ginger-beer, and outstripped both men and dogs. Food was of no avail—the more he ate, the more he wanted; there he was-always alike, (excepting just at the few moments spent in eating,) his trough empty, and himself rearing up beside the sty, and squealing like a very pig. Grab might as well have made a hole through the floor, and by pouring pig's-meat into the cellar, expected the old house to have grown fat. Poor Grab! he was almost at his wit's end; he wandered about day after day in quest of nothing but food for his pig; he no longer stooped to pick up old iron or old rags, he was only on the look-out for something to appease the squealing of his ravenous porker; for he declared that he had no peace at home, neither day nor night, unless his pig was either asleep or eating; nay, that he was often compelled to arise in the night, and pour a pail of water into his trough, to keep him quiet. But, oh! worst of all, nobody pitied poor old Grab if they inquired how his pig got on, and he told them all his misery, they only laughed at him; even the very boys would shout out after him, "There goes Grab with a bagful of dirt for his pig;" or " Jacky, how's pork selling?" At length, however, the old man learned to bear their taunts, and went his way without either answering their questions or resenting their abuse; he had but one friend who appeared to sympathise with him, and that was the old farrier. Well," said Jacky, as he met the old horse-doctor one morning, "it's all of no use, Mr. Carter; I stuff him and cram him till every bone in my body aches with carrying food for him. I've even pinched my own belly to fill his, and it's all of no use; he grows no more than a pin. The other day, while I was out, he broke loose and ate up all my little bones, which had taken me days and days in gathering, and I do believe that if my old iron hadn't been rather too hard for his jaws, he'd have eaten it all up, rump and stump. What to do with him, I don't know; I'm a ruined man, Mr.

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Carter; eleven shillings, all at once, did I lay out; but oh! what a waste of money! Then the days that I have spent in bringing home food for him! He eats as much at a meal as would serve me for a month."

"Very strange!" muttered the old farrier. "Perhaps he's got the worms: I'd advise you to give him a little wormcake."

"Worm-cakes!" echoed Grab; "they must be as large as half-peck loaves for him to feel them. Bless you, sir, you 've no notion of what he can swallow."

"Well," resumed the other, “I would sell him."

"Worse and worse," replied Grab: "but who will buy him, think you? I got our butcher to look at him the other day, and he says, 'Jacky,' says he, he 's very old.'-' Think so?' says I... Very,' says he: 'I should say by his teeth, at least seven years old.'- How would he eat?' says I. Like your old shoes,' says he; there's no selling him."

very tough indeed.' So you see

"Well, then, I would kill him," said the farrier, "and make him into pork pies and sell them; people, you know, never lift up the crust to see what's inside."

"Won't do," answered Grab; "I'll lay no money out on flour for the crusts; beside, there would be no lard to make them eat short; no, I'll spend no more money upon him, Mr. Carter. I'm a ruined man."

"Well, well," said the old farrier, somewhat sharply, for he had almost exhausted both his reasons and his patience, "well, well, kill him-and eat him yourself."

"Over expensive," groaned Grab; "it would be like eating money."

A few days after his interview with the farrier a great change took place: the pig would not touch its food; Grab offered it a bread-crust, one that he had reserved for his own eating, but it scarcely took any notice-it gave a faint grunt,

F

and then laid down its head again-the pig was dying. Away went the old miser to the butcher to get him to kill the pig instantly; it was night, and the butcher had gone to bed; Jack thundered at the door, and the old man poked out both head and night-cap, and inquired, in none of the mildest of tones, what was his business. My pig is dying," said

Grab," and I want him killed."

"Humph!" muttered the butcher; "never kill dying pigs, Mr. Grab; never deal in keg-meg; you must go to Hawking Georgey;" and down went the window. Now, Hawking Georgey, be it known, was notorious for selling bad meat; was never known to purchase anything unless it was very cheap, and paid but little regard to the quality; he kept no shop, but went hawking his trash from cottage to cottage, and selling it just for what he could get. To him poor Grab hastened, and after a long parley, (for Georgey would not kill the pig for less than two shillings,) the old miser promised him a shilling and the offals, and away they went together. When they reached the old man's dwelling they found the pig dead, " dead as a door nail," to use Georgey's expression; and although he confessed that he had occasionally dealt in queer cattle, he could not be persuaded to show his butcher-craft on that occasion.

Poor Grab! such a serious loss-coupled with his "high expectation," broke his heart, and he never looked down after it, never stooped to pick up either rags or old iron again; there was a "lack lustre" in his eyes, and when he walked they always seemed fixed upon some object in the distance; everybody saw that he was an altered man. About a month after the death of his pig, Jack Grab gave up the ghost, and as a wag observed, he caught his death from a surfeit of pig. He lies buried in the beautiful little churchyard of Warton Woodhouse, and there was some talk of erecting a headstone to his memory, but this has not yet been done. The

following epitaph, was, however, composed for the occasion, and whether it will be used or not, time alone must decide.

"Here lies Jack Grab, who picked up all things nor nothing past,

No marvel then that Death should pick him up at last:

No weighty grief destroyed him, he died all for a pig,

And would have lived, no doubt, had the object of his grief been big. We erect him this small head-stone, no larger could we build him, The object of whose grief was-so very small it kill'd him.

"This epitaph was made by me, John Harding, Stonemason, Warton Wood-house."

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BONNY BELL.

Good heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day,
That called them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,

Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last,
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep.

GOLDSMITH.

it is a country phrase; in "between lights," I sat

London, I have heard them say with my feet on the fender, sometimes watching the flickering fire-light as it cast a smile upon the hearth, or turning my gaze occasionally on the heavens to see the " daylight die," or marking the deepening shadows, too indolent or too thoughtful to light my candle. To me twilight is a solemn hour, I feel sad without knowing why, thoughtful and serious, yet unable to assign the reason. Neither dawn, nor darkness, nor moonlight can produce this feeling, or throw such a "sober livery" over the mind. There is a something about this hour that to me appears allied to the close of life, the sunset of all our hopes and sorrows: the deepening grey seems a fitting light to gather over the "silent city of the dead," a meet hour to sit beside the grave of one we have loved, and weep our fill. But other thoughts arose in my mind; my fancy had travelled to the home of my childhood, to the green and wooded hills by which I was born; the images