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Zekel crep' up quite unbeknown
An' peeked in thru' the winder,
An' there sot Huldy all alone,
'Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side
With half a cord o' wood in,-

There war n't no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her!
An' leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An' in among 'em rusted

The old queen's-arm thet gran' ther Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in,

Seemed warm from floor to ceilin';
An' she looked full ez rosy agin,
Ez the apples she was peelin'.

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look
On such a blessed creetur,
A dogrose blushin' to a brook
Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A 1,
Clean grit an' human natur';
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,

He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spelis,-
All is, he couldn't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run
All crinkly like curled maple,

The side she breshed felt full o' sun
Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v’ice hed sech a swing
Ez hisn in the choir;

My! when he made Ole Hundred ring,
She knowed the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,
When her new meetin' bunnet
Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair
O' blue eyes sot upon it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some!
She seemed to 've got a new soul,
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,.
A raspin' on the scraper,
All-ways to once her feelin's flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle,
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder,
An' on her apples kep' to work,
Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" 66 Wall.... no.... I come designin'"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals act so or so,

Or don't 'ould be presumin'; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t'other,
An' on which one he felt the wust
He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call agin ;"

Says she "Think likely, Mister;" Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An'.... Wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,

All kin' o' smily roun' the lips
An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind
Whose naturs never vary,

Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin',

Tell mother see how metters stood,
And gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,

An' all I know is, they was cried
In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

J. R. Lowell.

KING WILLIAM THANKS HIS GOD.

THE Sombre pall of night had spread
Upon the horrid scene,

The field was thickly strewn with dead,
The struggle fierce had been;

And heaps of rigid, gory men,

Lay pillowed on the sod;

For this, by telegram and pen,

King William thanks his God!

The trumpet's clarion voice was hushed,
Nor flaunting banner stirr'd,

As from a heap of slain and crushed
This dying moan was heard:

"My helpless babes and wife-O Lord,

Have mercy-spare the rod."

Electric flashes pass the word,

"King William thanks his God!"

Two thousand peasants' homes, by fire,
Bavarian brutes destroy,

Nor let the helpless weak retire,
But rush with fiendish joy,
And hurl them to their awful fate
With ball and bayonet prod:
For these and other mercies great,
King William thanks his God!

Great God! shall king's ambition slay
And prostrate to the dust

Thy creatures, legions, day by day,
And then proclaim Thee just;
Deal desolation through the world,
Spread ruin at their nod,

And then by lightning have it hurl'd
"King William thanks his God?"

If these are Thine annointed, Lord,
And thus they do thy will,
The lowly ones can ill afford
To work each other ill;

And would prefer, though little worth,
Obscurely on to plod,

Than telegraph, throughout the earth,
Offensive thanks to God.

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DEATH OF LITTLE PAUL.

FLOY," ," said Paul, "what is that?" "Where, dearest?" "There! at the bottom of the bed." "There's nothing there except Papa!" The figure lifted up its head and rose, and, coming to the bedside, said, "My own boy, don't you know me?" Paul looked it in the face, and thought, Was this his father? But the face, so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it were in pain; and, before he could reach out both his hands to take it between them and draw it toward him, the figure turned away quickly from the little bed, and went out at the door. Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering, heart; but he knew what she was going to say, and stopped her with his face against her lips. The next time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he called to it, "Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa; indeed, I am quite happy!" His father coming, and bending down to him-which he did quickly, and without first pausing by the bedside-Paul held him round the neck, and repeated these words to him several times, and very earnestly; and Paul never saw him again in his room at any time, whether it were day or night, but he called out, "Don't be so sorry for me; indeed, I am quite happy." This was the beginning of his always

saying in the morning that he was a great deal better, and that they were to tell his father so.

How many times the golden water danced upon the wall-how many nights the dark, dark river rolled toward the sea in spite of him-Paul never counted, never sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, could have increased, they were more kind, and he more grateful, every day; but whether they were many days or few, appeared of little moment now to the gentle boy. One night he had been thinking of his mother and her picture in the drawing-room down stairs, and had thought she must have loved sweet Florence better than his father did, to have held her in her arms when she felt that she was dying; for even he, her brother, who had such dear love for her, could have no greater wish than that. The train of thought suggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother; for he could not remember whether they had told him yes or no-the river running very fast, and confusing his mind. "Floy, did I ever see mamma?" "No, darling: why?" "Did I ever see any kind face, like mamma's, looking at me when I was a baby, Floy?" he asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before him. "Oh, yes, dear." "Whose, Floy?" "Your old nurse's, often." "And where is my old nurse?" said Paul. "Is she dead, too? Floy, are we all dead, except you?"

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There was a hurry in the room for an instant-longer, perhaps, but it seemed no more-then all was still again; and Florence, with her face quite colorless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm trembled very much. "Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please." "She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow" "Thank you, Floy." "And who is this? Is this my old nurse?" said the child, regarding with a radiant smile a figure coming in. Yes, yes! No other stranger would have shed those. tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. "Floy, this is a

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