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If we sit down at set of sun,
And count the things that we have done,

And, counting find
One self-denying act, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard ;

One glance most kind,
That fell like sunshine where it went,
Then we may count that a day well spento
But if through all the live-long day
We've eased no heart by yea or nay;

If through it all
We've done no thing that we can trace,
That brought the sunshine to a face;

No act, most small,
That helped some soul, and nothing cost,
Then count that day as worse than lost.


"Oh! why did you marry him, Biddy?

Why did you take Pat for your spouse ?
Sure, he's neither purty nor witty,

And his hair is as red as a cow's!
You might had your pick had you waited,

You'd done a dale better with Tim;
And Phelim O'Toole was expectin'-

You couldn't do better nor him.
You talk of us young people courtin'-

Pray tell how your courtin' began,
When you were a widdy woman,

And be was a widdy man.”
“Tim and Pat, iniss, you see, was acquainted

Before they came over the sea,
When Pat was a-courtin' Norah,

And Tim was a-courtin' me.
She did not know much, the poor Norah,

Nor, for that matter, neither did Pat;
He had not the instinct of some one,

Cut no one had then told him that;
But he soon found it out for himself,

For life at best 's but a span-
When I was a widdy woman,

And he was a widdy inan.

“I helped him to take care of Norah,

And when he compared her with me, He saw, as he whispered one evening,

What a woman one woman could be.
She went out like the snuff of a candle;

Then the sickness seized upon Tim,
And we watched by his bedsidé together-

It was such a comfort to him.
I was not alone in my weeping,

Our tears in the same channel ranFor I was a widdy woman

And he was a widdy man. “We had both had our troubles, mavourneen,

Though neither, perhaps, was to blame; And we both knew by this what we wanted,

And were willing to pay for the same. We knew what it was to be married,

And before the long twelvemonth had flown, We had made up our minds it was better

Not to live any longer alone:
We wasted no time chilly-shally,

Like you, miss, and Master Dan-
For I was a widdy woman
And he was a widdy man.”

- Harper's Magazine.


I will paint you a sign, rum-seller,
And hang it over your door;
A truer and better sign-board,
Than ever you had before.
I will paint with the skill of a master,
And many shall pause to see
This wonderful piece of painting,
So like the reality.
I will paint yourself, rum-seller,
As you wait for that fair young boy,
Just in the morning of manhood,
A mother's pride and joy.
He has no thought of stopping,
But you greet him with a smile,

you seem so blithe and friendly,
That he pauses to chat awhile.
I will paint you again, rum-seller,
I will paint you as you stand,

With a foaming glass of liquor,
Extended in your hand.
He wavers, but you urge him-
Drink, pledge me just this one!
And he takes the glass and drains it,
And the hellish work is done.
And next I will paint a drunkard,
Only a year las flown,
But into that loathsome creature,
The fair young boy has grown.
The work was sure and rapid,
I will paint him as he lies,
In a torpid, drunken slumber,
Under the wintry skies.
I will paint the form of the mother,
As she kneels at her darling's side,
Her beautiful boy that was dearer
Than all the world beside.
I will paint the shape of a coffin,
Labeled with one word—“lost,"
I will paint all this rum -seller,
And will paint it free of cost.
The sin and the shame and the sorrow,
The crime and the want and the woe,
That is born there in your work-shop,
No hand can paint, you know.
But I'll paint you a sign, rum-seller,
And many shall pause to view,
This wonderful swinging sign-board,
So terribly, fearfully true.


It is bad enough to see a bachelor sew on a button, but he is the embodiment of grace alongside of a married man. Necessity has compelled experience in the case of the former, but the latter has always depended upon some one else for this service, and fortunately, for the sake of society, it is rarely he is obliged to resort to the needle himself. Sometimes the patient wife scalds her right hand, or runs a sliver under the nail of the index finger of that hand, and it is then the man cucches the needle around the neck, and forgetting to tie a knot in the thread commences to put on the button. It is always in the morning, and from five to twenty minutes after he is expected to be down street. He lays the button exactly on the site of its predecessor, and pushes the needle through one eye, and carefully draws the thread after, leaving about three inches of it sticking up for leeway. He says to himself,—“Well, if women don't have the easiest time I ever see.” Then he comes back the other way, and gets the needle through the cloth well enough, and lays himself out to find the eye, but in spite of a great deal of patient jabbing, the needle point persists in bucking against the solid parts of that button, and finally, when he loses patience, his fingers catch the thread, and that three inches he had left to hold the button slips through the eye in a twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely across the floor. He picks it


without a single remark, out of respect to his children, and makes another attempt to fasten it. This time when coming back with the needle he keeps both the thread and button from slipping by covering them with his thumb, and it is out of regard for that part of him that he feels around for the eye in a very careful and judicious manner; but eventually losing his philosophy as the search becomes more and more hopeless, he falls to jabbing about in a loose and savage manner, and it is just then the needle finds the opening, and comes up through the button and part way through his thumb with a celerity that no human ingenuity can guard against. Then he lays down the things, with a few familiar quotations, and presses the injured band between his knees, and then holds it under the other arm, and finally jams it into his mouth, and all the while he prances about the floor and calls upon heaven and earth to witness that there has never been anything like it since the world was created, and howls, and whistles, and moans, and sobs. After awhile he calms down, and puts on his pants, and fastens them topether with a stick, and goes to his business a changed man,

He stands at the door of the church peeping in,

No troublesome beadle is near him;
The preacher is talking of sinners and sin,

And little Pat trembles to hear him ;

A poor

little fellow alone and forlorn,
Who never knew parent or duty;
His head is uncovered, bis jacket is torn,

And hunger has withered his beauty.
The white-headed gentleman shut in the box,

Seems growing more angry each minute;
He doubles his tist and the cushion he knocks,

As if anxious to know what is in it.
He scolds at the people who sit in the pews, –

Pat takes them for kings and princesses ; (With his little bare feet-he delights in their shoes;

In his rags he feels proud of their dresses !)
The parson exhorts them to think of their need,

To turn from the world's dissipation,
The naked to clothe, and the hungry to feed, -

Pat listens with strong approbation!
And when the old clergyman walks down the aisle,

Pat runs up to meet him right gladly,
"Shure, give me my dinner!" says he with a smile,

“And a jacket, I want them quite badly.”
The kings and the princesses indignantly stare,

The beadle gets word of the danger,
And, shaking his silver-tipped stick in the air,

Looks knives at the poor little stranger.
But Pat's not afraid, he is sparkling with joy,

And cries,-who so willing to cry it?
" You'll give me my dinner, -I'm such a poor boy:

You said so,-now don't you deny it.”
The pompous old beadle may grumble and glare,

And growl about robbers and arson;
But the boy who has faith in the sermon stands there,

And smiles at the white-headed parson!
The kings and princesses may wonder and frown,

And whisper he wants better teaching;
But the white-headed parson looks tenderly down

On the boy who has faith in his preaching.
He takes him away without question or blame,

As eager as Patsy to press on,
For he thinks a good dinner (and Pat thinks the same)

Is the moral that lies in the lesson.
And after long years, when Pat handsomely drest, -

A smart footman,-is asked to determine
Of all earthly things what's the thing he likes best?

He says, "Och, shure, the master's ould sermin!"

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