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and my mother's love, when I embarked again for New York, now with their approbation and their blessing.

From his "Autobiography."

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, an' a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp;

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The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-grey, an' a' that;

Gie' fools their silks, and knaves their wine,

A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that:

The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is King o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;

Tho' hundreds worship at his word,

He's but a coof for a' that:

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For a' that, and a' that,

His riband, star an' a' that;
The man of independent mind,

He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might;
Guid faith he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,

Their dignities and a' that;

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that),

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that,

That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

ROBERT BURNS.

AFTON WATER.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,
Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,

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My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where oft in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays :
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

ROBERT BURNS.

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LEGEND OF THE MOOR'S LEGACY.

Just within the fortress of the Alhambra, in front of the royal palace, is a broad open esplanade, called the Place or Square of the Cisterns, so called from

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being undermined by reservoirs of water, hidden from sight, and which have existed from the time of the Moors. At one corner of this esplanade is a Moorish well, cut through the living rock to a great depth, the 5 water of which is cold as ice and clear as crystal. The wells made by the Moors are always in repute, for it is well known what pains they took to penetrate to the purest and sweetest springs and fountains. The one of which we now speak is famous throughout Granada, insomuch that water-carriers, some bearing great water-jars on their shoulders, others driving asses before them laden with earthen vessels, are ascending and descending the steep woody avenues of the Alhambra, from early dawn until a late hour 15 of the night.

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Fountains and wells, ever since the scriptural days, have been noted gossiping-places in hot climates; and at the well in question there is a kind of perpetual club kept up during the livelong day, by the invalids, old women, and other curious do-nothing folk of the fortress, who sit here on the stone benches, under an awning spread over the well to shelter the toll-gatherer from the sun, and dawdle over the gossip of the fortress, and question every water-carrier that 25 arrives about the news of the city, and make long comments on everything they hear and see. Not an

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hour of the day but loitering housewives and idle maid-servants may be seen, lingering, with pitcher on head or in hand, to hear the last of the endless tattle of these worthies,

Among the water-carriers who once resorted to this well, there was a sturdy, strong-backed, bandy-legged little fellow, named Pedro Gil, but called Pèregil for shortness. Being a water-carrier, he was a Gallego, or native of Galicia, of course. Nature seems to have 5 formed races of men, as she has of animals, for different kinds of drudgery. In France the shoeblacks are all Savoyards, the porters of hotels all Swiss, and in the days of hoops and hair-powder in England, no man could give the regular swing to a sedan-chair but a bog-trotting Irishman. So in Spain, the carriers of water and bearers of burdens are all sturdy little natives of Galicia. No man says, "Gt me a porter,"

but, "Call a Gallego."

To return from this digression, Pergil the Gallego had begun business with merely a great earthen jar which he carried upon his shoulder; by degrees he rose in the world, and was enabled to purchase an assistant of a correspondent class of animals, being a stou shaggy-haired donkey. On each side of this his 20 long-eared aide-de-camp, in a kind of pannier, were slung his water-jars, covered with fig-leaves to protect them from the sun. There was not a more industrious water-carrier in all Granada, nor one more merry withal. The streets rang with his cheerful voice as he trudged after his donkey, singing forth the usual summer note that resounds through the Spanish towns" Who wants water-water colder than snow? Who wants water from the well of the Alhambra, cold as ice and clear as crystal?" When he served a

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