the case if the dress is hung up in a closet, and the man is in a hurry. We
think we are safe in saying that he always is in a hurry on such an
occasion. The owner of the dress is in the sitting room serenely engrossed
in a book. Having told him that the article which he is in quest of is in
her dress pocket in the closet she has discharged her whole duty in the
matter and can afford to feel serene. He goes at the task with a dim
consciousness that he has been there before, but says nothing. On opening
the closet door and finding himself confronted with a number of dresses,
all turned inside out and presenting a most formidable front, he hastens
back to ask "Which dress?" and being told the brown one, and also asked if
_she_ has so _many_ dresses that there need be any great effort to find the
right one, he returns to the closet with alacrity, and soon has his hands
on the brown dress. It is inside out like the rest,--a fact he does not
notice, however, until he has made several ineffectual attempts to get his
hand into it. Then he turns it around very carefully and passes over the
pocket several times without knowing it. A nervous movement of his hands,
and an appearance of perspiration on his forehead are perceptible. He now
dives one hand in at the back, and feeling around, finds a place, and
proceeds to explore it, when he discovers that he is following up the
inside of a lining. The nervousness increases, also the perspiration. He
twitches the dress on the hook, and suddenly the pocket, white, plump and
exasperating, comes to view. Then he sighs the relief he feels and is
mentally grateful he did not allow himself to use any offensive
expressions. It is all right now. There is the pocket in plain view--not
the inside but the outside--and all he has to do is to put his hand right
around in the inside and take out the article. That is all. He can't help
but smile to think how near he was to getting mad. Then he puts his hand
around to the other side. He does not feel the opening. He pushes a little
further--now he has got it; he shoves the hand down, and is very much
surprised to see it appear opposite his knees. He had made a mistake. He
tries again; again he feels the entrance and glides down it only to appear
again as before. This makes him open his eyes and straighten his face. He
feels of the outside of the pocket, pinches it curiously, lifts it up,
shakes it, and, after peering closely about the roots of it, he says, "How
funny!" and commences again. He does it calmly this time, because hurrying
only makes matters worse. He holds up breadth after breadth, goes over them
carefully, gets his hand first into a lining, then into the air again
(where it always surprises him when it appears), and finally into a pocket,
and is about to cry out with triumph, when he discovers that it is the
pocket to another dress. He is mad now; the closet air almost stifles him;
he is so nervous he can hardly contain himself, and the pocket looks at him
so exasperatingly that he cannot help but "plug" it with his clenched fist,
and immediately does it. Being somewhat relieved by this performance he has
a chance to look about him, and sees that he has put his foot through a
band-box and into the crown of his wife's bonnet; has broken the brim of
his Panama hat which was hanging in the same closet, and torn about a yard
of bugle trimming from a new cloak. All this trouble is due directly to his
wife's infatuation in hanging up her dresses inside out, so he immediately
starts after her, and impetuously urging her to the closet, excitedly and
almost profanely intimates his doubts of their being a pocket in the dress,
anyway. The cause of the unhappy disaster quietly inserts her hand inside
the robe, and directly brings it forth with the sought for article in its
clasp. He doesn't know why, but this makes him madder than anything else.
MOTHER'S DOUGHNUTS.
BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.
_El Dorado, 1851._
I've just been down ter Thompson's, boys,
'N feelin' kind o' blue,
I thought I'd look in at "The Ranch,"
Ter find out what wuz new;
When I seed this sign a-hangin'
On a shanty by the lake:
"Here's whar yer get your doughnuts
Like yer mother used ter make."
I've seen a grizzly show his teeth,
I've seen Kentucky Pete
Draw out his shooter, 'n advise
A "tenderfoot" ter treat;
But nuthin' ever tuk me down,
'N made my benders shake,
Like that sign about the doughnuts
That my mother used ter make.
A sort o' mist shut out the ranch,
'N standin' thar instead,
I seen an old, white farm-house,
With its doors all painted red.
A whiff came through the open door--
Wuz I sleepin' or awake?
The smell wuz that of doughnuts
Like my mother used ter make.
The bees wuz hummin' round the porch
Whar honeysuckles grew;
A yellow dish of apple-sass
Wuz settin' thar in view.
