How they shouted! what rejoicing! How the old bell shook the air, at old State House bell is silent, Still is living-ever young; And when we greet the smiling sunlight, We will ne'er forget the bellman, Mary Maloney's Philosophy. "What are you singing for?" said I to Mary Maloney. "Oh, I don't know, ma'am, without it's because my heart feels happy." 66 Happy, are you, Mary Maloney? Let me see; you a foot of land in the world?" don't own "Foot of land, is it?". she cried, with a hearty Irish laugh; "oh, what a hand ye be after joking; why, I haven't a penny, let alone the land." "Your mother is dead!" "God rest her soul, yes,” replied Mary Maloney, with a touch of genuine pathos; may the angels make her bed in heaven." "Your brother is still a hard case, I suppose." "Ah, you may well say that. It's nothing but drink, drink. drink, and beating his poor wife, that she is, the creature" "You have to pay your little sister's board." "Sure, the bit creature, and she's a good little girl, is Hinny, willing to do whatever I axes her. I don't grudge the money what goes for that." "You haven't many fashionable dresses either, Mary Maloney." "Fashionable, is it? Oh, yes, I put a piece of whalebone in my skirt, and me calico gown looks as big as the great ladies'. But then ye says true, I hasn't but two gowns to me back, two shoes to me feet, and one bonnet to me head, barring the old hood ye gave me." "You haven't any lover, Mary Maloney." "Oh, be off wid ye-ketch Mary Maloney getting a lover these days, when the hard times is come. No, no, thank Heaven I haven't got that to trouble me yet, nor I don't want it." "What on earth, then, have you got to make you happy? A drunken brother, a poor helpless sister, no mother, no father, no lover; why, where do you get all your happiness from ?" "The Lord be praised, Miss, it growed up in me. Give me a bit of sunshine, a clean flure, plenty of work, and a sup at the right time, and I'm made. That makes me laugh and sing, and then if deep trouble comes, why, God helpin' me, I'll try to keep my heart up. Sure, it would be a sad thing if Patrick McGrue should take it into his head to come an ax me, but, the Lord willin', I'd try to bear up under it." Philadelphia Bulletin, The Ballad of Babie Bell Have you not heard the poets tell Into this world of ours? The gates of heaven were left ajar: Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star, Hung in the glittering depths of even, Its bridges, running to and fro, O'er which the white-winged angels go, She touched a bridge of flowers, those feet, Of the celestial asphodels! They fell like dew upon the flowers, Then all the air grew strangely sweet; And thus came dainty Babie Bell Into this world of ours. II She came and brought delicious May, The swallows built beneath the eaves; Like sunlight in and out the leaves, The robins went, the livelong day; The lily swung its noiseless bell, And o'er the porch the trembling vine How sweetly, softly, twilight fell! And opening spring-tide flowers, When the dainty Babie Bell Came to this world of ours! III. O Babie, dainty Babie Bell, Was love so lovely born; We felt we had a link between The land beyond the morn" And for the love of those dear eyes For love of her whom God led forth (The mother's being ceased on earth When Babie came from Paradise)— For love of him who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, "Dear Christ!" our hearts bent down Like violets after rain. IV. And now the orchards, which were white The clustered apples burnt like flame, The grape hung purpling in the grange, Her lissome form more perfect grew, And in her features we could trace, V. God's hand had taken away the seal We never held her being's key; ᏙᏞ It came upon us by degrees, We saw its shadow 'ere it fell, We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, We cried aloud in our belief, And perfect grow through grief," VII. At last he came, the messenger, The messenger from unseen lands, Wrapped her from head to foot in flowers, Out of this world of ours! Thomas Bailey Aldrich The Irishwoman's Letter. And sure, I was tould to come in till yer honer, Wid a sthripe on his arm, and a band on his hat. And what 'ill ye tell him? shure it must be aisy For the likes of yer honor to spake with the pen, |