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'T

WAS growin' dark so terrible fasht,
Whin through a town up the mountain there

pashed
A broth of a boy, to his neck in the shnow ;
As he walked, his shillaleh he swung to and fro,
Saying: “It's up to the top I am bound for to go,

Be jabbers !"
He looked mortal sad, and his eye was as bright
As a fire of turf on a cowld winther night ;
And niver a word that he said could ye tell
As he opened his mouth and let out a yell,
"It's up till the top of the mountain I'll go,
Onless covered up wid this bodthersome shnow,

Be jabbers !"
Through the windows he saw, as he thraveled along,
The light of the candles and fires so warm,
But a big chunk of ice hung over his head ;
Wid a shnivel and groan, “By St. Patrick !" he said,
"It's up to the very tip-top I will rush,
And then if it falls, it's not meself it'll crush,

Be jabbers !"

“Whisht a bit," said an owld man, whose hair was white As the shnow that fell down on that miserable night ; “Shure ye'll fall in the wather, me bit of a lad, Fur the night is so dark and the walkin' is bad ” Bedad ! he'd not lisht to a word that was said, But he'd go to the top, if he went on his head,

Be jabbers ! A bright, buxom young girl, such as likes to be kissed, Axed him wouldn'he stop, and how could he resist ? So shnapping his fingers and winking his eye, While shmiling upon her, he made this reply“ Faith, I meant to kape on till I got to the top, But, as yer shwate self axed me, I may as well shtop,

Be jabbers !" He shtopped all night and he shtopped all dayAnd ye mustn't be axin whin he did go away ; Fur wouldn't he be a bastely gossoon To be lavin his darlint in the swate honeymoon ? Whin the owld man has praties enough and to spare, Shure he might as well shtay if he's comfortable, there Be jabbers !

-Paddy.

THE

"HE heart of man, walk it which way it will,

Sequestered or frequented, smooth or rough, Down the deep valley amongst tinkling flocks, Or 'mid the clang of trumpets and the march Of clattering ordnance, still must have its halt,

Its hour of truce, its instant of repose,
Its inn of rest; and craving still must seek
The food of its affections—still must slake
Its constant thirst of what is fresh and pure
And pleasant to behold.

Gradation.

A

SPARROW caught upon a tree

The plumpest fly; all, all unheeded Were struggles, cries, and agony,

As for his life the victim pleaded. “Nay," quoth the sparrow,

you must die, For you are not so strong as I." A hawk surprised him at his meal

And in a trice poor Sparrow spitted ; In vain he gasped his last appeal :

“What crime, Sir Hawk, have I committed ?" “Peace," quoth the captor ; "you must die, For you are not so strong as I.”

Down swooped an eagle, who had spied

With grim delight the state of matters ; “Release me, king," the victim cried,

“ You tear my very flesh to tatters." “Nay," quoth the eagle, "you must die, For you are not so strong as I." A bullet whistled at the word,

And struck him ere his feast was ended; “Ah, tyrant !” shrieked the dying bird,

“To murder him who ne'er offended !" “Oh," quoth the sportsman, "you must die, For you are not so strong as I."

-- Anonymous.

Ungranted.

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Or do they, blended in a gracious breath,

Pervade the atmosphere of common life, Softening the terror of the doom of death,

Lulling the fret and fever of the strise ? Who knows, who knows ? Our darlings from us glide;

Imploring clasp and passionate prayer are vain ; Our trust betrayed, missed aim, or shattered pride,

The great dumb river sweeps them to the main. And yet, for something every gift is given,

Through age on age, so priest and poet saith, Cling fast, fond hands; look up, true eyes to heaven; Through dusk and doubt hold to the saving faith!

-Anonymous,

Are they stored up in some great solemn bank,

Where time holds for eternity the key?
As the rich hues, that in the westward sank,

May sleep, enshrined beneath the sleeping sea ?

7 be Fire-Fiend.

IN

IN the deepest dearth of midnight, while the sad and

solemn swell Still was floating, faintly echoed from the Forest chapel

bellFainting, falteringly floating o'er the sable waves of air That were through the midnight rolling, chafcd and

billowy with the tollingIn my chamber I lay dreaming by the firelight's fitful

gleaming, And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed on a heart

How I revel on the prairie! How I roar among the

pines! How I laugh when from the village o'er the snow the

red flame shines, And I hear the shrieks of terror, with a life in every

breath! How I scream with lambent laughter as I hurl each crackling rafter

[higher! Down the fell abyss of fire, until higher! higher! Leap the high priests of my altar in their merry dance Seemed to gibe and grin this phantom when in terror I

fore-doomed to care !

of death!

awoke, And my slumberous eyelids straining, as I staggered to

the floor, Still in that dread vision seeming, turned my gaze

toward the gleaming Hearth, and—there!-oh, God! I saw it! and from out

its flaming jaw it Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing, bubbling, gurgling

stream of gore!

"I am monarch of the fire! I am vassal-king of death! World-encircling, with the shadow of its doom upon

my breath! With the symbol of hereafter flaming from my fatal

face! I command the eternal fire! Higher! higher! higher!

higher! Leap my ministering demons, like phantasmagoric

lemans Hugging universal nature in their hideous embrace!" Then a somber silence shut me in a solemn, shrouded

sleep, And I slumbered, like an infant in the “Cradle of the

Deep,” Till the belfry in the forest quivered with the matin

stroke, And the martins, from the edges of its lichen-lidded

ledges, Shimmered through the russet arches where the light in

torn files marches, Like a routed army struggling through the serried ranks

of oak.

Speechless, struck with stony silence, frozen to the

floor I stood, Till methought the brain was hissing with that hissing,

bubbling blood: Till I felt my life-stream oozing, oozing from those

lambent lips: Till the demon seemed to name me: then a wondrous

calm o'ercame me, And my brow grew cold and dewy, with a death damp

stiff and gluey, And I fell back on my pillow in apparent soul eclipse!

Then, as in death's seeming shadow, in the icy pall of

fear I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous murmur to

my ear!

Through my ivy casement filtered in a tremulous note From the tall and stately linden where a robin swelled

his throat: Querulous, quaker-crested robin, calling quaintly for

his mate! Then I started up, unbidden, from my slumber night

mare ridden, With the memory of that dire demon in my central fire, On my eye's interior mirror like the shadow of a fate! As the last long lingering echo of the midnight's mys

tic chimeLifting through the sable billows to the thither shore of

timeLeaving on the starless silence not a token nor a trace, In a quivering sigh departed; from my couch in fear I

started: Started to my feet in terror, for my dreams phantasmal

Came a murmur like the murmur of assassins in their

sleep: Muttering, “Higher! higher! higher! I am demon of

the fire! I am arch-fiend of the fire! and each blazing roof's my

pyre, And my sweetest incense is the blood and tears my vic

tims weep!

error

Ah! the fiendish fire had smoldered to a white and

formless heap And no knot of oak was flaming as it flamed upon my sleep;

[shone, But around its very center where the demon's face had Forked shadows seemed to linger, pointing as with a

spectral finger To a Bible, massive golden, on a table carved and

oldenAnd I bowed and said, "All power is of God, of God alone."

-C. D Gardette,

Painted in the fitful fire, a frightful, fiendish, flaming

face!

On the red hearth's reddest center, from a blazing knot

of oak,

27

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