'N on the table, by the stove,
An old-time "Johnny-cake,"
'N a platter full of doughnuts
Like my mother used ter make.
A patient form I seemed ter see,
In tidy dress of black,
I almost thought I heard the words,
"When will my boy come back?"
'N then--the old sign creaked:
But now it was the boss who spake:
'Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts
Like yer mother used ter make.
Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up,
'N ez I've "struck pay gravel,"
I ruther think I'll pack my kit,
Vamoose the ranch, 'n travel.
I'll make the old folks jubilant,
'N if I don't mistake,
I'll try some o' them doughnuts
Like my mother used ter make.
LITERARY ATTRACTIONS OF THE BIBLE.
BY DR. HAMILTON.
God made the present earth as the Home of Man; but had he meant it as a
mere lodging, a world less beautiful would have served the purpose. There
was no need for the carpet of verdure, or the ceiling of blue; no need for
the mountains, and cataracts, and forests; no need for the rainbow, no need
for the flowers. A big, round island, half of it arable, and half of it
pasture, with a clump of trees in one corner, and a magazine of fuel in
another, might have held and fed ten millions of people; and a hundred
islands, all made in the same pattern, big and round, might have held and
fed the population of the globe.
But man is something more than the animal which wants lodging and food. He
has a spiritual nature, full of keen perceptions and deep sympathies. He
has an eye for the sublime and the beautiful, and his kind Creator has
provided man's abode with affluent materials for these nobler tastes. He
has built Mont Blanc, and molten the lake in which its image sleeps. He has
intoned Niagara's thunder, and has breathed the zephyr which sweeps its
spray. He has shagged the steep with its cedars, and be-sprent the meadow
with its king-cups and daisies. He has made it a world of fragrance and
music,--a world of brightness and symmetry,--a world where the grand and
the graceful, the awful and lovely, rejoice together. In fashioning the
Home of Man, the Creator had an eye to something more than convenience, and
built, not a barrack, but a palace--not a Union work-house, but an
Alhambra; something which should not only be very comfortable, but very
splendid and very fair; something which should inspire the soul of its
inhabitant, and even draw forth the "very good" of complacent Deity.
God also made the Bible as the guide and oracle of man; but had He meant it
as the mere lesson-book of duty, a volume less various and less attractive
would have answered every end. But in giving that Bible, its divine Author
had regard to the mind of man. He knew that man has more curiosity than
piety, more taste than sanctity; and that more persons are anxious to hear
some new, or read some beauteous thing, than to read or hear about God and
the great salvation. He knew that few would ever ask, "What must I do to be
saved?" till they came in contact with the Bible itself; and, therefore, He
made the Bible not only an instructive book, but an attractive one,--not
only true, but enticing. He filled it with marvelous incident and engaging
history; with sunny pictures from Old World scenery, and affecting
anecdotes from the patriarch times. He replenished it with stately argument
and thrilling verse, and sprinkled it over with sententious wisdom and
proverbial pungency. He made it a book of lofty thoughts and noble
images,--a book of heavenly doctrine, but withal of earthly adaptation. In
preparing a guide to immortality, Infinite Wisdom gave, not a dictionary,
nor a grammar, but a Bible--a book which, in trying to reach the heart of
man, should captivate his taste; and which, in transforming his affection,
should also expand his intellect. The pearl is of great price; but even the
casket is of exquisite beauty. The sword is of ethereal temper, and nothing
cuts so keen as its double edge; but there are jewels on the hilt, an
exquisite inlaying on the scabbard. The shekels are of the purest ore; but
even the scrip which contains them is of a texture more curious than any
which the artists of earth can fashion. The apples are gold; but even the
basket is silver.
