4.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltered village green,

On a hill's northern side she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt.

5.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage;

But she, poor woman! housed alone.
'Twas well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the canty dame
Would sit, as any linnet gay.

6.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,

Oh, then how her old bones would shake! You would have said, if you had met her, 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. Her evenings then were dull and dead: Sad case it was, as you may think, very cold to go to bed,

For

And then for cold not sleep a wink.

7.

O joy for her! whene'er in winter

The winds at night had made a rout; And scattered many a lusty splinter,

And many a rotten bough about.

Yet never had she, well or sick,

As every man who knew her says, A pile beforehand, turf or stick, Enough to warm her for three days.

8.

Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could any thing be more alluring

Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
And now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,

She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

9.

Now Harry he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake;
And vowed that she should be detected-
That he on her would vengeance take;
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,

And to the fields his road would take; And there, at night, in frost and snow, He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

10.

And once behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand:
The moon was full and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
He hears a noise-he's all awake-
Again?-on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps-'tis Goody Blake;
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill !

11.

Right glad was he when he beheld her ;
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,

Till she had filled her apron

full.
When with her load she turned about,
The by-way back again to take :
He started forward with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

12.

And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast,
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,

And cried: 'I've caught you then at last!'
Then Goody, who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall,
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed
To God that is the Judge of all.

13.

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,

While Harry held her by the arm

God, Who art never out of hearing,

0 may he never more be warm!' The cold, cold moon above her head,

Thus on her knees did Goody pray ; Young Harry heard what she had said, And icy cold he turned away.

14.

He went complaining all the morrow
That he was cold and very chill:
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas! that day for Harry Gill!

A

THE WOLF ON HIS DEATHBED.

That day he wore a riding-coat,

But not a whit the warmer he:
Another was on Thursday bought;
And ere the Sabbath he had three.

15.

'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,

And blankets were about him pinned;
Yet still his jaws and teeth they chatter,
Like a loose casement in the wind.

And Harry's flesh it fell away;

And all who see him say 'tis plain,

No word to any man he utters,

Abed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters :
'Poor Harry Gill is very cold!'
Abed or up, by night or day,

His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,

Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!

227

THE WOLF ON HIS DEATHBED.

A wolf lay in the struggle of death, and cast an inquiring glance over his past life. Certainly I am a sinner,' said he; 'but I hope not one of the worst kind. I have indeed done some evil deeds, but also a great deal of good. Once, I remember, a bleating lamb that had strayed from the flock, came so close to me that I could

At

easily have killed it, and still I did it no harm. this very time, I listened to the abuse and mockery of a sheep with the most admirable indifference, although I had no need to dread protecting dogs.' 'And I can bear witness to all that,' interrupted his friend, the fox, who was helping to prepare him for death. 'I remember every circumstance connected with it. It was at the very time when you were so choked with the bone that the good-natured crane afterwards pulled out of your throat.'

THE SHEPHERD AND THE PRINCE.

Not far from Germany lies Switzerland, a small country, but well known in the history of nations. High are the hills there, and they seem to wish to conceal the eternal spring of Italy from the rest of Europe. But, notwithstanding this threatening look, and in spite of the cover of snow which, year after year, clothes them in a wintry dress, there are delightful valleys in their bosom, that give you an idea of the glories beyond. In one of these hidden valleys there stood, in olden times, an ancient castle on rocky ground, near to a lake. Green meadows and hills were all around, shady woods and sunny Alps far and near-only the old castle looked gloomily and sadly into the green mirror of the lake; and when the wanderer had rejoiced his eye by the gay flowers of the field and the silvery light of the playing waves, and his glance wandered from the little paradise to the gloomy castle, he felt timid and uncomfortable at heart.

A shepherd-boy, who belonged to the neighbouring