ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah,
five, six, seben, eight--dar 108 nice fresh eggs--jess nine dozen, and here
am one moah egg in case I has discounted myself."
Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Burton said
to her husband:
"I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied she steals
the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day
before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there
and heard Old Mose count them myself and there were nine dozen."
ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER.
BY MRS. SOPHIA P. SNOW.
'Twas the eve before Christmas, "Good-night" had been said,
And Annie and Willie had crept into bed;
There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes,
And each little bosom was heaving with sighs,
For to-night their stern father's command had been given
That they should retire precisely at seven
Instead of at eight--for they troubled him more
With questions unheard of than ever before:
He had told them he thought this delusion a sin,
No such a creature as "Santa Claus" ever had been.
And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear
How he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year.
And this was the reason that two little heads
So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds.
Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten,
Not a word had been spoken by either till then,
When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep,
And whispered, "Dear Annie, is 'ou fast as'eep?"
"Why no, brother Willie," a sweet voice replies,
"I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes,
For somehow it makes me so sorry because
Dear papa has said there is no 'Santa Claus,'
Now we know there is, and it can't be denied,
For he came every year before mamma died;
But, then, I've been thinking that she used to pray,
And God would hear everything mamma would say,
And maybe she asked him to send Santa Claus here
With the sack full of presents he brought every year."
"Well, why tan't we p'ay dest as mamma did den,
And ask Dod to send him with p'esents aden?"
"I've been thinking so too," and without a word more
Four little bare feet bounded out on the floor,
And four little knees the carpet pressed,
And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast.
"Now Willie, you know we must firmly believe
That the presents we asked for we're sure to receive;
You must wait very still till I say the 'Amen,'
And by that you will know that your turn has come then."
"Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me,
And grant us the favor we are asking of thee.
I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring,
And an ebony work-box that shuts with a spring.
Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see
That Santa Claus loves us as much as does he;
Don't let him get fretful and angry again
At dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen."
"Please, Desus, 'et Santa Taus tum down to-night,
And b'ing us some p'esents before it is light;
I want he should div' me a nice 'ittie s'ed,
With bright shinin' 'unners, and all painted red;
A box full of tandy, a book, and a toy,
Amen, and then Desus, I'll be a dood boy."
Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads,
And with hearts light and cheerful, again sought their beds.
They were lost soon in slumber, both peaceful and deep,
And with fairies in dreamland were roaming in sleep.
Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten,
Ere the father had thought of his children again:
He seems now to hear Annie's half-suppressed sighs,
And to see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes.
"I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said,
"And should not have sent them so early to bed;
But then I was troubled; my feelings found vent,
For bank stock to-day has gone down ten per cent
But of course they've forgotten their troubles ere this,
And that I denied them the thrice-asked-for kiss:
But, just to make sure, I'll go up to their door,
For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before."
So saying, he softly ascended the stairs,
And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers;
His Annie's "Bless papa" drew forth the big tears,
And Willie's grave promise fell sweet on his ears.
"Strange--strange--I'd forgotten," said he with a sigh,
"How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh."
"I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said,
"By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed."
Then he turned to the stairs and softly went down,
Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing-gown,
Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street--
A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet!
Nor stopped he until he had bought every thing,
From the box full of candy to the tiny gold ring;
Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store,
That the various presents outnumbered a score.
Then homeward he turned, when his holiday load,
With Aunt Mary's help, in the nursery was stowed.
Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree,
By the side of a table spread out for her tea;
A work-box well filled in the centre was laid
And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed.
A soldier in uniform stood by a sled
"With bright shining runners, and all painted red."
There were balls, dogs, and horses, books pleasing to see,
And birds of all colors were perched in the tree!
While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the top,
As if getting ready more presents to drop.
And as the fond father the picture surveyed,
He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid,
And he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear,
"I'm happier to-night than I've been for a year;
I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before,
What care I if bank stock falls ten per cent more
Hereafter I'll make it a rule, I believe,
To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas Eve."
So thinking, he gently extinguished the light,
And, tripping down stairs, retired for the night.
As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun
Put the darkness to flight, and the stars one by one.
Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide,
And at the same moment the presents espied;
Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound,
And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found.
They laughed and they cried, in their innocent glee,
And shouted for papa to come quick and see
What presents old Santa Claus brought in the night
(Just the things that they wanted), and left before light;
"And now," added Annie, in a voice soft and low,
"You'll believe there's a 'Santa Claus,' papa, I know;"
While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee,
Determined no secret between them should be,
And told in soft whispers how Annie had said
That their dear blessed mamma, so long ago dead,
Used to kneel down by the side of her chair,
And that God up in heaven had answered her prayer.