The Bible contains no ornamental passages, nothing written for mere
display; its steadfast purpose is, "Glory to God in the highest," and the
truest blessedness of man; it abounds in passages of the purest beauty and
stateliest grandeur, all the grander and all the more beautiful because
they are casual and unsought. The fire which flashes from the iron hoof of
the Tartar steed as he scours the midnight path is grander than the
artificial firework; for it is the casual effect of speed and power. The
clang of ocean as he booms his billows on the rock, and the echoing caves
give chorus, is more soul-filling and sublime than all the music of the
orchestra, for it is the music of that main so mighty that there is a
grandeur in all it does,--in its sleep a melody, and in its march a stately
psalm. And in the bow which paints the melting cloud there is a beauty
which the stained glass or gorgeous drapery emulates in vain; for it is the
glory which gilds beneficence, the brightness which bespeaks a double boon,
the flush which cannot but come forth when both the sun and shower are
there. The style of Scripture has all this glory. It has the gracefulness
of a high utility; it has the majesty of intrinsic power; it has the charm
of its own sanctity: it never labors, never strives, but, instinct with
great realities and bent on blessed ends, it has all the translucent beauty
and unstudied power which you might expect from its lofty object and
all-wise Author.
THE CHRISTMAS BABY.
BY WILL CARLETON.
"Tha'rt welcome, little bonny brid.
But shouldn't ha' come just when tha' did:
Teimes are bad."
_English Ballad._
Hoot! ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way,
Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' winter's day,
Knowin' that we already have three of ye, an' seven,
An' tryin' to make yerself out a Christmas present o' Heaven?
Ten of ye have we now, Sir, for this world to abuse;
An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat, an' Nellie she have no shoes,
An' Sammie he have no shirt, Sir (I tell it to his shame),
An' the one that was just before ye we ain't had time to name!
An, all o' the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folk fall;
An' Boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all;
An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' lies in a woful plight,
An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night;
An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somewhat to do,
An' but for the preacher's woman, who often helps us through,
An' but for your poor dear mother a-doin' twice her part,
Ye'd 'a seen us all in heaven afore _ye_ was ready to start!
An' now _ye_ have come, ye rascal! so healthy an' fat an' sound,
A-weighin', I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound!
With yer mother's eyes a flashin', yer father's flesh an' build,
An' a big mouth an' stomach all ready for to be filled!
No, no! don't cry, my baby! hush up, my pretty one!
Don't get my chaff in yer eye, boy--I only was just in fun.
Ye'll like us when ye know us, although we're cur'us folks;
But we don't get much victual, and half our livin' is jokes!
Why, boy, did ye take me in earnest? come, sit upon my knee;
I'll tell ye a secret, youngster, I'll name ye after me.
Ye shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play,
An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day!
Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer? I'm gettin' a trifle old,
But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold;
An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still, them's yer brothers, there,
An' not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair!
Say! when ye come from heaven, my little name-sake dear,
Did ye see, 'mongst the little girls there, a face like this one here?
That was yer little sister--she died a year ago,
An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow!
Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knew
Came here with all their traps, boy, an' offered 'em for you,
I'd show 'em to the door, Sir, so quick they'd think it odd,
Before I'd sell to another my Christmas gift from God!
A DREAM OF THE UNIVERSE.
BY JEAN PAUL RICHTER.
Into the great vestibule of heaven, God called up a man from dreams,
saying, "Come thou hither, and see the glory of my house." And, to the
servants that stood around His throne, He said, "Take him, and undress him
from his robes of flesh; cleanse his vision, and put a new breath into his
nostrils; only touch not with any change his human heart,--the heart that
weeps and trembles."
It was done; and, with a mighty angel for his guide, the man stood ready
for his infinite voyage; and from the terraces of heaven, without sound or
farewell, at once they wheeled away into endless space. Sometimes, with
solemn flight of angel wings, they fled through Saharas of
darkness,--through wildernesses of death, that divided the world of life;
sometimes they swept over frontiers that were quickening under the
prophetic motions from God.
Then, from a distance that is counted only in heaven, light dawned for a
time through a sleepy film; by unutterable pace the light swept to them;
they by unutterable pace to the light. In a moment, the rushing of planets
was upon them; in a moment, the blazing of suns was around them.
Then came eternities of twilight, that revealed, but were not revealed. On
the right hand and on the left, towered mighty constellations, that by
self-repetition and answers from afar, that by counter-positions, built up
triumphal gates, whose architraves, whose archways--horizontal,
upright--rested, rose--at altitudes by spans that seemed ghostly from
infinitude. Without measure were the architraves, past number were the
archways, beyond memory the gates.
