And let the hay-mow's shadow fall
Upon the loveliest face of all.
She sat apart, as one forbid,

Who knew that none would condescend
To own the Witch-wife's child a friend.
The seasons scarce had gone their round,
Since curious thousands thronged to see
Her mother on the gallows-tree.
Few questioned of the sorrowing child,
Or, when they saw the mother die,
Dreamed of the daughter's agony.

Poor Mabel from her mother's grave
Crept to her desolate hearth-stone,
And wrestled with her fate alone.
Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept
Her faith, and trusted that her way,
So dark, would somewhere meet the day.
And still her weary wheel went round,
Day after day, with no relief:

Small leisure have the poor for grief.

So in the shadow Mabel sits;

Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, Her smile is sadder than her tears. But cruel eyes have found her out, And cruel lips repeat her name,

And taunt her with her mother's shame.

She answered not with railing words,
But drew her apron o'er her face,
And, sobbing, glided from the place.
And only pausing at the door,

Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze
Of one who, in her better days,
Had been her warm and steady friend,
Ere yet her mother's doom had made
Even Esek Harden half afraid.

He felt that mute appeal of tears,
And, starting, with an angry frown
Hushed all the wicked murmurs down.
"Good neighbors mine," he sternly said,
"This passes harmless mirth or jest;
I brook no insult to my guest.
She is indeed her mother's child;

But God's sweet pity ministers
Unto no whiter soul than hers.
Let Goody Martin rest in peace;
I never knew her harm a fly,
And witch or not, God knows,-not L
I know who swore her life away;
And, as God lives, I'd not condemn
An Indian dog on word of them."

The broadest lands in all the town,

The skill to guide, the power to awe,
Were Harden's; and his word was law.
None dared withstand him to his face,
But one sly maiden spake aside:
"The little witch is evil-eyed!
Her mother only killed a cow,

Or witched a churn or dairy-pan;

But she, forsooth, must charm a man!"

Poor Mabel, in her lonely home,

Sat by the window's narrow pane,
White in the moonlight's silver rain.
She strove to drown her sense of wrong,
And, in her old and simple way,
To teach her bitter heart to pray.

Poor child! the prayer, begun in faith,
Grew to a low, despairing cry
Of utter misery: "Let me die!
Oh! take me from the scornful eyes,
And hide me where the cruel speech
And mocking finger may not reach!

"I dare not breathe my mother's name:
A daughter's right I dare not crave
To weep above her unblest grave!
Let me not live until my heart,
With few to pity, and with none
To love me, hardens into stone.
O God! have mercy on thy child,

Whose faith in thee grows weak and small,
And take me ere I lose it all."

A shadow on the moonlight fell,

And murmuring wind and wave became A voice whose burden was her name. Had then God heard her? Had he sent

His angel down? In flesh and blood,
Before her Esek Harden stood!

He laid his hand upon her arm:

“Dear Mabel, this no more shall be;
Who scoffs at you, must scoff at me.
You know rough Esek Harden well;
And if he seems no suitor gay,

And if his hair is mixed with gray,
The maiden grown shall never find
His heart less warm than when she smiled
Upon his knees, a little child!"

Her tears of grief were tears of joy,
As folded in his strong embrace,
She looked in Esek Harden's face.
O truest friend of all!" she said,
"God bless you for your kindly thought,
And make me worthy of my lot!"

He led her through his dewy fields,

To where the swinging lanterns glowed,
And through the doors the huskers showed.
“Good friends and neighbors!" Esek said,
I'm weary of this lonely life;

In Mabel see my chosen wife!

"She greets you kindly, one and all;
The past is past, and all offence
Falls harmless from her innocence.
Henceforth she stands no more alone;
You know what Esek Harden is;-
He brooks no wrong to him or his.”
Now let the merriest tales be told,

And let the sweetest songs be sung,
That ever made the old heart young!
For now the lost has found a home;
And a lone hearth shall brighter burn,
As all the household joys return!

Oh, pleasantly the harvest moon,
Between the shadow of the mows,

Looked on them through the great elm-boughs!
On Mabel's curls of golden hair,

On Esek's shaggy strength it fell;

And the wind whispered, "It is well!"

Abridged.

THE CANTEEN.-PRIVATE MILES O'REILLY.

There are bonds of all sorts in this world of ours,
Fetters of friendship, and ties of flowers,

And true-lovers' knots, I ween;

The girl and the boy are bound by a kiss,
But there's never a bond, old friend, like this,-

We have drunk from the same canteen!

It was sometimes water, and sometimes milk,
And sometimes apple-jack, fine as silk,
But, whatever the tipple has been,
We shared it together, in bane or bliss;

And I warm to you, friend, when I think of this,-
We have drunk from the same canteen!

The rich and the great sit down to dine,
And they quaff to each other in sparkling wine,
From glasses of crystal and green;

But I guess in their golden potations they miss
The warmth of regard to be found in this,--
We have drunk from the same canteen!

We have shared our blankets and tents together,
And have marched and fought in all kinds of weather,
And hungry and full we have been;

Had days of battle, and days of rest,

But this memory I cling to and love the best,--
We have drunk from the same canteen!

For when wounded I lay on the outer slope,
With my blood flowing fast, and but little hope
Upon which my faint spirit could lean,—
Oh! then, I remember, you crawled to my side,
And, bleeding so fast it seemed both must have died,
We drank from the same canteen!

WHO IS THIS WONDERFUL PROPHET?

He is not Noah's son, nor any old Levite, nor John the Baptist, nor yet the wandering Jew; he was before Adam, with whom he was in the Garden of Eden; he was also with Noah in the Ark, and near Christ at his trial before Pontius Pilate; the Scriptures make frequent mention of this prophet, yet he never knew his father or mother; he walks

barefooted and bare-legged, like an old friar, and wears neither hat, cape, nor bonnet, nor any manner of head attire; his coat is neither woollen nor linen, silk, hair, nor cotton, bear nor sheep skin, and yet it fits, and abounds with a variety of colors, without either seam, button, loop, girdle or stitch of needle; he is not very high, and carries neither stick, sword nor any manner of warlike instrument, and yet he encounters his enemies fiercely, and often kills them on the spot; he likes no money, neither loses any; nor is he provided for the future; accounts it sufficient when the day comes to provide for it; he is not fond of worldly pomp or grandeur, for he would rather lie in a farmer's barn than in a king's palace; he is wonderfully temperate, for he would rather drink clear water than the strongest liquor on earth; he never was married, yet has several favorites whom he loves dearly, for if he has but one morsel of meat he divides it among them, yet he is apt to be jealous, and would rather venture his life than countenance a rival; he is neither a Whig nor Tory, Republican nor Democrat; he holds no article of the Christian faith, neither does he deny any; he neither goes to church, meeting, nor synagogue, for conscience' sake, and as for Mass he would not go over the door to hear it; he is fond of fresh meat on Saturdays or Sundays, and throughout Lent; he once preached a sermon to a man who thought to throw him therein, but in the end he brought tears in abundance from his eyes; he is very urgent in proclaiming with out-stretched arms that the day of the Lord is at hand, and at the voice of his prophecy the doors and windows open; he speaks no language perfectly, yet all mén understand him.

LARRY'S ON THE FORCE.-IRWIN RUSSELL.

Well, Katie, and is this yersilf? And where was you

whoile?

this

And ain't ye dhrissed! You are the wan to illusthrate the stoile!

But never moind thim matthers now-there's toime enough for thim;

And Larry-that's me b'y-I want to shpake to you av him. Sure, Larry bates thim all for luck!--'tis he will make his way, And be the proide and honnur to the sod beyant the say;

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