No bride for me. Yet so my path was clear

To win the sister.

Whom I woo'd and won.

For Evelyn knew not of my former suit, Because the simple mother work'd upon By Edith pray'd me not to whisper of it. And Edith would be bridesmaid on the day.

But on that day, not being all at ease, I from the altar glancing back upon her, Before the first I will' was utter'd, saw The bridesmaid pale, statuelike, passionless

"No harm, no harm" I turn'd again, and placed

My ring upon the finger of my bride.

So, when we parted, Edith spoke no word,

She wept no tear, but round my Evelyn clung

In utter silence for so long, I thought "What will she never set her sister frce?"

We left her, happy cach in cach, and

then,

As tho' the happiness of each in cach Were not enough, must fain have torrents, lakes,

Hills, the great things of Nature and the fair,

To lift us as it were from commonplace, And help us to our joy. Better have sent Our Edith thro' the glories of the carth, To change with her horizon, if true Love Were not his own imperial all-in-all.

Far off we went. My God, I would not live

Save that I think this gross hard-seeming

world

Is our misshaping vision of the Powers

our gains.

day,

The sisters glide about me hand in hand,
Both beautiful alike, nor can I tell
One from the other, no, nor care to tell
One from the other, only know they come,
They smile upon me, till, remembering all
The love they both have borne me, and

the love

466

What be the next un like? can tha tell ony harm on 'im lass?Naay sit down-naw 'urry-sa cowd!— hev another glass! Straänge an' cowd fur the time! we may happen a fall 'o snawNot es I cares fur to hear ony harm, but I likes to knaw.

An' I 'väps es 'e beant booöklarn'd: but 'e dosn' not coom fro' the shere; We'd anew o' that wi' the Squire, an' we haites boooklarnin' ere.

V.

Fur Squire wur a Varsity scholard, an' niver lookt arter the land

Whoäts and turmuts or taätes-'e 'ed hallus a book i' 'is 'and,

See note to "Northern Cobbler."
A brood of chickens

all o' the wust i' the parish-wi' hoffens a drop in 'is eye.

ivry darter o' Squire's hed her awn

riden erse to 'ersen,

An' they rampaged about wi'their grooms,

an' was 'untin' arter the men, An' hallus a-dallackt* an' dizen'd out, an' a-buyin' new cloäthes, While 'e sit like a graat glimmer-gowk †

wi' 'is glasses athurt 'is noäse, An' 'is nose sa grufted wi' snuff as it couldn't be scroob'd awaäy.

Fur atween 'is reädin' an' writin' 'e snifft up a box in a daäy,

An' 'e niver runn'd arter the fox, nor arter the birds wi' 'is gun,

An' 'e niver not shot one are, but 'e leaved it to Charlie 'is son,

An' 'e niver not fish'd 'is awn ponds, but Charlie 'e cotch'd the pike,

Fur 'e warn't not burn to the land, an' 'o didn't take kind to it like; But I ears es 'e'd gic fur a howry ‡ owd book thutty pound an' moor,

An' 'e'd wrote an owd book, his awn sen, sa I knaw'd es 'e'd coom to be poor; An' 'e gied-I be fear'd fur to tell tha 'ow much-fur an owd scratted stoän, An' 'e digg'd up a loomp i' the land an' ' got a brown pot an' a boän,

An' e bowt owd money, es wouldn't go, wi' good gowd o' the Queen, An' 'e bowt little statutes all-naäkt an which was a shaame to be seen; But 'e niver looökt ower a bill, nor 'e niver not seed to owt,

An' 'e niver knawd nowt but books, an' books, as thou knaws, beant nowt.

VIII.

But owd Squire's laädy es long es she lived she kep' 'em all clear, Thaw es long es she lived I niver hed none of 'er darters 'ere;

*Overdrest in gay colors. † Owl Filthy.

But arter she died we was all es one, the childer an' me,

An' sarvints runn'd in an' out, an' offens we hed 'em to tea.

Lawk! 'ow I laugh'd when the lasses 'ud talk o' their Misses's waäys, An' the Missisis talk'd o' the lasses.-I'll tell the some o' these days. Hoänly Miss Annie were saw stuck oop, like 'er mother afoor

Er an 'er blessed darter-they niver derken'd my door.

IX.

An' Squire 'e smiled an' 'e smiled till 'e'd gotten a fright at last,

An' 'e calls fur 'is son, fur the 'turney's letters they foller'd sa fast; But Squire wur afear'd o' 'is son, an' 'e says to 'im, meek as a mouse, "Lad, thou mun cut off thy taäil, or the gells 'ull goä to the 'Ouse, Fur I finds es I be that i' debt, es I 'oups es thou'll 'elp me a bit,

An' if thou'll 'gree to cut off thy tail I may saäve mysen yit."

Fur Molly the youngest she walkt away wi' a hofficer lad,

An' nawbody 'eärd on 'er sin, sa o' coorso she be gone to the bad!

An' Lucy wur laäme o' one leg, sweet-'arta ske niver 'ed noneStraänge an' unheppen

Miss Lucy! wo gaw one! An' Hetty wur weak i' the hattics, wi'out ony harm i' the leggs,

naämed her' Dot an'

An' the fever 'ed baäked Jinny's 'eäd as bald as one o' them heggs,

An' Nelly wur up fro' the craädle as big i' the mouth as a cow,

An' saw she mun hammergrate, † lass, or she weänt git a maäte onyhow! An' es fur Miss Annie es call'd me afoor my awn foälks to my fauce "A hignorant village wife as 'ud hev to be larn'd her awn place,"

Hes fur Miss Hannie the heldest hes now be a-grawin' sa howd,

I knaws that mooch o' shea, es it beänt not fit to be towd!