Within were stairs that scaled the eternities below; above was
below,--below was above, to the man stripped of gravitating body; depth was
swallowed up in height insurmountable; height was swallowed up in depth
unfathomable. Suddenly, as thus they rode from infinite to infinite;
suddenly, as thus they tilted over abysmal worlds, a mighty cry arose that
systems more mysterious, that worlds more billowy, other heights and other
depths, were coming--were nearing--were at hand.
Then the man sighed, and stopped, and shuddered, and wept. His overladen
heart uttered itself in tears; and he said, "Angel, I will go no farther;
for the spirit of man acheth with this infinity. Insufferable is the glory
of God. Let me lie down in the grave, and hide me from the persecutions of
the Infinite; for end, I see, there is none."
And from all the listening stars that shone around, issued a choral cry,
"The man speaks truly; end there is none that ever yet we heard of." "End
is there none?" the angel solemnly demanded: "Is there indeed no end, and
is this the sorrow that kills you?" But no voice answered that he might
answer himself. Then the angel threw up his glorious hands toward the
heaven of heavens, saying, "End is there none to the universe of God! Lo,
also there is no beginning!"
KEENAN'S CHARGE.
BY GEORGE P. LATHROP.
(_Chancellorsville, May, 1863._)
The sun had set;
The leaves with dew were wet;
Down fell a bloody dusk
On the woods, that second of May,
Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey,
Tore through, with angry tusk.
"They've trapped us, boys!"--
Rose from our flank a voice.
With a rush of steel and smoke
On came the Rebels straight,
Eager as love and wild as hate:
And our line reeled and broke;
Broke and fled.
No one staid--but the dead!
With curses, shrieks and cries,
Horses and wagons and men
Tumbled back through the shuddering glen,
And above us the fading skies.
There's one hope, still,--
Those batteries parked on the hill!
"Battery, wheel!" (mid the roar)
"Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire
Retiring. Trot!" In the panic dire
A bugle rings "Trot"--and no more.
The horses plunged,
The cannon lurched and lunged,
To join the hopeless rout.
But suddenly rode a form
Calmly in front of the human storm,
With a stern, commanding shout:
"Align those guns!"
(We knew it was Pleasonton's)
The cannoneers bent to obey,
And worked with a will, at his word:
And the black guns moved as if _they_ had heard.
But ah, the dread delay!
"To wait is crime;
O God, for ten minutes' time!"
The general looked around.
There Keenan sat, like a stone,
With his three hundred horse alone--
Less shaken than the ground.
"Major, your men?"
"Are soldiers, General." "Then,
Charge, Major! Do your best:
Hold the enemy back, at all cost,
Till my guns are placed;--else the army is lost.
You die to save the rest!"
By the shrouded gleam of the western skies,
Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyes
For an instant,--clear, and cool, and still;
Then, with a smile, he said: "I will."
"Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank.
Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,
Rose joyously, with a willing breath,
Rose like a greeting hail to death.
Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed;
Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed;
Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,
In their faded coats of the blue and yellow;
And above in the air with an instinct true,
Like a bird of war their pennon flew.
With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,
And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,
And strong brown faces bravely pale
For fear their proud attempt shall fail,
Three hundred Pennsylvanians close
On twice ten thousand gallant foes.
Line after line the troopers came
To the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame;
Rode in and sabered and shot--and fell;
Nor came one back his wounds to tell.
And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall
In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall,
While the circle-stroke of his saber, swung
Round his head like a halo there, luminous hung.
Line after line, ay, whole platoons,
Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons
By the maddened horses were onward borne
And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn;
As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.
So they rode, till there were no more to ride.
But over them, lying there, shattered and mute,
What deep echo rolls?--'Tis a death-salute
From the cannon in place; for heroes, you braved
Your fate not in vain: the army was saved!
Over them now,--year following year,
Over their graves the pine-cones fall,
And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call;
But they stir not again; they raise no cheer:
They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,
Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.
The rush of their charge is resounding still
That saved the army at Chancellorsville.
USEFUL PRECEPTS FOR GIRLS.
First catch your lover.
Hold him when you have him.
Don't let go of him to catch every new one that comes along.
Try to get very well acquainted with him before you take him for life.
Unless you intend to support him, find out whether he earns enough to
support you.
Don't make up your mind he is an angel. Don't palm yourself off on him for
one either.
Don't let him spend his salary on you; that right should be reserved until
after marriage.
