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Princes you can bring out." I said this in a noble, lofty tone, but after a minute's thought I went on,

"Though if you have got a quantity of Princes here, I had as lives see one of Victory's boys, as any of 'em. The widder Albert is a good housekeeper, and a first-rate calculator, and a woman that has got a Right. I set a good deal of store by the widder Albert, I always thought I should like to get acquainted with her, and visit back and forth, and neighbor with her."

I waited a minute, but he didn't make no move towards showin' me any Prince. But, says he,

"What kind of calico do you want to look at ?"

I thought he come off awful sudden from Princes to calico, but I didn't say nothin'. But I told him “I would like to look at a chocklate colored ground work, with a set flower on it." "Shan't I show you a Dolly Varden ?" says he.

I see plainly that he was a tryin' to impose on me, talkin' about Princes and Dolly Varden, and says I with dignity, "If I want to make Miss Varden's acquaintance, I can without askin' you to introduce me."

His face was jest as red as blood. But he tried to turn it off with a laugh.

Says I, with a searchin' look, "Young man, if I was in your place, I would drop Dolly Varden's acquaintance." Says I, "I advise you for your own good, jest as I would Thomas Jefferson."

"Who is Thomas Jefferson?" says he.

Says I, in a cautious tone, "He is Josiah Allen's child by his first wife, and the own brother of Tirzah Ann."

I then laid my hand on a piece of chocklate ground calico, and says I, "This suits me pretty well, but I have my doubts," says I, examinin' it closer through my specs, "I mistrust it will fade some. What is your opinion?" says I, speakin' to a elegantly dressed woman by my side, who stood there with her rich silk dress a trailin' down on the floor. Says I,

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'Do you suppose this calico will wash, mom?”

I was so busy a rubbin' the calico to see if it was firm cloth, that I never looked up in her face at all. But when I asked her for the third time, and she didn't speak, I looked up in her face, and I haint come so near faintin' since I was united to Josiah Allen. That woman's head was off!

The clerk see that I was overcome by somethin', and says he, "What is the matter?"

I couldn't speak, but I pinted with my forefinger stiddy at that murdered woman. I guess I had pinted at her pretty nigh half a minute, when I found breath and says I, slowly turnin' that extended finger at him, in so burnin' indignant a way, that if it had been a spear, he would have hung dead on it,

"That is pretty doin's in a Christian country !”

His face turned red as blood agin, he was so mortified. And he murmured somethin' about her "bein' dumb," or "a dummy" or somethin'—but I interrupted him—and says I, "I guess you would be dumb yourself if your head was cut off." Says I, in awful sarcastic tones,

"It would be pretty apt to make any body dumb.”

Then he explained it to me. That it was a wooden figger, to hang their dresses and mantillys on. And I cooled down and told him I would take a yard and three-quarters of the calico, enough for a honorable apron.

Says he, "We don't sell by retail in this room."

I gave that clerk then a piece of my mind. I asked him how many aprons he supposed Tirzah Ann and I stood in need of? I asked him if he supposed we was entirely destitute of aprons? And I asked him in a awful sarcastic tone, if he had a idee that Josiah and Thomas Jefferson wore aprons,? Says I, "any body would think you did." Says I, turnin away awful dignified, " when I come agin I will come when Alexander is in the store himself."

I joined Betsey by the door, and says I, "Less go on to once."

"But," says she to me in a low mysterious voice: "Josiah Allen's wife, do you suppose they would want to let me have a straw colored silk dress, and take their pay in poetry?"

Says 1, "For the land's sake Betsey, don't try to sell any poetry here. I am wore out. If they won't take any socks and mittens, or good butter and eggs, I know they won't take poetry."

She argued a spell with me, but I stood firm, for I wouldn't let her demean herself for nothin'. And finally I got her to go on.

MAN'S MORTALITY.

The original of the following beautiful poem is found in an Irish MS. in Trinity College, Dublin. There is reason to think that the poem was written by one of those primitive Christian bards in the reign of King Diarmid, about the year 554, and was sung or chanted at the last grand national asserably of kings, chieftains, and bards, ever held in the famous Halls of Tara. To translation is by the learned Dr. O'Donnovan.

