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if I had done something real bad. Mr. Travers was almost as angry as Sue, and it was the first time he was angry with me.

I am afraid now that he won't let me ever come and live with him. He hasn't said a word about my coming since the wedding bills were put up. As for the wedding, it has been put off, and Sue says she will go to New York to be married, for she would die if she were to have a wedding at home after that boy's dreadful conduct. What is worse, I am to be sent away to boarding-school, and all because I made a mistake in printing the wedding bills without first asking Sue how she would like to have them printed.


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'Twas borne along the mountain side,

It drifted through the glen ;
It died away among the hills,
Far from the haunts of men :

Come home-come home!

Her face was flushed with hues of health,

Her arms and feet were bare;
She had a lithe and active form,

A wealth of raven hair.
Beyond the hill she passed from sight,

As sinks a falling star,
Until her voice was faintly heard
Still calling from afar:

Come home-come home!

Soon o'er the distant knoll appeared

The cattle, red and brown,
And from the pasture to the lane

Came gayly trotting down ;
With sparkling eyes and cheeks aglow

Returned the maiden gay,
Who waved her arms and shouted low :
Whay-boss—whay-boss— whay!

Whay-boss—whay-boss !
Whay-boss—whay-boss !
O whay, whay!


Century Magazine.

SHE gazed upon the burnished brace

Of plump ruffed grouse he showed with pride; Angelic grief was in her face :

“How could you do it, dear ?" she sighed. "The poor, pathetic, moveless wings! The songs all hushed—oh, cruel shame !"

Said he, “ The partridge never sings."

Said she, “ The sin is quite the same.
"You men are savage through and through.

A boy is always bringing in
Some strings of bird's eggs white and blue,

Or butterfly upon a pin.
The angle-worm in anguish dies,

Impaled, the pretty trout to tease-
My own, we fish for trout with flies—

“Don't wander from the subject, please !" She quoted Burns's “Wounded Hare,"

And certain burning lines of Blake's, And Ruskin on the fowls of air,

And Coleridge on the water-snakes. At Emerson's “ Forbearance” he

Began to feel his will benumbed ; At Browning's "Donald " utterly

His soul surrendered and succumbed. “Oh, gentlest of all gentle girls,"

He thought,“ beneath the blessed sun !" He saw her lashes hung with pearls,

And vowed to give away his gun.

She smiled to find her point was gained,

And went, with happy parting words,
(He subsequently ascertained,)
To trim her hat with humming-birds.





AN and the pocket have advanced toward the

millennium side by side; and the former would never have become the civilized being that he is without the assistance of the latter. History itself (if you look closely into the matter) is but a record of the evolution of the human pocket. God made man; but man made the pocket; and it is his alter ego-his sine qua nonthe connecting link between the spiritual and the material worlds.







In order fully to realize the impressive fact that our pockets are in truth our other selves—and not our secondary selves either—we have only to picture to ourselves the kind of reception which an individual destitute of pockets, and of what goes into them, would meet with in any civilized community. He would be shunned, abandoned—an outcast-unsuccored, discountenanced, and discredited. Men are suspicious of even the most engaging stranger until they have (figuratively, of course) picked his pockets; and would look askance at their most familiar friend were he to turn up some morning out of pocket. For the pocket, more surely than the apparel, now proclaims the man. We become acquainted with one another through our pockets, we fall in love and are married with a view to our pockets, we go to war or accept arbitration at the instance of our pockets, and in deference to our pockets we murder, rob, lie, and accept political preferment. When a dead body is discovered, we look, in order to its identification, first in its pockets, and only afterward in its face; and that suicide must indeed despise life who, before committing the rash act, will empty his pockets. The pockets of a prisoner are searched as a sign that he is henceforth deposed from his position as a responsible human being. The test of our power over a man is the hold we have upon his pocket; and there are probably few slaves so abject as not to retain at least one small fob unrifled. It is a strange anomaly in the criminal code that pocketpicking, instead of murder, is not made the capital offense, since it is the pickpocket, and not the assassin, who injures us in our most vital part. He is the bane of our civilization ; he commits the unpardonable sin ; his hand is against every man's, and every man's against him. Perhaps the most appropriate and awful punishment for the pickpocket would be, not to hang him, but to cast him adrift upon the world, forever disqualified from wearing a pocket. Such a sentence, however, the sternest judge would hesitate to inflict; and the doomed wretch would pray for mercy and a halter !

As might be expected, from what has already been advanced, pockets are in many ways a subtle and trustworthy index of character. A thoughtful observer might profitably spend many hours of his day in the shop of a fashionable tailor, in the ostensible capacity, perhaps, of deputy-assistant tape-measurer, but really with

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