Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale,
Went into business on a larger scale;
And soon, throughout all London, scattered he
The "only genuine poudare for de flea.'
Engaged, one morning, in his new vocation
Of mingled boasting and dissimulation,
He thought he heard himself in anger called;
And, sure enough, the self-same woman bawled,--
In not a mild or very tender mood,―

From the same window where before she stood.
"Hey, there," said she, "you Monsher Powder-mau!
Escape my clutches now, sir, if you can;

I'll let you dirty, thieving Frenchmen know
That decent people won't be cheated so."

Then spoke Monsieur, and heaved a saintly sigh,
With humble attitude and tearful eye;-

"Ah, Madame! s'il vous plait, attendez vous,—
I vill dis leetle ting explain to you:

My poudare gran! magnifique! why abuse him?
Aha! I show you how to use him;

First, you must wait until you catch de flea:
Den, tickle he on de petite rib, you see;

And when he laugh,-aha! he ope his throat;
Den poke de poudare down!-BEGAR! HE CHOKE.

IN THE OTHER WORLD.

It lies around us like a cloud,—
A world we do not see;
Yet the sweet closing of an eye
May bring us there to be.

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek;
Amid our worldly cares
Its gentle voices whisper love,
And mingle with our prayers.

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,
Sweet helping hands are stirred,
And palpitates the veil between
With breathings almost heard.

The silence,-awful, sweet, and calm,-
They have no power to break;
For mortal words are not for them
To utter or partake.

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide,
So near to press they seem,
They seem to lull us to our rest,
And melt into our dream.

And in the hush of rest they bring,
'Tis easy now to see

How lovely, and how sweet a pass
The hour of death may be.

To close the eye, and close the ear,
Wrapped in a trance of bliss,
And gently dream in loving arms,-
To swoon to that-from this.

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,
Scarce asking where we are,

To feel all evil sink away,

All sorrow and all care.

Sweet souls around us! watch us still,
Press nearer to our side,

Into our thoughts, into our prayers,
With gentle helpings glide.

Let death between us be as naught,

A dried and vanished streain, —

Your joy be the reality,

Our suffering life the dream.

II. Beecher Stowe.

VERY DARK.

The crimson tide was ebbing, and the pulse grew weak and faint,

But the lips of that brave soldier scorned e'en now to make

complaint;

"Fall in rank!" a voice called to him; calm and low was his

reply:

"Yes, I will if I can do it,-I will do it, though I die."

And he murmured, when the life-light had died out to just a

spark,

"It is growing very dark, mother,—growing very dark.”

There were tears in mauly eyes, then, and manly heads were

bowed,

Though the balls flew thick around them, and the cannons thundered loud;

They gathered round the spot where the dying soldier lay,
To catch the broken accents he was struggling then to say;
And a change came o'er the features where death had set his
mark,-

"It is growing very dark, mother, -very, very dark.”

Far away his mind had wandered, to Ohio's hills and vales, Where the loved ones watched and waited with that love that never fails;

He was with them as in childhood, seated in the cottage door, Where he watched the evening shadows slowly creeping on the floor;

Bend down closely, comrades, closely, he is speaking now, and hark,

"It is growing very dark, mother,—very, very dark.”

He was dreaming of his mother,-that her loving hand was pressed

On his brow for one short moment, ere he sank away to rest; That her lips were now imprinting a fond kiss upon his cheek, And a voice he well remembered spoke so soft, and low, and

meek;

Her gentle form was near him, her footsteps he could mark,— But "it's growing very dark, mother,―very, very dark.”

And the eye that once had kindled, flashing forth with patriot light,

Slowly gazing, vainly strove to pierce the gathering gloom of night;

Ah, poor soldier! ah, fond mother! you are severed now for

aye;

Cold and pulseless, there he lieth, where he breathed his life

away;

Through this heavy cloud of sorrow shines there not one hea venly spark?

Ah! it has grown dark, mother,-very, very dark.

THE FIREMAN.

