Mr. B. Hard-hearted, ma'am, hard! (Squeezes Mrs. C's little finger as she takes the cup, slaps his heart twice, heaves a mighty sigh, and gradually hitches his chair around the table, close to Mrs. C.) Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney? (Stirring his tea and looking up into her face.) Are you hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney? Mrs. C. Dear me! what a very curious question from a single man! What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble? (Mr. B. drinks his tea, finishes a piece of toast, whisks the crumbs off his knees, wipes his lips, and deliberately kisses Mrs. C.) Mr. Bumble (in a frightened whisper), Mr. Bumble, I shall scream! (Mr. B. puts his arm round her waist. A hasty knock is heard at the door. Mr. B. darts to the wine bottles, and begins dusting them with great violence.) Who's there? (loudly and sharply.) A Pauper (putting her head in at the door). If you please, Mistress, old Sally is a-going fast. Mrs. C. Well, what's that to me? (angrily.) I can't keep her alive, can I? Pauper. No, no, Mistress, nobody can; she's far beyond the reach of help. But she's troubled in her mind; and when the fits are not on her,— and that's not often, for she is dying very hard, she says she has got something to tell which you must hear. She'll never die quiet till you come, Mistress. Mrs. C. It's a shame that old women can't die without purposely annoying their betters (muffling herself in a shawl). Mr. Bumble, perhaps you'd better stay till I come back, lest anything particular should occur. (Amiably to Mr. B.; then crossly to the pauper.) Walk fast! don't be all night hobbling out o' the way. Charles Dickens. THE LONG AGO. OH! a wonderful stream is the river of Time, As it runs through the realm of tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, As it blends with the Ocean of Years. · How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, And the year in the sheaf- so they come and they go, There's a magical Isle up the river of Time, And the Junes with the roses are staying. And the name of that Isle is the "Long Ago," There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow There are fragments of song that nobody sings, There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; There are broken vows, and pieces of rings, And garments that she used to wear. There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river is fair. Oh, remembered for aye be that blessed Isle, When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, A BATTLE-SONG OF FREEDOM. EN of action! men of might! MEN Stern defenders of the right! Are you girded for the fight? Have you marked and trenched the ground Have you guarded well the coast? Have you counted up the cost? Freemen, up! The foe is nearing! Freemen, on! The drums are beating! From your hearths, and homes, and altars Hush! The hour of fate is nigh; Forward! We will do or die. G. Hamilton. OUR CENTENNIAL HYMN. JR fathers' God! from out whose hand We meet to-day, united, free, And loyal to our land and Thee, To thank Thee for the era done, Here, where of old, by Thy design, Whose echo is the glad refrain Be with us while the New World greets Thou who hast here in concord furled For art and labor met in truce, The honor, proof to place or gold; The manhood, never bought nor sold. Oh! make Thou us through centuries long, Around our gift of freedom draw Let the new cycle shame the old. J. G. Whittier. THE END. |