He drots and ganters, vaux and paces, Von leg goes down, and den the oder, He hash two ears shtuck 'pon his head, He's got two eyes dat looks von vay, So, ven you vants to take a ride, Und derefore 'tis not any more He cocks his ear, and looks so gay, But ven he's scart, he make von shpring Not half so young as ven he's foaled, And if he brings der tief alive I live out here by Schneider's Gap, Like a thousand gleaming arrows- It has told the twilight hour; I have done my duty ever, Tried to do it just and right, Now I'm old, I will not miss it, Girl, the Curfew rings to-night!" Wild her eyes and pale her features, And her eyes grew large and brightOne low murmur, scarcely spoken"Curfew must not ring to-night!" She with light step bounded forward, Paths he'd often trod before. Not one moment paused the maiden, Where the bell swung to and fro; "Curfew shall not ring to-night." She has reached the topmost ladder, O'er her hangs the great dark bell, And the awful gloom beneath her, Like the pathway down to hell; See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'Tis the hour of Curfew now And the sight has chilled her bosom, Stopped her breath and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light, As she springs and grasps it firmly"Curfew shall not ring to-night!" Out she swung, far out, the city (Years he had not heard the bell,) And he thought the twilight Curfew Rang young Basil's funeral knell; Still the maiden clinging firmly, Cheek and brow so pale and white, Still her frightened heart's wild beating— "Curfew shall not ring to-night." It was o'er-the bell ceased swaying, Firmly on the damp old ladder, Where for hundred years before And what she this night had done, Aged sires with heads of white, Did not ring that one sad night. O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Glows with sudden beauty now; At his feet she told her story, Showed her hands all bruised and torn; And her sweet young face so haggard, MRS. ROSE HARTWICK THORPE. LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS. I haf von funny leedle poy Vot gomes schust to my knee, Der queerest schap, der createst rogue As efer you dit see. He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings In all barts off der house. But vot off dot? He vas mine son, Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. He get der measles und der mumbs, Und eferyding dot's oudt; He sbills mine glass ob lager bier, Poots schnuff indo mine kraut; He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese Dot vas der roughest chouse; I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss. He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo To make der schticks to beat it mit Mine cracious, dot vas drue! I dinks mine head vas schplit abart He kicks oup such a touse; But nefer mind, der poys vas few He asks me questions sooch as dese: |