The city slumbers. O'er its mighty walls
Night's dusky mantle, soft and silent, falls;
Sleep o'er the world slow waves its wand of lead,
And ready torpors wrap each sinking head.
Stilled is the stir of labor and of life;

Hushed is the hum, and tranquilized the strife.

Man is at rest, with all his hopes and fears;
The young forget their sports, the old their cares;
The grave are careless; those who joy or weep
All rest contented on the arm of sleep.

Sweet is the pillowed rest of beauty now,
And slumber smiles upon her tranquil brow;
Her bright dreams lead her to the moonlit tide,
Her heart's own partner wandering by her side;
'Tis summer's eve; the soft gales scarcely rouse
The low-voiced ripple and the rustling boughs;
And, faint and far, some minstrel's melting tone
Breathes to her heart a music like its own.

When, hark! O, horror! what a crash is there!
What shriek is that which fills the midnight air?
'Tis fire! 'tis fire! She wakes to dream no more;
The hot blast rushes through the blazing door;
The dun smoke eddies round; and, hark! that cry:
"Help! help! Will no one aid? I die, I die!"
She seeks the casement; shuddering at its height
She turns again; the fierce flames mock her flight;
Along the crackling stairs they fiercely play,
And roar, exulting, as they seize their prey.

"Help! help! Will no one come ?" She can no more, But, pale and breathless, sinks upon the floor.

Will no one save thee? Yes, there yet is one
Remains to save, when hope itself is gone;
When all have fled, when all but he would fly,
The fireman comes, to rescue or to die.

He mounts the stair,-it wavers 'neath his tread;
He seeks the room, flames flashing round his head;
He bursts the door; he lifts her prostrate frame,
And turns again to brave the raging flame.
The fire-blast smites him with its stifling breath;
The falling timbers menace him with death;
The sinking floors his hurried step betray;
And ruin crashes round his desperate way;
Hot smoke obscures, ten thousand cinders rise,
Yet still he staggers forward with his prize;
He leaps from burning stair to stair. On! on!
Courage! One effort more, and all is won!
The stair is passed, -the blazing hall is braved;
Still on! yet on! once more! Thank Heaven, she's
Robert T. Conrad

saved!

HEZEKIAH BEDOTT.

(From the Widow Bedott Papers.)

He was a wonderful hand to moralize, husband was, 'specially after he begun to enjoy poor health. He made an observation once, when he was in one of his poor turns, that I shall never forget the longest day I live. He says to me, one winter evenin', as we was a settin' by the fire; I was a knittin', (I was always a wonderful great knitter,) and he was a smokin', (he was a master hand to smoke, though the doctor used to tell him he'd be better off to let tobacker alone; when he was well, used to take his pipe and smoke a spell after he'd got the chores done up, and when he wa'n't well, used to smoke the biggest part o' the time.) Well, he took his pipe out o' his mouth, and turned toward me, and I knowed something was comin', for he had a pertikkeler way of lookin' round when he was gwine to say anything oncommon. Well, he says to me, says he, "Silly," (my name was Prissilly naterally, but he most ginerally always called me Silly, 'cause 'twas handier, you know.) Well, he says to me, says he, "Silly," and he looked pretty sollem. I tell you, he had a sollem countenance naterally,-and after he got to be deacon 'twas more so, but since he'd lost his health he looked sollemer than ever, and certingly you wouldent wonder at it if you knowed how much he underwent. He was troubled with a wonderful pain in his chest, and amazin' weakness in the spine of his back, besides the pleurissy in the side, and having the ager a* considerable part of the time, and bein broke of his rest o' nights, 'cause he was so put to't for breath when he laid down.

Why, it's an onaccountable fact, that when that man died he hadent seen a well day in fifteen year, though when he was married, and for five or six year after, I shouldent desire to see a ruggeder man than what he was. But the time I'm speakin' of he'd been out o' health nigh upon ten year, and, O dear sakes! how he had altered since the first time I ever see him! That was to a quiltin' to Squire Smith's, a spell afore Sally was mar ried.