I' 5. I saw them straddling through the âir, I saw them chase the clouds, as if "Fârewell, farewell," I faintly cried, 66 My breeches! O my breeches !" 6. That night I saw them in my dreams How changed from what I knew them! Where demon claws had tōrn them; 7. I have had many happy years, But those young pantaloons have gone And not till fate has cut the låst Of all my earthly stitches, This aching heart shall cease to mourn My loved, my long-lost breeches! III. 39. SPRING CLOTHING.? HOLMES.1 F there's any thing in the world I hate—and you know it— it is, asking you for money. I am sure, for myself, I'd rather go without a thing a thousand times—and I do, the more shame you to let me. for 2. What do I want now? 1 Oliver Wendell Holmes, an American physician and poet, was born at Cambridge, Mass., Aug. 29, 1809. He is professor in the Medical College of Harvard University. His poems are remarkably popular. As As if you didn't know! I'm sure, a writer of songs and lyrics, he stands in the first rank. He is also a popular lecturer and prose writer. 2 Curtain Lecture of Mrs. Caudle. This is a fine exercise in, Personation (see p. 48). if I'd any money of my own, I'd never åsk you for a farthingnever! It's painful to me, gracious knows! 3. What do you say? If it's painful, why so often do it? I suppose you call that a joke-one of your club jokes! As I say, I only wish I'd any money of my own. If there is any thing that humbles a poor woman, it is coming to a man's pocket for every farthing. It's dreadful! 4. Now, Caudle, you shall hear me, for it isn't often I speak. Pray, do you know what month it is? And did you see how the children looked at church to-day-like nobody else's children? What was the matter with them? Oh, Caudle! how can you ask? Weren't they all in their thick merïnoes1 and beaver bonnets? 5. What do you say? What of it? What! You'll tell me that you didn't see how the Briggs girls, in their new chips, tûrned their noses up at 'em? And you didn't see how the Browns looked at the Smiths, and then at our poor girls, as much as to say, "Poor creatures! what figures for the first of May!" 6. You didn't see it? The more shame for you? I'm sure, those Briggs girls-the little minxes!-put me into such a pucker, I could have pulled their ears for 'em over the pew. 7. What do you say? I ought to be ashamed to own it? Now, Caudle, it's no use talking; those children shall not cross over the threshold 2 next Sunday, if they haven't things for the summer. Now mind-they sha'n't; and there's an end of it! 3 8. I'm always wanting money for clothes? How can you say that? I'm sure there are no children in the world that cost their father so little; but that's it-the less a poor woman does upon, the less she may. 9. Now, Caudle, dear! What a man you are! I know you'll give me the money, because, after all, I think you love your children, and like to see 'em well dressed. It's only natural that a father should. How much money do I want? Let me see, love. There's Caroline, and Jane, and Susan, and Mary Anne, and- What do you say? I needn't count 'em! You know how many there are! That's just the way you take me up! 10. Well, how much money will it take? Let me see-I'll tell you in a minute. You always love to see the dear things 2 Thresh'ōld, the door-sill; door. * Sha'n't (shånt), Note 3, p. 18. 1 Merino (me rēʼno), a thin cloth, of merïno wool, for ladies' wear. like new pins. I know that, Caudle; and, though I say itbless their little hearts !-they do credit to you, Caudle. 11. How much? Now, don't be in a hurry! Well, I think, with good pinching-and you know, Caudle, there's never a wife who can pinch closer than I can-I think, with pinching, I can do with twenty pounds. 12. What did you say? Twenty fiddlesticks? What? You won't give half the money? Very well, Mr. Caudle; I don't câre; let the children go in rags; let them stop from chûrch, and grow up like heathens and cannibals; and then you'll save your money, and, I suppose, be satisfied. 13. What do you say? Ten pounds enough? Yes, just like you men; you think things cost nothing for women; but you don't care how much you lay out upon yourselves. 14. They only want frocks and bonnets? How do you know what they want? How should a man know anything at all about it? And you won't give mōre than ten pounds? Věry well! Then you may go shopping with it yourself, and see what you'll make of it! I'll have none of your ten pounds, I can tell you-no, sir! 15. No; you've no cause to say that. I don't want to dress the children up like countesses. You often throw that in my teeth, you do; but you know it's false, Caudle; you know it! I only wish to give 'em proper notions of themselves; and what, indeed, can the poor things think, when they see the Briggses, the Browns, and the Smiths-and their fäthers don't make the money you do, Caudle-when they see them as fine as tulips? Why, they must think themselves nobody. However, the twenty pounds I will have, if I've any-or not a farthing! 