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be the clock, that he died-he says to me, ‘Nora,' says he, 'you've been a good wife,' says he, an' I've been a good husband,' says he, 'an' so there's no love lost betune us,' says he, 'an' I could give you a good charak-tur to any place,' says he, 'an' I wish you could do the same for me where I'm goin,' says he, “but it's case equal,' says he ; 'every dog has his day, and some has a day and a half,' says he, and,' says he, 'I'll know more in a bit than Father Corrigan himself,' says he, so I'll not bother my brains about it ;' and he says, says he,

and if at any time, ye see anny wan ye like better nor me, marry him,' says he, for the first time spakin' it solemn like. 'Ah, Nora, what is the wurruld to a man when his wife is a widder? And,' says he, 'I lave fifty dollars for masses, and the rest I lave to yourself,' says he, “an' I needn't tell ye to be a good mother to the children,' says he, 'for well we know there are none.' Ah, poor John. Will

have another

сир of tay, Mr. Costello ?”

“ It must have been very hard on ye,” said Mr. Costello. “Thank ye, ma'am, no more.”

“It was hard,” said Mrs. Cummiskey ; “but time will tell. I must cast about me for me own livin', an' so I got until this place, an' here I am to-day.”

“Ah !” said Mr. Costello, as they rose from the table and seated themselves before the fire, “an' here we are both of us this evenin'."

“ Here we are, sure enough,” rejoined the widow. An' so I mind


of-of him, do I ?” asked Mr. Costello, after a pause, during which he had gazed contemplatively into the fire.

“That ye do. Ye favor him greatly. Dark-complected an' the same pleasant smile.”

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“Now, with me sittin' here, and you sitting there, foreninst me, ye might almost think ye were marrit again,” said Mr. Costello, insinuatingly.

“Ah, go 'way now for a taze that ye are,” exclaimed the widow, mussing her clean apron by rolling up the corners of it.

“I disremember what it was he said about seein' anny man you liked better nor him," said Mr. Costello, moving his chair a little nearer to that of the widow.

“ He said, said he," answered the widow, smoothing her apron over her knees with her plump white hands, •Nora,' said he, if


ye see anny man ye like better nor me, marry him,' says he.”

“ Did he say anything about anny wan ye liked as well as him ?” asked Mr. Costello.

“I don't mind that he did," answered the widow, reflectively, folding her hands in her lap.

“I suppose he left that to yerself?" pursued Costello.

“Faith, an' I don't know, thin," answered Mrs. Cummiskey. “ D'ye think


like me as well as him ?” asked Costello, persuasively, leaning forward to look into the widow's eyes, which were cast down.

"Ah, go 'way for a taze," exclaimed the widow, straightening herself, and playfully slapping Costello in the face.

He moved his chair still nearer, and stole his arm around her waist.

“Nivver you think I'm ticklesome, Mr. Costello," says the widow, looking boldly at him.

“Tell me,” he insisted, “d'ye like me as well as ye did him ?”

“I-I most I most disremember now how much I

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liked him," answered the widow, naturally embarrassed by such a question.

“ Well, thin," asked Costello, enforcing his question by gentle squeezes of the widow's round waist, “d'ye like me well enough as meself ?”

“Hear the man!” exclaimed the widow, derisively; “do I like him well enough as himself ?”

“Ah, now, don't be breakin' me heart,” pleaded Costello. -"Answer me this question, Mrs. Cummiskey: Is yer heart tender toward me?”

" It is," whispered the widow; "an' there, now ye have it.”

“The saints be praised !” exclaimed the happy lover, and he drew the not unwilling widow to his bosom.

A few minutes after Mrs. Cummiskey looked up, and, as she smoothed her hair, said: “But, Jam-es, ye

: haven't told me how ye liked yer tay."

"Ah, Nora, me jewel," answered Mr. Costello, “the taste of that first kiss would take away the taste of all the tay that ever was brewed.”


WHERE are the swallows fled ?

Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.

O doubting heart !
Far over purple seas
They wait, in sunny erse,

The balmy southern breeze,
To bring them to their Northern homes once more,

Why must the flowers die ?

Prisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.

O doubting heart !
They only sleep below
The soft white ermine snow,

While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid his rays

These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave the earth ?

O doubting heart !
The stormy clouds on high
Veil the same sunny sky,

That soon, for spring is nigh,
Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light

Is quenched in night;
What sound can break the silence of despair?

O doubting heart!
The sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,

Brighter for darkness past,
And angels' silver voices stir the air.



F I shall ever win the home in Heaven

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, In the great company of the forgiven

I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. I knew him well; in truth, few knew him better;

For my young eyes oft read for him the Word, And saw how meekly from the crystal letter

He drank the life of his beloved Lord. Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted

On ready words his freight of gratitude, Nor was he called among the gifted,

In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood. He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases,

Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes; And I suppose that in his prayers and graces,

I've heard them all at least a thousand times. I see him now-his form, his face, his motions,

His homespun habit, and his silver hair,And hear the language of his trite devotions,

Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair. I can remember how the sentence sounded

"Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to faint!" And how the "conquering-and-to-conquer” rounded

The loftier aspirations of the saint.
He had some notions that did not improve him,

He never kissed his children-so they say ;
And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him

Less than a horse-shoe picked up in the way.

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