I went with Aunt Prue to the Baptist
All day-good boy, you see--

And when she was reading her hymn-book
In the parlor after tea,

I did not wait for permission,

As you may well suppose,

But I took a bee-line through the meadow
On my way to Dr. Snow's.

And soon I peeped in at the window
And who do you think was there?
Why, my Cousin John was a-sitting
As straight as a cob, in a chair.

His best Sunday meeting clothes on,
He looked well enough, but then
If some one had routed that fellow
How glad I'd have said amen!
But Nettie, the blessed angel,
Her face flushed pink with surprise.
I knew she was glad to see me
By the curious look in her eyes.

We chatted till John grew angry.
"I guess I'll be going," said he;

And I feared the old folks would scold her,
For they liked him better than me.

So I said I'd go, too, and together
We climbed the old meadow stile,
And he said he had just concluded
To go out West for awhile.

I tried to express my sorrow,
And wished I was going, too,
But I was religiously lying,

A fact which he very well knew.

Soon after he left us, the young folks
Were going to ride one day;

I wanted to go, and take Nettie,
So I studied and planned a way.

The morning came: I was shaving,
And Odin was cutting around;
A ten-year-old fuller of mischief

Than a church bell is full of sound.

I thought I must hear from Nettie,
So I told him to go and see

If she was getting ready,

And be sure to call her he.

For I was determined Aunt Prudence
Should think I had gone with a man.
"Oh, yes," said the good-natured monkey,
I'll go as fast as I can."

Off he went and was back in a jiffy.
I asked, "Well, what did he say?"
"He said he was almost ready.

He is glad it's a pleasant day."

"And what was he doing?" Aunt Prudence asked, With such a grave, innocent air,

I knew my poor trick was discovered,

And I was angry enough to swear.

"He was, ah-he was, ma'am-he was, ah-"

I strangled myself with a cough.

He was just putting on his new bonnet."
And the mischievous imp ran off.

I sank down, weak as a baby.

She'd up and tell grandsire, of course,
And then he would keep me from going
By fussing about the house.

I was sulkily thinking it over,

There was not a word to be said;

I hated myself so badly

When a hand fell light on my head.

I looked up. Aunt Prue's eyes were smiling,
"My foolish boy," said she,

"If you find that new bonnet becoming
You'd better ask him home to tea."

She knew that no creed or doctrine

Two loving young hearts could divide.
And now you'll want me to tell you
How fair Nettie looked as a bride!

Well, yes, she was married next spring-time.
Aunt Prue knows just how she was dressed;,
And I was the bridegroom? Not any,
'Twas my Cousin John from the West!

SATAN AND THE GROG-SELLER.-W.H.BURLEIGH.

The grog-seller sat by his bar-room fire,
With his feet as high as his head and higher,
Watching the smoke as he puffed it out,
That in spiral columns curled about,
Veiling his face with its fleecy fold,

As lazily up from his lips it rolled,

While a doubtful scent and a twilight gloom
Were slowly gathering within the room.
To their drunken slumbers, one by one,
Foolish and fuddled, his friends had gone,
To wake in the morn to the drunkard's pain,
With a blood-shot eye and a whirling brain.
Drowsily rung the watchman's cry,
"Past two o'clock, and a cloudy sky,"
But our host sat wakeful still, and shook
His head, and winked with a knowing look.
"Ha, ha!" said he, with a chuckling tone,
"I know the way the thing is done!
Twice five are ten, and another V,
Two ones, two twos, and a ragged three,
Make twenty-four for my well-filled fob;
He! he! it was rather a good night's job;
Those fools have guzzled my brandy and wine,
Much good may it do them, the cash is mine."

He winked again with a knowing look,
And from his cigar the ashes shook,
"He! he! those fellows are in my net,
I have them safe, and I'll fleece them yet;
There's Brown, what a jolly dog is he!
And he swells the way that I like to see;
Let him dash for awhile at this reckless rate,
And his farm is mine as sure as fate.

"I've a mortgage now on Tompkins' lot,
What a fool he was to become a sot!
But it's luck to me; in a month or so
I shall foreclose and the scamp must go!
Zounds, won't his wife have a taking on,
When she hears that his house and lot are gone?
How she will blubber and sob and sigh!
But business is business, and what care I?