16. No, sĩr; no-I don't want to dress up the children like peacocks and parrots! I only want to make 'em respectable. What do you say? You'll give me fifteen pounds? No, Caudle, no; not a penny will I take under twenty. If I did, it would seem as if I wanted to waste your money; and I'm sure, when I come to think of it, twenty pounds will hardly do! JERROLD.2 1 Wōn't, will, or wōll, not. Douglas Jerrold, an English author and humorist, was born in London, Jan. 3, 1803. He wrote nu merous successful plays for the theaters, and many striking and original pieces for magazines. He died, from disease of the heart, June 8, 1857. TH SECTION XII. I. 40. THE PRISONER'S FLOWER. HE Count,1 who is in prison for a political cause, and is not allowed books or paper to beguile his solitude, has found one little green plant growing up between the paving-stones of the prison-yard in which he is allowed to walk. He watches it from day to day, marks the opening of the leaves and buds, and soon loves it as a friend. In dread lest the jailer, who seems a rough man, should crush it with his foot, he resolves to ask him to be careful of it; and this is the conversation they have ou the subject: 2. "As to your gil'lyflower"—"Is it a gillyflower ?" åsked the Count. "Upon my word," said the jailer, "I know nothing about it, Sir Count; all flowers are gillyflowers to me. But as you mention the subject, I must tell you, you are rather late in recommending it to my mercy. I should have trodden upon it long ǎgō, without any ill-will to you or to it, had I not remarked the tender interèst you take in it, the little beauty!"-"Oh, my interest," said the Count, "is nothing out of the common." 3. "Oh! it's all very well; I know all about it,” replied the jailer, trying to wink with a knowing look; "a man must have occupation-he must take to something-and poor prisoners have not much choice. You see, Sir Count, we have amongst our inmates men who doubtless were formerly important people; men who had brains-for it is not small-fry that they bring here: well, now, they occupy and amuse themselves at věry little cost, I assure you. One cătches flies-there's no harm in that; another carves figures on his deal-table, without remembering that I am responsible for the furniture of the place." 4. The Count would have spoken, but he went on. breed canaries and goldfinches, others little white mice. For my part, I respect their tastes to such a point, that I am happy 1 Count, a nobleman on the continent of Europe, equal in rank to an English earl, "Some 2 Gil'ly flow'er, a flowering plant, called also purple gillyflower, culti vated for ornament. to gratify them. I had a beautiful large Angōrå1 cat with long white fûr. He would leap and gambol in the prettiest way in the world, and when he rolled himself up to go to sleep, you would have said it was a sleeping muff. My wife made a great pet of him, so did I. Well, I gave him away, for the birds and mice might have tempted him, and all the cats in the world are not worth a poor prisoner's mouse." 5. "That was very kind of you, Mr. Jailer," replied the Count, feeling uneasy that he should be thought capable of caring for such trifles; "but this plant is for me more than an ămūsemènt."-"Never mind, if it only recalls the green boughs under which your mother nûrsed you in your infancy, it may overshadow hälf the court. Beside, my orders say nothing about it, so I shall be blind on that side. If it should grow to a tree, and be capable of assisting you in scaling the wall, that would be quite another thing. But we have time enough to think of that; have we not?" added he with a loud läugh. "Oh, if you tried to escape from the fortress!" 6. "What would you do?"-"What would I do! I would stop you, though you might kill me; or I would have you fired at by the sentinel, with as little pity as if you were a rabbit! That is the order. But touch a leaf of your gillyflower! no, no; or put my foot on it, never! I always thought that man a perfect rascal, unworthy to be a jailer, who wickedly crushed the spider of a poor prisoner; that was a wicked action—it was a crime !" 7. The Count was touched and surprised. "My dear jailer," said he, "I thank you for your kindnèss. Yes, I confess it, this plant is to me a source of much în'teresting study." 8. “Well, then, Sir Count, if your plant has done you such good service," said the jailer, preparing to leave the cell, "you ought to be more grateful, and water it sometimes; for if I had not taken câre, when bringing you your allowance of water, to moisten it from time to time, the poor little flower would have died of thirst." 9. "One moment, my good 1 Angora (an go'ra), a town of Asiatic Turkey, situated in the midst of a rich and elevated plain. The friend," cried the Count, more Angora cats are much larger than ours, with beards like the lynx. They are common in Paris. |