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She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm,“God! who art never out of hearing,
O may he never more be warm !” The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray: Young Harry heard what she had said,
And icy cold he turn'd away.
He went complaining all the morrow
That he was cold and very chill :
Alas that day for Harry Gill!
But not a whit the warmer he: Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.
'T was all in vain, a useless matter,
And blankets were about him pinn'd: Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter,
Like a loose casement in the wind. And Harry's flesh it fell away;
And all who see him say 'tis plain, That live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again.
No word to any man he utters,
Abed or up, to young or old; But ever to himself he mutters,
“Poor Harry Gill is very cold.” Abed or up, by night or day,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still:
XXXIV.- ONE OF MR. CROWFIELD'S MOODS.
T was evening, and I had just laid up the fire in the
most approved style of architecture, and, projecting my feet into my slippers, sat, spitefully cutting the leaves of a caustic review. Mrs. Crowfield took the tongs and altered the disposition of a stick.
2. “My dear,” I said, “I do wish you'd let the fire alone, -you always put it out.”
“I was merely admitting a little air between the sticks," said my wife.
"You always make matters worse, when you touch the fire."
3. As if in contradiction, a bright tongue of flame darted up between the sticks, and the fire began chattering and snapping at me. Now, if there's anything which would provoke a saint, it is to be jeered and snapped at, in that way, by a man's own fire. It's an unbearable impertinence. I threw up my leg impatiently, and hit Rover, who gave a velp that finished the upset of my nerves.
I gave him a hearty kick, that he might have something to yelp for, and, in the movement, upset Jennie's embroidery-basket.
4. “0, papa!"
“Your baskets and worsteds are everywhere, so that a man can't move; useless, wasteful things, too."
“Wasteful?” said Jennie, coloring indignantly; for if there's anything Jennie piques herself upon, it's her economy.
5. “Yes, wasteful, wasting time and money both. Here are hundreds of shivering poor to be clothed, and Christian females sit and do nothing but crochet worsted into useless knick-knacks. If they would be working for the poor, there would be some sense in it. But it's all just alike; no real Christianity in the world, -nothing but organized selfishness and self-indulgence."
6. “Why, dear," said Mrs. Crowfield, "you are not well
to-night. Things are not quite so desperate as they appear. You have n't got over Christmas-week.”
7. “I am well. Never was better. But I can see, I hope, what's before my eyes; and the fact is, Mrs. Crowfield, things must not go on as they are going. There must be more care, more attention to details. There's Maggie, that girl never does what she is told. You are too slack with her, ma'am. She will light the fire with the last paper, and she won't put my slippers in the right place; and I can't have my study made the general catch-all and menagerie for Rover and Jennie, and her basket and balls, and for all the family litter."
8. Just at this moment, I overheard a sort of sigh from Jennie, who was swelling with repressed indignation at my attack on her worsted. She sat, with her back to me,
knitting energetically, and said, in a low, but very decisive tone, as she twitched her yarn :
Now, if I should talk in that way, people would call me cross, and that's the whole of it.”
9. I pretended to be looking into the fire in an absentminded state; but Jennie's words had started a new idea. Was that it? Was that the whole matter? Was it, then, a fact, that the house, the servants, Jennie and her worsted, Rover and Mrs. Crowfield, were all going on pretty much as usual, and that the only difficulty was, that I wascross? How many times had I encouraged Rover to lie just where he was lying when I kicked him! How many times, in better moods, had I complimented Jennie on her neat little fancy-works, and declared that I liked the social companionship of ladies' work-baskets among my papers ! Yes, it was clear. After all, things were much as they had been, only I was cross.
10. Cross! I put it to myself, in that simple, old-fashioned word, instead of saying that I was out of spirits, or nervous, or using any of the other smooth phrases with which we, good Christians, cover up our little sins of temper. you are, Christopher," said I to myself, "a literary man,
with a somewhat delicate nervous organization, and a sensitive stomach, and you have been eating like a sailor or a ploughman; you have been merry-making and playing the boy for two weeks; up at all sorts of irregular hours, and into all sorts of boyish performances; and the consequence is, that, like a thoughtless young scape-grace, you have used up, in ten days, the capital of nervous energy that was meant to last you ten weeks.
11. "You can't eat your cake and have it too, Christopher. When the nervous fluid-source of cheerfulness, giver of pleasant sensations and pleasant views—is all spent, you can't feel cheerful; things cannot look as they did when you were full of life and vigor. When the tide is out, there is nothing but unsightly, ill-smelling tide-mud, and you can't help it; but you can keep your senses, you can know what is the matter with you, you can keep from visiting your cver-dose of Christmas mince-pies, and candies, and jocularities on the heads of Mrs. Crowfield, Rover, and Jennie, whether in the form of virulent morality, pungent criticism, or a free kick, such as you just gave the
12. "Come here, Rover, poor dog!" said I, extending my hand to Rover, who cowered at the farther corner of the room, eyeing me wistfully,—“come here, you poor doggie, and make up with your master. There, there! Was his master cross? Well, he knows it. We must forgive and forget, old boy, must n't we?” And Rover nearly broke his own back and tore me to pieces, with his tremulous tail-waggings.
13. “As to you, puss," I said to Jennie, “I am much obliged to you for your free suggestion. You must take my cynical moralities for what they are worth, and put your little traps into as many of my drawers as you please.”
14. In short, I made it up handsomely all around, -even apologizing to Mrs. Crowfield, who, by-the-by, has summered me and wintered me so many years, and knows all my airs and cuts and crinkles so well, that she took my irritable, unreasonable spirit as tranquilly as if I had been a baby cutting a new tooth.
“Of course, Chris., I knew what the matter was; don't disturb yourself," she said, as I began my apology; "we understand each other."
MRS. H. B. STOWE.
XXXV.—THE BATTLE OF NASEBY.*
With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye
Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,
And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod; For we tsampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,
Who sat in the high places, and slew the saints of God.
It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,
That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shinc; And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.
Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,
The general rode along us, to form us to the fight,
* Naseby is a village in Northamptonshire, England. Here was fought a decisive battle between the royal forces commanded by Charles I. and those of the Parliament under Fairfax, June 14, 1645. The royal center was commanded by the king in person, the right wing by Prince Rupert, and the left by Sir Marmaduke Langdal.
Fairfax, supported by Skippon, commanded the center of his army, with Cromwell on his right wing, and Ireton on his left. The royal arnıy; though successful in the first part of the action, was totally defeated.