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Hush, my darling, and listen,

Then pay for the story with kisses; Father was lost in the pitch black night, In just such a storm as this is,

High up on the lonely mountains,

Where the wild men watched and waited; Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, And I on my path belated.

The rain and the night together

Came down, and the wind came after, Bending the props of the pine tree roof, And snapping many a rafter.

I crept along in the darkness,

Stunned, and bruised, and blinded— Crept to a fur with thick set boughs, And sheltering rock behind it.

There, from the blowing and raining, Crouching, I sought to hide me: Something rustled; two green eyes shone, And a wolf lay down beside me.

Little one, be not frightened;

I and the wolf together,

Side by side, thro' the long, long night
Hid from the awful weather.

His wet fur pressed against me;
Each of us warmed the other;
Each of us felt, in the stormy dark,
That beast and man were brother.

And when the falling forest

No longer crashed in warning,

Each of us went from our hiding place
Forth in the wild, wet morning.

Darling, kiss me in payment!

Hark, how the wind is roaring;
Father's house is a better place
When the stormy rain is pouring!



[In a stirring, bold manner.]

At the heart of our country the tyrant was leaping,
To dye there the point of his dagger in gore,

When Washington sprang from the watch he was keeping,
And drove back the tyrant in shame from our shore.
The cloud that hung o'er us then parted and roll'd
Its wreaths far away, deeply tinctured with flame,
And high on its fold

Was a legend that told

The brightness that circled our Washington's name.

Long years have roll'd on, and the sun still has brighten'd
Our mountains and fields with its ruddiest glow;
And the bolt that he wielded so proudly has lighten'd,
With a flash as intense, in the face of the foe:
On the land and the sea, the wide banner has roll'd
O'er many a chief, on his passage to fame,

And still on its fold

Shine in letters of gold

The glory and worth of our Washington's name.
And so it shall be while Eternity tarries,

And pauses to tread in the footsteps of Time;
The bird of the tempest, whose quick pinion carries
Our arrows of vengeance, shall hover sublime :
Wherever that flag on the wind shall be roll'd,
All hearts shall be kindled with anger and shame
If e'er they are told

They are careless and cold,

In the glory that circles our Washington's name.



[Recite in a simple manner, pressing the palms together in speaking the "Hold fast what I give you."]

Molly, and Maggie, and Alice,

Three little maids in a row,

At play in an arbor palace,

Where the honeysuckles grow.

Six dimpled palms pressed together,
Even and firm, two by two-
Three eager, upturned faces,

Bonny brown eyes and blue.

Which shall it be, O you charmers?
Alas! I am sorely tried-

I, a hard hearted old hermit,

Who the question am set to decide.

Molly, the spirited, the darling,

Shaking her shower of curls;

Whose laugh is the brook's own ripple,
Gayest and gladdest of girls?

Maggie, the wild little brownie,
Every one's plaything and pet,

Who leads me a chase thro' the garden
For a kiss, the wicked coquette.

Or Alice? Ah! shy eyed Alice,
Looking so softly down
Under her long, dark lashes,

And hair so golden brown.

Alice, who talks with the flowers,

And says there are none so wise,
Who knows there are elves and fairies,

For hasn't she seen their bright eyes?

There, there, at last I am ready

To go down the bright, eager row;
So, up with your hands, my graces,
Close-nobody else must know.

Hold fast what I give you, Molly;
(Poor little empty palms!)
Hold fast what I give you, Maggie;
(A frown steals o'er her charms.)

Hold fast what I give you, Alice;
You smile-do you so much care?
Unclasp your pink little fingers;
Ah, ha! the button is there.

But do you know, sweet Alice,
All that I give you to keep?
For into my heart you have stolen
As sunbeams to shadows creep.

You, a glad little maiden.

How old are you? Only nine;
With your bright brown hair all shining,
While the gray is coming to mine.

No matter, you'll be my true love,
And come to my old arms, so;
And hold fast what I give you, Alice,
For nobody else must know.



[With liveliness and vim.]

In the vast flower field of human affection there is not a more miserable being than the old bachelor. He is the very scarecrow of human happiness. He scares away the little birds of love that come

to steal the hemlock seeds of loneliness and despair. See him come home to-night, wet and hungry; he finds a cold hearth, a barren table, and a lonely pillow that looks like the white urn of earthly enjoyment.

See him in the afternoon of his days, when his life is sinking to its sundown. Not a solitary star of memory gleams over the dusk of his opening grave. No devoted wife to bend like a blessing over his dying bed; no lovely daughter to draw his icy hand into the fond embrace of hers, and warm his freezing heart with the reviving fires of filial affection; no manly boy to link his breaking name with the golden chain of honorable society, and bind his history in the vast volume of the world he must soon leave forever.

It will soon be said that he has eat, and drank, and died; and earth is glad it is rid of him, for he has done little else than cram lis soul into the circumference of a sixpence, and no human being but his washerwoman will breath a sigh at his funeral.



[Vigorously and with force.]

The storm is dreadful! The heavens are one vast black cloud. The sheeted rain comes down in torrents. The fair earth is deluged. The sea-the broad-breasted sea-is tossed in terrible commotion, and the whole round world seems wrapped in eternal midnight. God reigns! Let all the earth stand in awe of Him! Hark! it is His voice-the rolling thunder. See, it is His eye-the fearful lightning. The smitten rock declares His power, and the monarch oak, rent from the adamantine hills, proclaims His might!

Alas! on such a night for the poor sea boy. No friendly star lights his dread course. The wind-spirit howls. Wild raves the maddened ocean. The demons of the storm make merry o'er his fate. Look! now tossed on mountain billows, the frail bark hurries to destruction. Oh, God have mercy on the poor sailor boy!

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