HUNCHBACK JIM.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces-

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me: all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

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HUNCHBACK JIM.

WHEN all things seem quite against me, and I deem my life a

curse;

When, for fancied wrongs or real, thoughts of discontent I nurse;
Then I turn with softer feelings to a memory far and dim,
And again, through mist and shadow, stands before me Hunch-
back Jim.

Pale and ghostly, weak and ailing, never feeling free from pain, Oh! how bitter were his sufferings, yet who heard him e'er com

plain?

Though his sorrows grew around him, he was meek and patient still,

Ever gentle in his troubles and resigned to Heaven's will.

I could understand his trials, for he was my friend and mate,
And we worked for years together, coming early, going late;
And he often would, whilst toiling, pause in pain to gasp for

breath,

Whilst his hands grew hot and fevered, and his face as pale as death.

And when I turned round to hold him, and to cool his burning

brow,

"Thank you, Jack," he'd smile and murmur, "thank you, Jack, I'm better now; "

And while he still was speaking, he would stagger, fall, and faintOh! what agony of suffering-yet not one word of complaint,

He went working on in sickness, when he should have been in

bed,

But he had a feeble mother who looked up to him for bread,

And so on and on with patience, looking forward to the day

Which should make an end to sorrow with the broken mould of clay.

Fate condemned him to a city, far from pleasant grove and rill; But he nursed, with mother's worship, flowers on his window-sill; And he held each morn communion, in a language strangely

sweet,

With the little birds that fluttered, picking crumbs upon the

street.

He had never known the music of a wife's soft loving tone,
Nor the clasp of baby-fingers he could fondly call his own;
But the children all around us used to gladly run to him,

For they knew the loving-kindness of poor childless Hunchback
Jim.

But at length there came the morning when I missed him at his

place;

On the bench his tools lay listless, mourning for the wonted face;
Shadowed by a dark foreboding, drearily the daylight passed,
Till uneasy, fearing, doubting, I could go to him at last.

There he lay his check grown hollow-on his narrow little bed, And my footsteps broke the stillness with a solemn ghostly tread:

Yet he sweetly smiled upon me, and he tried to rise and speak, But his tongue could give no utterance, and he fell back faint and

weak.

Through the night the lamp burnt dimly, flick'ring with the throes of death,

And I sat and grieved, and watched him, in the dull smoke of my

breath;

When his voice the silence startled: "It's a smiling land," he said, "And she's coming! Yes, she's coming! Jack, it's Freedom

she's ahead!"

GOING AWAY.

Sure, no purer life did Heaven ever summon unto rest;

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Patience, faith, and sweet contentment dwelt within that gentle

breast;

Soaring happy with the angels, do I love to think of him,

And I always feel the better for my thoughts of Hunchback Jim.

GOING AWAY.

THOMAS FROST.

So you've come here to ask me for Susie-don't stand there a-hangin' your head;

Leave the shame, for them chaps as goes courtin' and ne'er has a penny to wed.

You've an eye on the duties of life, John; you're earnest, Godfearin' and true,

And I can't say as Susie's been foolish in givin' her heart up to

you.

Since harvest I've knowd what was comin'; I'm gray, but my eyesight is fair,

And I've seen quite a bit of your actin', at times when you least was aware;

I have seen how she'd blush at your footstep, like her mother at

mine, long ago,

When the whole world of hope lay afore me-my world, that's now buried in snow.

And I'd made up my mind, John, to tell you, as I've no objections

to bring,

For the Book says it's nat'ral for children to leave the old home and to cling

To the new ties as crops up around 'em-it's a draught we must all swaller down;

So I wish you good luck. Yes, I'm hoarse, boy; caught cold driving in from the town.

Shut the door-bring that cheer to the chimley-the storm's pretty heavy to-night;

I was thinkin' just now of a Christmas when the snow lay as heavy and white

On the fields and the pond and the bushes-over all 'cept one solit'ry spot

Where the sexton had worked since the daylight-our family burial plot.

'Twas a poor kind of Christmas for me, boy, I came from the church-yard that day

With a heart just as dead as that dear one we'd left 'neath the cover of clay;

And I hoped and I prayed that the Master would soon break my life's heavy chain,

And open the gateway of heaven, and give me my loved one again.

That evenin' we sat, me and Susie, and whispered of her we had lost, While the firelight got lower and lower, and the snow on the winders was tossed,

And the wind, that seemed full of our trouble, moaned over the desolate farm,

Until well, worn out with my sorrow-I dropped off, her head on my arm.

When I woke it was daylight and clearin', and Susie was singin'

so gay

The song of the "Old Oaken Bucket," that mother would hum all

the day;

The kitchen was cozy and tidy-the teapot a puffin' like mad; The shells all peeled off o' my eggs, too-an old-fashioned way mother had.

And, bless her, she wore mother's apron; to this day, though, she ha'n't no idea

That I saw her a-usin' that apron to wipe off a poor little tear.
As she stood in the light of that winder every line of her face and

her hair

Was a joy of the past acted over 'twas her mother, not Susie, stood there!

THE SNOW STORM.

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Her mother, when I was like you, John, the wide world around

me in bloom,

Then I knew that while I had been sleepin' her soul had come into this room

With a message from God to our Susie-a plan to relieve all my pain; For my heart could not break with its sorrow while I lived my life over again.

She has growed more and more like her mother, in face and in voice and in ways,

A sweet bit o' gladness and sunshine from out of my happiest days. I have watched her like misers their treasure; but to His holy will I must bow,

And-bless me, what's this? I am faint, John-I've not felt my loss until now!

So you've come here to ask me for Susie; well, boy, you're Godfearin' and true,

And I can't say she's been over hasty in givin' her heart up to you. It is hard, but the Book says it's nat'ral, so I'll try to live selfishness down;

Dear me; why, how hoarse I'm gettin'-caught cold drivin' in from the town!

THE SNOW STORM.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow; and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fire-place, inclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come, see the north wind's masonry!
Out of an unseen quarry, evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer

Curves his white bastions with projected roof