"And Gibson has murdered his child, they say;
He was drunk as a fool here yesterday,

And I gave him a hint, as I went to fill

His jug, but the brute would have his will,

And the folks blame me! why, bless their gizzards, If I did not sell he would go to Izard's;

I've a right to engage in a lawful trade,

And take my chance where there's cash to be made.

"If men'll get drunk and go home to turn
Their wives outdoors, 'tis their own concern;
But I hate to have women coming to me,
With this tweedle-dum and that tweedle-dee,

With their swollen eyes and their haggard looks,
And their speeches learned from temperance books;
With their pale, lean children, whimpering fools,
Why can't they go to the public schools?

"Let the hussies mind their own affairs,
For never have I interfered with theirs;
No customer will I turn away

Who is able to buy and willing to pay;
For business is business-Tee, he! Tee, he!"
And he rubbed his hands in his chuckling glee.
"Many a lark I have caught in my net,

I have them safe, and I'll fleece them yet."

"Tee, he! Tee, he!" 'twas an echo'd sound;
Amazed, the grog-seller looked around,
This side and that through the smoke peered he,
But nought but the chairs could the grog-seller see.
"Ho, ho! He, he!" 'twas a guttural note,

It seemed to have come from an iron throat,

And his knees they shook and his hair 'gan to rise,
And he opened his mouth and he strained his eyes.

And lo! in a corner dark and dim,

Sat an uncouth form, with an aspect grim;
From his grisly head, through his snaky hair,
Sprouted of hard rough horns a pair;

And fiercely those shaggy brows below,

Like sulphurous flame, did his green eyes glow,

And his lip was curled with a sinister smile,

And the smoke belched forth from his mouth the while.

In his hand he bore, if a hand it was,

Whose fingers were shaped like a vulture's claws,

A three-tined fork, and its prongs so dull

Through the sockets were thrust of a grinning skull. Like a sceptre he waved it, to and fro,

As he softly chuckled "Ha, ha! Ho, ho!"

And all the while were his eyes, that burned

Like sulphurous flame, on the grog-seller turned.

And how did he feel beneath that look?

Why, his jaw fell down, and he shivered and shook, And quivered and quaked in every limb,

As an ague fit had hold of him;

And his eyes to that monster grim were glued,
And his tongue was as stiff as a billet of wood.
But the fiend laughed on, " Ho, ho! He, he!"
And switched his tail in his quiet glee.

"Why, what do you fear, my friend?" he said,
And nodded the horns of his grisly head;

"You're an ally of mine, and I love you well;
In a very warm country, that men call hell,
I hold my court, and I'm proud to say,
That I've not a more faithful friend in pay
Than you, dear sir, for a work of evil:

Mayhap you don't know me, I'm called the Devil."

Like a galvanized corpse, so pale and wan,
Up started instanter that horror-struck man.
And he turned up the whites of his goggle eyes,
With a look half terror and half surprise,

And his tongue was loosed, but his words were few,
"The Devil! you don't!" 'Yes, faith, I do,"
Interrupted old Nick, " and here is the proof;
Just look at my tail, and my horns, and my hoof."

As Satan bade, so the grog-seller did,
Filling the vessel with gin to the lid,
And when it boiled and bubbled o'er,
The fiery draught to his guest he bore;
Nick in a jiffy the liquor did quaff,
And thanked his host with a guttural laugh;
But faint and few were the smiles I ween
That on the grog-seller's face were seen;

For a mortal fear had seized him then,
And he deemed that the ways of living men
He should tread no more, that his hour had come
And his master, too, to call him home;
Thought went back to the darkened past,
And shrieks were heard on the wintry blast,
And gliding before him, pale and dim,
Were gibbering fiends and spectres grim.

"Ho, ho!" says Nick, " 'tis a welcome cold
You give to a friend so true and old,

Who has been for years in your own employ,
Running about like an errand boy;
But we'll not fall out, for I clearly see

That you're rather afraid, and 'tis strange, of me!
Do you think I've come for you? never fear,
You can't be spared for a long while here.

"There are hearts to break, there are souls to win
From the ways of peace to the paths of sin;
There are homes to be rendered desolate;
There is trusting love to be changed to hate;
There are hands that murder must crimson red;

There are hopes to crush, there is blight to be shed
Over the young and the pure and the fair,
Till their lives are crushed by the fiend, despair.