
Than gaze at a vacant chair, -
Many a night-watch had le known,
And many a vigil kept,
And all his comrades slept;
He too had watched the snowílakes,
And laughed as they whirled him by, -
With bright, unduvate eye;
The mourner's eye roved sadly,
In search of the vacant chair,
On a young child slumbering there;
With a sudden, passionate yearning,
She caught liim to her breast,
Rebuked hier own unrest,-
Again she stood at the casement,
And smiled at her baby's glee,
Her answering smile to see, -
Ah! many a widowed heart doth throb
In its bitterness alone,
Above some honored stone.