"Den we dot up and prayed dust well as we tould,
And Dod answered our prayers: now wasn't He dood?"
"I should say that He was if He sent you all these,
And knew just what presents my children would please.
(Well, well, let him think so, the dear little elf,
'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself.)"
Blind father! who caused your stern heart to relent,
And the hasty words spoken so soon to repent?
'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly up stairs,
And made you His agent to answer their prayers.
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.
BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket, which hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.
That moss-covered bucket I hail as a treasure;
For often, at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing!
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well.
MR. WINKLE PUTS ON SKATES.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
"Now," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, "what say you to an hour on
the ice? We shall have plenty of time."
"Capital!" said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
"Prime!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer.
"You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle.
"Ye-yes; O yes," replied Mr. Winkle. "I--I--am rather out of practice!"
"O, do skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. "I like to see it so much."
"O, it is so graceful," said another young lady. A third young lady said it
was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was "swanlike."
"I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle, reddening; "but I have
no skates."
This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pairs, and
the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more down stairs;
whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely
uncomfortable.
Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy and
Mr. Weller having shoveled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it
during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity
which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvelous, and described circles with his
left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without
once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing
devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman and the
ladies; which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm when old Wardle and
Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic
evolutions which they called a reel.
All this time Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had
been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his skates
on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated
and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather
less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of
Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and
Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.
"Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone, "off with you, and show
'em how to do it."
"Stop, Sam, stop!" said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold
of Sam's arm with the grasp of a drowning man. "How slippery it is, Sam!"
"Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up, sir!"
This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration Mr.
Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the
air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.
"These--these--are very awkward skates," said Mr. Winkle, staggering.
"Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was
anything the matter. "Come; the ladies are all anxiety."
"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. "I'm coming."
"Just going to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to disengage himself. "Now,
sir, start off!"
"Just hold me at first, Sam, will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There--that's
right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam--not too
fast!"
Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being
assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller in a very singular and un-swanlike
manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite
bank--"Sam!"
"Sir!" shouted back Mr. Weller.
"Here! I want you."
"Let go, sir," said Sam. "Don't you hear the governor calling? Let go,
sir."
With a violent effort Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the
agonized Pickwickian, and in so doing administered a considerable impetus
to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or
practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down
into the centre of the reel at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was
performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty.
Mr. Winkle struck Wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell
heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his
feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind in skates.
He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish
was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.
"Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.
"Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.
"I wish you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness.
"No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle, hurriedly.
"I really think you had better," said Allen.
"Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle; "I'd rather not."
"What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer.
Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller and said,
in a stern voice, "Take his skates off!"
"No; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated Mr. Winkle.
"Take his skates off!" repeated Mr. Pickwick, firmly.
The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it, in
silence.
"Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.
Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and, beckoning
his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him and uttered in a
low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words:
"You're a humbug, sir!"
"A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting.
"A humbug, sir! I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir!"
With these words Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel and rejoined his
friends.
MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.
BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.
This book is all that's left me now!
Tears will unbidden start,--
With faltering lip and throbbing brow
I press it to my heart.
For many generations past,
Here is our family tree:
My mother's hand this Bible clasped;
She, dying, gave it me.
Ah! well do I remember those
Whose names these records bear,
Who round the hearthstone used to close
After the evening prayer,
And speak of what these pages said,
In tones my heart would thrill!
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still!
My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters, dear;
How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who leaned God's word to hear.
Her angel-face--I see it yet!
What thronging memories come!
Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!
Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;
Where all were false I found thee true,
My counsellor and guide.
The mines of earth no treasure give
That could this volume buy:
In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.
AFTER-DINNER SPEECH BY A FRENCHMAN.
"Milors and Gentlemans--You excellent chairman, M. le Baron de
Mount-Stuart, he have say to me, 'Make de toast.' Den I say to him dat I
have no toast to make; but he nudge my elbow ver soft, and say dat dere is
von toast dat nobody but von Frenchman can make proper; and, derefore, wid
your kind permission, I vill make de toast. 'De brevete is de sole of de
feet,' as you great philosophere, Dr. Johnson, do say, in dat amusing
little vork of his, de Pronouncing Dictionaire; and, derefore, I vill not
say ver moch to de point.
