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"Yes, have you anything to say agin it?”

"Only that I never saw you before."

"Faith, then, you'll never see me agin, if I have my own consint." "I won't give you any letter for the squire, unless I know you're

his servant. Is there any one in the town knows you?"

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Plenty," said Andy, “it's not every one is as ignorant as you." Just at this moment a person to whom Andy was known entered the house, who vouched to the postmaster that he might give Andy the squire's letter. "Have you one for me?"

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·Yes, sir," said the postmaster, producing one--“ fourpence.”

The gentleman paid the fourpence postage, and left the shop with his letter.

'Here's a letter for the squire," said the postmaster, “you've to pay me elevenpence postage."

"What 'ud I pay elevenpence for?"

"For postage."

“To the devil wid you! Didn't I see you give Mr. Duffy a letther for fourpence this minit, and a bigger letther than this? and now you want me to pay elevenpence for this scrap of thing? Do you think I'm a fool?"

"No; but I'm sure of it," said the postmaster.

"Well, you're welkum to be sure, sure;--but don't be delayin' me now; here's fourpence for you, and gi' me the letther."

"Go along, you stupid thief!" said the postmaster, taking up the letter, and going to serve a customer with a mouse trap.

While this person, and many others, were served, Andy lounged up and down the shop, every now and then putting in his head in the middle of the customers, and saying, "Will you gi' me the letther?”

He waited for above half an hour, in defiance of the anathemas of the postmaster; and at last left, when he found it impossible to get common justice for his master, which he thought he deserved as well as another man; for, under this impression, Andy determined to give no more than the fourpence.

The squire, in the meantime, was getting impatient for his return, and when Andy made his appearance, asked if there was a letter for him.

"There is, sir," said Andy.

"Then give it to me."

"I haven't it, sir."

"What do you mean?

"He wouldn't give it to me, sir.”

"Who wouldn't give it to you?”

“That owld chate beyant in the town-wanting to charge double for it."

"Maybe it's a double letter. Why the devil didn't you pay what he asked, sir?"

"Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated? It's not a double letther at all, not above half the size o' one Mr. Duffy got before my face for fourpence."

“You'll provoke me to break your neck some day, you vagabond! Ride back for your life, you omadhaun; and pay whatever he asks, and get me the letter."

"Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin' them before my face for fourpence apiece."

"Go back, you scoundrel! or I'll horsewhip you; and if you're longer than an hour, I'll have you ducked in the horse pond!”

Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the postoffice. When he arrived, two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was selecting the epistle for each, from a large parcel that lay before him on the counter; at the same time many shop customers were waiting to be served.

"I'm come for that letther," said Andy.

"I'll attend to you by-and-by."

"The masther's in a hurry."

"Let him wait till his hurry's over."

"He'll murther me if I'm not back soon."

"I'm glad to hear it."

While the postmaster went on with such provoking answers to these appeals for dispatch, Andy's eye caught the heap of letters which lay on the counter: so while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going forward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters from the heap, and, having effected that, waited patiently enough till it was the great man's pleasure to give him the missive directed to his master.

Then did Andy bestride his hack, and in triumph at his trick on the postmaster, rattled along the road homeward as fast as the beast could carry him. He came into the squire's presence, his face beaming with delight, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner, quite unaccountable to his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had been grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket,

and holding three letters over his head, while he said, "Look at that!" ne next slapped them down under his broad fist on the table, before the squire, saying-

"Well! if he did make me pay elevenpence, by gor, I brought your honor the worth o' your money anyhow!"



You may notch it on de palin's as a mighty resky plan,
To make your judgment by de cloes dat kivers up a man;
For I hardly needs to tell you how you often comes across
A fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss;
An', wukin in de low groun's, you diskiver, as you go,
Dat de fines' shuck may hide de meanes' nubbin in a row.

I think a man has got a mighty slender chance for hebben
Dat holds on to his piety but one day out o' seben;
Dat talks about de sinners wid a heap o' solemn chat,

And neber draps a nickel in de missionary hat,

Dat's foremost in de meetin'-house for raisin' all de chunes,
But lays aside his 'ligion wid his Sunday pantaloons.

I nebber judge o' people dat I meets along de way

By de places whar dey come fum an' de houses whar dey stay;
For de bantam chicken's awful fond o' roostin' pretty high,
An' de turkey-buzzard sails above de eagle in de sky;

Dey ketches little minners in de middle of de sea,

An' you finds the smallest possum up de biggest kind o' tree!



[The reader should recite this piece with a strong, clear voice, in a bold, martial tone, an erect carriage, with free liberal gesticulation and action.]

Our band is few, but true and tried,

Our leader frank and bold;

The British soldier trembles

When Marion's name is told,

Our fortress is the good greenwood,

Our tent the cypress tree;
We know the forest round us,

As seamen know the sea;
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands

Within the dark morass,

Wce to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear;
When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us

Are beat to earth again;

And they who fly in terror deem

A mighty host behind,

And hear the tramp of thousands

Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil;

We talk the battle over,

And share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout,

As if a hunt were up,

Ard woodland flowers are gathered

To crown the soldier's cup.

With merry songs we mock the wind

That in the pine-top grieves,

And slumber long and sweetly

On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads,--

The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb

Across the moonlight plain;

'Tis life to feel the night-wind

That lifts his tossing mane.

A moment in the British camp—
A moment-and away

Back to the pathless forest,

Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee
Grave men with hoary hairs;
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton
Forever from our shore.




When she came to work for the family on Congress street, the lady of the house sat down and told her that agents, book-peddlers, hat-rack men, picture sellers, ash-buyers, rag-men, and all that class of people, must be met at the front door and coldly repulsed, and Sarah said she'd repulse them if she had to break every broomstick in Detroit.

And she did. She threw the door open wide, bluffed right up at 'em, and when she got through talking, the cheekiest agent was only too glad to leave. It got so after awhile that peddlers marked that house, and the door-bell never rang except for company.

The other day, as the girl of the house was wiping off the spoons, the bell rang. She hastened to the door, expecting to see a lady, but

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