If you have any conscientious scruples about marrying a man with a mother,
say so in time that he may either get rid of her to oblige you, or get rid
of you to oblige her, as he thinks best.
If you object to secret societies and tobacco, it is better to come with
your objections now than to reserve them for curtain lectures hereafter.
If your adorer happens to fancy a certain shade of hair, don't color bleach
yours to oblige him. Remember your hair belongs to you and he doesn't.
Be very sure it is the man you are in love with, and not the clothes he
wears. Fortune and fashion are both so fickle it is foolish to take a
stylish suit for better or worse.
If you intend to keep three servants after marriage, settle the matter
beforehand. The man who is making love to you may expect you to do your own
washing.
Don't try to hurry up a proposal by carrying on a flirtation with some
other fellow. Different men are made of different material, and the one you
want might go off in a fit of jealousy and forget to come back.
If you have a love letter to write, do not copy it out of a "letter
writer." If your young man ever happened to consult the same book he would
know your sentiments were borrowed.
Don't marry a man to oblige any third person in existence. It is your right
to suit yourself in the matter. But remember at the same time that love is
blind, and a little friendly advice from one whose advice is worth having
may insure you a lifetime of happiness, or prevent one of misery.
In love affairs always keep your eyes wide open, so that when the right man
comes along you may see him.
When you see him you will recognize him and the recognition will be mutual.
If you have no fault to find with him personally, financially,
conscientiously, socially, morally, politically, religiously, or in any
other way, he is probably perfect enough to suit you, and you can afford
to--
Believe in him; hope in him; love him; marry him!
WIDDER BUDD.
I'm fifty, I'm fair, and without a gray hair,
An' I feel just ez young as a girl.
When I think o' Zerubbabel Lee, I declare
It sets me all into a whirl.
Last night he waz here, an' I told him to "clear"--
An' my! How supprised he did look:
Perhaps I wuz rash, but he's after my _cash_--
I see through his plans like a book.
Some offers I've had that I cannot call bad;
There was Deacon Philander Breezee;
I'd a sartin sed _Yes_, when he wanted a kiss,
Ef he hadn't so flustrated me.
It took me so quick that it felt like a kick--
I flew all to pieces at once;
Sez I, "You kin go--I'm not wanting a beau;"
I acted, I know, like a dunce.
Sez he, ez he rose, "I hev come to propose."
I stopped him afore he began:
Sez I, "You kin go, an' see Hepzibah Stow--
_I won't be tied down to a man_."
"Mariar," ses he, "Widder Tompkins an' me
Kin strike up a bargain, I know;
An', seein' ez we can't decide to agree,
I guess that I hed better go."
He picked up his hat from the chair where it sat,
An' solemnly started away.
Sez I, with a look that I'm _sure_ he mistook,
"You're perfectly welcome to stay."
My face got ez red ez our old waggin-shed--
I thought for the land I should melt.
Sez he, "I am done. Good night, leetle one,"
I _wish_ he'd a known how I felt.
To-day, Isaac Beers, with his snickers and sneers,
Whose face is ez ugly ez sin,
Dropped in just to see about buyin' my steers,
An' tickled the mole on my chin.
Sez I, "You jest quit; I don't like you a bit;
You can't come your sawder on me.
You'd better behave till Jane's cold in her grave,
Your manners is ruther too free."
When dear David died (sniff--sniff), ez I sot by his side (sniff--sniff);
He ketched up my hand in his own (sniff--sniff);
He squeezed it awhile (sniff--sniff), an' he sez with a smile
(sniff--sniff),
"You'll soon be a widder alone (sniff--sniff--sniff),
An' when I am gone (sniff--sniff) don't you fuss an' take on (sniff--sniff)
Like old Widder Dorothy Day (sniff--sniff).
Look out for your tin (sniff--sniff) if you marry agin (sniff--sniff),
Nor throw your affections away (sniff--sniff--sniff)."
My children hev grown, an' have homes o' their own--
They're doin' ez well ez they can (_wipes her eyes and nose_):
An' I'm gettin' sick o' this livin' alone--
I wouldn't mind havin' a man.
Fur David hez gone to the mansion above--
His body is cold in the ground,
Ef you know of a man who would marry for love,
Jest find him an' send him around.
HIS LAST COURT.