"Ah! mes amis! ven I hear to myself de flowing speech, de oration
magnifique of your Lor' Maire, Monsieur Gobbledown, I feel dat it is von
great privilege for von etranger to sit at de same table, and to eat de
same food, as dat grand, dat majestique man, who are de tereur of de
voleurs and de brigands of de metropolis, and who is also, I for to
suppose, a halterman and de chief of you common scoundrel. Milors and
gentlemans, I feel that I can perspire to no greatare honueur dan to be von
common scoundrelman myself; but, helas! dat plaisir are not for me, as I
are not freeman of your great cite, not von liveryman servant of von you
compagnies joint-stock. But I must not forget de toast.
"Milors and Gentlemans! De immortal Shakispeare he have write, 'De ting of
beauty are de joy for nevermore.' It is de ladies who are de toast. Vat is
more entrancing dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, de vinking eye of de
beautiful lady! It is de ladies who do sweeten the cares of life. It is de
ladies who are de guiding stars of our existence. It is de ladies who do
cheer but not inebriate, and, derefore, vid all homage to dere sex, de
toast dat I have to propose is, 'De Ladies! Heaven bless dem all!'"
THE WHIRLING WHEEL.
BY TUDOR JENKS.
Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind!
We rise in the morning only to find
That Monday's but Tuesday, and Wednesday's the same,
And Thursday's a change in nothing but name;
A Friday and Saturday wind up the week;
On Sunday we rest, and attempt to look meek.
So set a firm shoulder
And push on the wheel!
The mill that we're grinding
Works for our weal.
And although the dull round is a kind of a grind,
It has compensations that we may find.
Famine and slaughter and sieges no more
Are likely to leave their cards at the door.
Let others delight in adventurous lives--
We read their sore trials at home to our wives.
So set a firm shoulder
And push on the wheel!
The mill that we're grinding
Works for our weal.
The regular round, though a kind of a grind,
Brings thoughts of contentment to quiet the mind:
The babies sleep soundly in snug little beds;
There's a tight little roof o'er the ringletted heads;
The wife's welcome comes with the set of the sun,
And the worker may rest, for the day's work is done.
So set a firm shoulder
And push on the wheel!
The mill that we're grinding
Works for our weal.
Oh! the regular round is a kind of a grind,
But the world's scenes are shifted by workmen behind.
The star who struts central may show no more art
Than the sturdy "first citizen" filling his part.
When the king to our plaudits has graciously bowed,
The crowd sees the king, while the king sees the crowd.
So set a firm shoulder
And push on the wheel!
The mill that we're grinding
Works for our weal.
When the great mill has stopped, and the work is complete,
And the workers receive the reward that is meet,
Who can tell what the Master shall say is the best?
We but know that the worker who's aided the rest,
Who has kept his wheel turning from morning to night,
Who has not wronged his fellow, is not far from right.
So set a firm shoulder
And push on the wheel!
The mill that we're grinding
Shall work out our weal.
THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER.
BY CHARLES SHEPPARD.
It was the seventh of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent,
gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle. It
was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The sky was
cloudless; the foliage of the wood scarce tinged with purple and gold; the
buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But the tread of
legions shook the ground; from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle
barrel; on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet.
Gates was sad and thoughtful as he watched the evolutions of the two
armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground, and a
chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of
death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red cross,
tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with leaden
folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart.
Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on which
they stood came a rider, upon a black horse, rushing toward the distant
battle. There was something in the appearance of this horse and his rider
that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword, the sharp blade
quivers through the air--he points to the distant battle, and, lo! he is
gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over the plains.
Wherever the fight is the thickest, there, through intervals of cannon
smoke, you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on
his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with British blood
he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting
in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away off yonder, leading
the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a magnificent sight to see
that strange soldier and that noble black horse, dashing like a meteor,
down the long columns of battle? Let us look for a moment into those dense
war clouds. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of American militiamen,
their rude farmer coats stained with blood, while scattering their arms by
the way, they flee before that company of redcoat hirelings, who come
rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle
light. In this moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the
plains. The unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches right in the
path of a broad-shouldered militiaman. "Now! cowards! advance another step
and I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts the unknown, extending a pistol
in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British
soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you
down." This appeal was not without its effect. The militiaman turns; his
comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but thirty
men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance. "Now,
upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the red-coat officer. They spring forward
at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch the muzzles of their
rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider is heard: "Now let
them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are
down, some writhing in death, some crawling along the soil, and some
speechless as stone. The remaining ten start back. "Club your rifles and
charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That black horse springs forward,
followed by the militiamen. Then a confused conflict--a cry for quarter,
and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse,
greeting him with cheers.