Like as the damask rose you see,
Or like a blossom on a tree,
Or like the dainty flower in May,
Or like the morning to the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had;
Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out and out, and so is done.

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,

The gourd consumes, the man-he dies.

Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearly dew in May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan;

Even such is nan, who lives by breath,
is here, now there, in life and death.

The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan's near death, man's life is done.

Like to the bubble in the brook,
Or in a glass much like a look,
Or like the shuttle in weaver's hand,
Or like the writing on the sand,
Or like a thought, or like a dream,
Or like the gliding of the stream;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.

The bubble's out, the look forgot,
The shuttle's flung, the writing 's blot,
The thought is past, the dream is gone,
The water's glide, man's life is done.

Like to an arrow from the bow,
Or like swift course of water flow,
Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb,
Or like the spider's tender web,

Or like a race, or like a goal,
Or like the dealing of a dole;
Even such is man, whose brittle state
Is always subject unto fate.

The arrow shot, the flood soon spent,
The time no time, the web soon rent,
The race soon run, the goal soon won,
The dole soon dealt, man's life soon done.

Like to the lightning from the sky,
Or like a post that quick doth hie,
Or like a quaver in a song,

Or like a journey three days long,
Or like snow when summer's come,
Or like the pear, or like the plum;
Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow,
Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow.

The lightning's past, the post must go,
The song is short, the journey so,
The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall,
The snow dissolves, and so must all.

RESPECT THE BURDEN.-MISS MULOCK.

Great Garibaldi, through the streets one day,
Passing triumphant, while admiring throngs,
With acclamations and exultant songs,
For the uncrowned kingly man made way-
Met one poor knave 'neath burden bowed,
Indifferent to the hero and the crowd.

"

His zealous followers would have driven aside
The sorry creature, but that good man said,
Stretching a kind hand o'er the suffering head,
Respect the burden." Then, majestic-eyed,

He paused, and passed on, no one saying him nay;
The heavy laden also went his way.

Thou happy soul, who travelest like a king

Along the rose-strewn pathway of thy lot,

Respect the burden. Thou may'st see it or not,

For one heart is to another a sealed thing,
Laughter there is that hideth sobs or moans;
Firm footsteps can leave blood prints on the stones.

Respect the burden, whatsoe'er it be ;

Whether loud ontcries vex the startled air,
Or in dumb agony of loss, despair

Lifts her still face, so like tranquillity

Though each strained heartstring quivers, never shrinks,— "Let this cup pass from me!" then stoops and drinks.

Oh, heavy burden! Why 'tis borne and how

None know save those who bear; and Him whose hand Has laid it on the shoulder and said, "Stand Stand upright! Take this chrism upon thy brow, My own anointed! Sore thy load may be; But know-beneath it thou art carrying Me."

THE MISSING SHIP.-JOHN B. GOUGH.

It was long before the cable stretched across the ocean, when the steamers did not make such rapid runs from continent to continent, that the ship Atlantic was missing. She had been due in New York for some days, and the people began to despair. "The Atlantic has not been heard from yet!" "What news from the Atlantic on Exchange?"

"None." Telegraph dispatches came in from all quarters. "Any news from the Atlantic?" And the word thrilled along the wires to the hearts of those who had no friends on board. "No."

Day after day passed, and people began to be excited when the booming of the guns told that a ship was coming up the Narrows. People went out upon the Battery and Castle Garden with their spy-glasses; but it was a British ship, the Union Jack was flying; they watched her come to her moorings and their hearts sank within them.

"Any news from the Atlantic?"

"Has not the Atlantic arrived ?"

"No!"

"She sailed fifteen days before we did, and we have heard nothing from her." and the people said, "there is no use hoping against hope, she has gone, like the President. She has made her last port."

Day after day passed, and those who had friends on board began to make up their mourning.

Day after day passed, and the captain's wife was so ill that the doctor said she would die, if suspense were not removed. Day after day passed, and men looked at one another and said, "Ah, it is a sad thing about the Atlantic!"

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