XVII.

Sa I didn't not taäke it kindly ov owd Miss Annie to saäy

Es I should be takin' agein' em, cs soon es they went way.

Fur, lawks! 'ow I cried when they went, an' our Nelly she gied me 'er 'and, Fur I'd ha done owt fur the Squire an' 'i gells es belong'd to the land;

* Ungainly, awkward. † Emigrate.

468

'ere nor theer!

But I sarved 'em wi' butter an' heggs fur huppuds o' twenty year.

XVIII.

An' they hallus paäid what I hax'd, sa I hallus deal'd wi' the Hall,

An' they knaw'd what butter wur, an' they knaw'd what a hegg wur an all;

Hugger-mugger they lived, but they wasn't that easy to please,

Till I gied 'em Hinjian curn, an' they laäid big heggs es tha seeas;

they does it at Willis's farm, Taäste another drop o' the wine-tweänt do tha naw harm.

XIX.

Sa new Squire's coom'd wi' 'is taäil in 'is 'and, an' owd Squire's gone;

I heard 'im a roomlin' by, but arter my nightcap wur on;

Sa I han't clapt eyes on 'im yit, fur he coom'd last night sa laätePluksh!!!t the hens i' the peas! why didn't tha hesp the gaäte?

Lard. A cry accompanied by a clapping of hands to scare trespassing fowls.

Wonderful cures he had done, O yes, but they said too of him

He was happier using the knife than in trying to save the limb,

And that I can wel! believe, for he look'd so coarse and so red,

I could think he was one of those who would break their jests on the dead, And mangle the living dog that had loved

him and fawn'd at his knee

Drench'd with the hellish oorali-that ever such things should be!

II.

Here was a boy-I am sure that some of our children would die

But for the voice of Love, and the smile, and the comforting cycHere was a boy in the ward, every bone seem'd out of its placeCaught in a mill and crush'd-it was all but a hopeless case: And he handled him gently enough; but his voice and his face were not kind. And it was but a hopeless case, he had seen it and made up his mind, And he said to me roughly, "The lad will need little more of your care." All the more need," I told him, "to seek the Lord Jesus in prayer; They are all his children here, and I pray for them all as my own:" But he turn'd to me, Ay, good woman, can prayer set a broken bone?"

Then he mutter'd half to himself, but I know that I heard him say

"All very well-but the good Lord Jesus has had his day."

III.

Had? has it come? It has only dawn'd. It will come by and by.

O

how could I serve in the wards if the hope of the world were a lie?

How could I bear with the sights and the

loathsome smells of disease, But that He said "Ye do it to me, when ye do it to these?"

IV.

So he went. And we past to this ward Here is the cot of our orphan, our darling, where the younger children are laid:

our meek little maid;

Empty you see just now! We have lost

her who loved her so muchPatient of pain tho' as quick as a sensitive plant to the touch;

Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often moved me to tears,

Hers was the gratefullest heart I have found in a child of her yearsNay you remember our Emmie; you used to send her the flowers; How she would smile at 'em, play with 'em, talk to 'em hours after hours! They that can wander at will where the works of the Lord are reveal'd Little guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out of the field; Flowers to these "spirits in prison" are all they can know of the spring, They freshen and sweeten the wards like the waft of an angel's wing; And she lay with a flower in one hand and

her thin hands crost on her breastWan, but as pretty as heart can desire, and we thought her at rest,

"Poor little dear, Nurse, I must do it to-morrow; she'll never live thro' it, I fear."

V.

I walk'd with our kindly old Doctor as far as the head of the stair, Then I returned to the ward; the child didn't see I was there.

VI.

Never since I was nurse, had I been so grieved and so vext! Emmie had heard him. Softly she cali'd from her cot to the next, "He says I shall never live thro' it, O Annie, what shall I do?" Annie consider'd. "If I," said the wise little Annie, "was you,

I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me, for, Emmic, you see, It's all in the picture there: Little chil

dren should come to me.'"(Meaning the print that you gave us, I find that it always can please

Our children, the dear Lord Jesus with

children about his knees.)

Emmie, you tell it him plain,

It's the little girl with her arms lying out on the counterpane."

VII.

I had sat three nights by the child-I could not watch her for four

My brain had begun to reel-I felt I could do it no more.

That was my sleeping night, but I thought that it never would pass.

There was a thunder-clap once, and a clatter of hail on the glass,

And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tost about,

The motherless bleat of a lamb in tho storm and the darkness without; My sleep was broken besides with dreams of the dreadful knife

And fears of our delicate Emmie who scarce would escape with her life; Then in the gray of the morning it seem'd she stood by me and smiled, And the doctor came at his hour, and wo went to see to the child.

VIII.

if I call to the Lord,

lieved her asleep again

Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the counterpane;

Say that His day is done! Ay why should we care what they say?

The Lord of the children had heard her, and Emmie had passed away.

My friend should meet me somewhere

hereabout

To take me to that hiding in the hills.

But, bread, merely for bread. This tongue that wagg'd

They said with such heretical arrogance Against the proud archbishop Arundel

stone;

I find hard rocks, hard life, hard cheer,

or none,

For I am emptier than a friar's brains; But God is with me in this wilderness, These wet black passes and foam-churning chasms,

And God's free air, and hope of better things.

I would I knew their speech; not now to glean

Not now-I hope to do it-somu scatter'd

ears,

Some ears for Christ in this wild field of Wales