186 OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.

OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.
WILL. M. CARLETON.

OVER the hill to the poor-house I'm trudging my weary way—

I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray

I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told,
As many another woman that's only half as old.

Over the hill to the poor-house-I can't make it quite clear!
Over the hill to the poor-house-it seems so horrid queer!
Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro,

But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.

What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame?
Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame?
True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout,
But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.

I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day,

To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way;
For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound,
If anybody only is willin' to have me round.

Once I was young and han'some-I was, upon my soul-
Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal;
And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say,
For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.

'Taint no use of boastin', or talkin' over free,
But many a house an' home was open then to me;
Many a han'some offer I had from likely men,
And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.

And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart,
But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part;
For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong,
And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.

And so we worked together: and life was hard but gay,
With now and then a baby, for to cheer us on our way;

OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. 187

Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat,
An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.

So we worked for the childr'n, and raised 'em every one;
Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to've done,
Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn,
But every couple's childr'n's a heap the best to them.

Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!—
I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons;
And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray,
I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.

Strange, another thing; when our boys an' girls was grown,
And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone;
When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be,
The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me.

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall—-
Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all:
And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown,
Till at last he went a courtin', and brought a wife from town.

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile—
She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style;
But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;
But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.

She had an edication, an' that was good for her;
But when she twitted me on mine 'twas carryin' things too fur;
An' I told her once 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick),
That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmatic.

So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done-
They was a family of themselves, and I another one;

And a very little cottage for one family will do,

But I have never seen a house that was big enough for two.

An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye, An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try:

188

FADED FLOWER AND WITHERED LEAF.

But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow,
When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go.

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,

And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all;

And what with her husband's sisters, and what with childr'n three,

"Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,
For Thomas' buildings 'd cover the half of an acre lot;

But all the childr'n was on me-I couldn't stand their sauce-
And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.

An' then I wrote to Rebecca,-my girl who lives out West,
And to Isaac, not far from her—some twenty miles at best;
And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there, for any one so old,
And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold.

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about-
So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out;
But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down,
Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.
Over the hill to the poor-house-my childr'n dear, good-bye!
Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh;
And God'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray
That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.

FADED FLOWER AND WITHERED LEAF.
W. C. DESMOND.

THE evening breeze was sighing, an autumn day was dying,

The yellow leaves were lying strewn before the cottage door;

An old man was reclining, where childhood sat, entwining
A garland of the withered leaves, with infant fancy pure.
The brow of age was shaded, the rose of health had faded,
Upon his darling's paling cheek-in look and soul he grieves.
The types of death soon blended, his latest work was ended;
He laid upon his golden hair the wreath of withered leaves.

WATER.

He soon again unstrung them,-a faded flower among them He cull'd, then careless flung them, all scattered, at his feet: Then in his father's bosom, this fondly cherish'd blossom

189

The dying rose plac'd gently—its fragrancy was sweet. The leaves were wafted by them, the river murmur'd nigh them, The pale cheek of his darling the father's tear receives, Two roses fade and wither, like beauteous twins togetherThe old man's days are passing, like the wreath of wither'd leaves. And while his child embracing, the dying flower caressing, His memory, retracing the path he once had trod, The fount of youth unsealing, its joyous haunts revealing,

He saw the wither'd leaves of life, and rais'd his eyes to God. The murmur from the wildwood, as from the bowers of childhood, With the river rolling dreamily, a sadden'd vision weaves; Eternity before him, the future rises o'er him,

A green and happy Eden, from the wreath of wither'd leaves.

Another autumn dying, the evening breeze is sighing,

The yellow leaves are lying strewn above a new-made grave; Eve's solemn shades are closing o'er age and youth, reposing In the stillness of the mystery which tries the heart most brave. A fading flower above them, by one who fondly loved them Is set to dress the grassy spot, which fragrant dews receives; And peacefully together they sleep, the child and father,

Beneath their types-the Faded Flower and wreath of Withered Leaves.

"THERE!"

WATER.-JUDGE ARRINGTON.

HERE!" he repeated, with a look terrible as lightning, while his enemy actually trembled at his feet; "there is the liquor which God, the Eternal, brews for all His children. Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires, choked with poisonous gases, surrounded with the stench of sickening odors and corruptions, doth your Father in heaven prepare the precious essence of life--pure, cold water; but in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play, there God brews it; and down, low down in the deepest

190

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

valleys, where the fountain murmurs and the rills sing; and high upon the mountain-tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun, where the storm-cloud broods and the thunderstorms crash; and far out on the wide, wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big wave rolls the chorus, sweeping the march of God—there He brews it, that beverage of life-healthgiving water.

"And everywhere it is a thing of life and beauty—gleaming in the dew-drop; singing in the summer rain; shining in the icegem, till the trees all seem turned to living jewels; spreading a golden veil over the setting sun, or a white gauze around the midnight moon; sporting in the glacier; folding its bright snowcurtain softly about the wintry world; and weaving the manycolored bow, that seraph's zone of the sky-whose warp is the rain-drops of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all checkered over with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of rarefaction.

No

"Still always it is beautiful-that blessed life-water! poisonous bubbles are on its brink; its foam brings not madness and murder; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale widows and starving orphans weep not burning tears in its depths; no drunkard's shrieking ghost, from the grave, curses it in words of eternal despair! Speak out, my friends: would you exchange it for the demon's drink, ALCOHOL?" A shout, like the roar of a tempest, answered, "No!"

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.-THOMAS HOOD.

NE more Unfortunate,

ON

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care;-
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!