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'Tis Mouse's place to yield him food-
On Mouse's ever-teeming brood,

'Tis his to feed and fatten,
He by the chimney corner sits,
In velvet coat, and silken “mits,"
Watching his spotless thriving kits,

Who but on Mouse-flesh batten.

But Mice are small quick-witted wights,
With large round eyes that see great lights :

To live, and feed, and revel,
They felt their right; and, nowise scared
(Save prudently) their tyrants dared
To criticise—and schemes prepared

To send them to the devil.

They met in corners and in holes,
These small conspirators, with souls

For Truth and Action mighty.
Their themes—Existence, Corn, and Cheese
On which their purring tyrants seize.
No panic fears their councils freeze,

No visions wild or flighty

Their projects mar. Mere Common Sense
Directs their plans—“The Cats must hence,

And we about must bring it.
Many must die, ere ends our wrong;
Speak, Orators ! the weak make strong,
Each singing Mouse who knows a song

That's warlike-let him sing it.”

The plans were ripe. The dozing Cats,
On velvet chairs and fringëd mats,

Began to feel uneasy. A needle through the cushion pokes ; A lighted match the whisker smokes; ('Tis wondrous how the smallest folks, Whom you have wrong'd, can tease ye !)

And now, a coat of furry silk,
Is dabb’d with pitch ; and now, of milk

A saucer rare is shatter'd.
And now a snow-white paw,


yet Ne'er damp contamination met, Steps on a marbled floor, with wet

And slimy mud bespattered.

Up went the lordly backs with rage : “So, ho! the pigmies dare to wage

A war with us !" they mutter'd. “Quick, measures prompt we'll make suffice” Their claws they sharpen'd in a trice; A thousand palpitating Mice

About their court-yards flutter'd.

But little Mice have kindreds wide.
For every little mangled hide

Of victim, sleek and glossy,
A score of bead-like eyes burnt bright
For vengeance—in the cellar's night,
In workshop's gloom, on gran'ry's height,

Out in the corn-field mossy.
From far and near, the myriads came.
Vengeance and Right, the pigmies claim-

“Down with the Traps and Poison !”
White gleam the teeth, and red the eye;
The Tyrant Cats, torn piecemeal, die,
Or panic-stricken, howl and fly,

Pressed by the madd’ning noise on.

The Mice were freed! The Cats who fled, With draggled fur, and eyes all red,

And most with haunches goryAll blinded by their wild'ring fear, Plung’d, swimming, o'er the neighb'ring mere To Ratland; and I've kept till here

The marrow of my story.

The Terriers met them on the shore:
They had been ancient foes before,

But still the Curs were kindly.
They gave them milk, and fire and food,
Marvelling, in their houndish mood,
How Cats, to rule an insect brood

Of Mice, could fail so blindly.
Answer'd the Cats, “ Nay, marvel we,
If little Mice so dauntless be,

the Rats can master-
A fiercer race.” The Terriers laugh’d.

but learnt our plans to graft On yours, you'd had a certain raft

To cling to in disaster."
The Cats in chorus mew'd, "Explain,
Oh! teach us how to pow'r regain,

And, faith, those Mice shall rue it !"
The Terriers said, “ 'Tis now too late,
You should have earned their love, not hate;
We our fierce Rats conciliate,

And this is how we do it.

“When game and birds are far from cheap, And we, a little extra deep

Are forced, for private eating,
Into the Rats to dip—and they
Turn rusty, and their tusks display,
(As once they will do, in a way

With reeds and spear-grass meeting,)
• We beckon out the biggest rat,
And ask him, with a friendly pat,

To join our side-the merrier-
We teach him how to bark; with shears
We dock his tail, and trim his ears,
Give him some bones, to calm his fears,

And tell him he's a Terrier."
(By kind permission of J. C. Brough, Esq.)






The morning on which Reginald Gloverson was to leave Great Salt Lake City with a mule-train, dawned beautifully.

Reginald Gloverson was a young and thrifty Mormon, with an interesting family of twenty young and handsome wives. His unions had never been blessed with children. As often as once a year he used to go to Omaha, in Nebraska, with a mule-train for goods ; but although he had performed the rather perilous journey many times with entire safety, his heart was strangely sad on this particular morning, and filled with gloomy forebodings.

The time for his departure had arrived. The highspirited mules were at the door, impatiently champing their bits. The Mormon stood sadly among


weeping wives.

“Dearest ones," he said, “I am singularly sad at heart, this morning; but do not let this depress you. The journey is a perilous one, but-pshawl I have always come back safely heretofore, and why should I fear? Besides, I know that every night, as I lie down on the broad starlit prairie, your bright faces will come to me in my dreams, and make my slumbers sweet and gentle. You, Emily, with your mild blue eyes; and you, Henrietta, with your splendid black hair; and you, Nelly, with your hair so brightly, beautifully golden; and you, Mollie, with your cheeks so downy; and you, Betsy, with your wine-red lips~far more delicious, though, than any wine I ever tasted—and you, Maria, with your winsome voice; and you, Susan, with your—with your—that is to say, Susan, with your

and the other thirteen of you, each so good

66 Come to my

and beautiful, will come to me in sweet dreams, will you not, Dearestists ?”

“Our own," they lovingly chimed, "we will !"

" And so farewell!" cried Reginald. arms, my own !” he said;

" that is, as


of can do it conveniently at once, for I must away.'

He folded several of them to his throbbing breast, and drove sadly away.

you as

But he had not gone far when the trace of the offhind mule became unhitched. Dismounting, he essayed to adjust the trace; but ere he had fairly commenced the task, the mule, a singularly refractory animal, snorted wildly, and kicked Reginald frightfully in the stomach. He arose with difficulty, and tottered feebly towards his mother's house, which was near by, falling dead in her yard, with the remark, “ Dear Mother, I've come home to die!"

“ So I see,” she said; 16 where's the rules ?

Alas! Reginald Gloverson could give no answer. In vain the heart-stricken mother threw herself upon his inanimate form, crying, “ Oh, my son—my son! only tell me where the mules are, and then you may die if you want to."

In vain-in vain! Reginald had passed on.



The mules were never found.

Reginald's heart-broken mother took the body home to her unfortunate son's widows. But before her arrival she indiscreetly sent a boy to bust the news gently to the afflicted wives, which he did by informing them, in a hoarse whisper, that their “old man had

gone in."

The wives felt very badly indeed.
“He was devoted to me,” sobbed Emily.

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