entered the house, who vouched to the postmaster that he might give Andy the Squire's letters. "Have you one for me?" 66 Yes, sir," said the postmaster, producing one-"fourpence." The gentleman paid his fourpence and left the shop with his letter. "Here is a letter for the Squire," said the postmaster. “You 've to pay me elevenpence postage." "What 'ud I pay you elevenpence for?" "For postage. "To the devil wid you! Didn't I see you give Mr. Durfy a letter for fourpence this minit, and a bigger letther than this? Do you want me to pay elevenpence for this scrap of a thing? Do you think I'm a fool?" "No, but I'm sure of it," said the postmaster. "Well, you're welcome, to be sure, sir; but don't be delayin' me now; here's fourpence for you, and gi' me the letther." "Go along, you stupid thief!" said the postmaster, taking up the letter, and going to serve a customer with a mouse-trap. While this person and many others were served, Andy lounged up and down the shop, every now and then putting in his head in the middle of the customers, and saying, "Will you gi' me the letther?" He waited for above half an hour, in defiance of the anathemas of the postmaster, and at last left, when he found it impossible to get common justice for his master, which he thought he deserved as well as another man; for, under this impression, Andy determined to give no more than the fourpence. The Squire in the meanwhile was getting impatient for his return, and when Andy made his appearance, asked if there was a letter for him. "There is, sir," said Andy. "Then give it to me." "I haven't it, sir." "What do you mean?" "He wouldn't give it to me, sir." "Who wouldn't give it to you?" "That owld chate beyant in the town-wanting to charge double for it." 66 Maybe it's a double letter. Why the devil didn't you pay what he asked, sir?" "Arrah, sir, why should I let you be chated? It's not a double letther at all; not above half the size o' the one Mr. Durfy got before my face for fourpence." "You'll provoke me to break your neck some day, you vagabond! Ride back for your life, you omadhaun; and pay whatever he asks, and get me the letter." "Why, sir, I tell you he was selling them before my face. for fourpence apiece." "Go back, you scoundrel, or I'll horsewhip you; and if you're longer than an hour, I'll have you ducked in the horsepond." Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. When he arrived, two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was selecting the epistles for each from a large parcel that lay before him on the counter; at the same time many shop customers were waiting to be served. "I've come for that letther," said Andy. "I'll attend to you by and by." "The masther's in a hurry." "Let him wait till his hurry's over." "He'll murther me if I'm not back soon." "I'm glad to hear it." While the postmaster went on with such provoking answers to these appeals for dispatch, Andy's eyes caught the heap of letters which lay on the counter; so while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going forward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters from the heap, and having effected that, waited patiently enough till it was the great man's pleasure to give him the missive directed to his master. Then did Andy bestride his hack, and, in triumph at his trick on the postmaster, rattled along the road homeward as fast as the beast could carry him. He came into the Squire's presence, his face beaming with delight, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner, quite unaccountable to his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had been grabbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket; and holding three letters over his head, while he said, "Look at that!" he next slapped them down under his broad fist on the table before the Squire, saying: "Well, if he did make me pay elevenpence, by gor, I brought your honor the worth o' your money anyhow!" RORY O'MORE. YOUNG Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn,— "With your tricks, I don't know, in troth, what I'm about; And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? "Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, Sure I dream every night that I'm hating you so!" And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie! “Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've tazed me enough; Sure I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Tim Duff; And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck; And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light, And he kissed her sweet lips - don't you think he was right? "Now, Rory, leave off, sir-you'll hug me no more; That's eight times to-day that you've kissed me before." "Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure! For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. THE ANGELS' WHISPER. A BABY was sleeping, Its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; Round the fisherman's dwelling; And she cried, "Dermot, darling, O come back to me!" Her beads while she numbered, The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee: "O, blessed be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. "And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, O pray to them softly, my baby, with me! They'd watch o'er thy father; For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning. And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; Her child with a blessing, Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee." JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, an eminent American poet, essayist, scholar, and diplomatist, born at Cambridge, Mass., Feb. 22, 1819; died there, Aug. 12, 1891. He was graduated at Harvard in 1838, and at the Law School in 1840, but abandoned law for literature, publishing "A Year's Life" (1841), and beginning a short-lived monthly, "The Pioneer" (1843). He put forth a volume of "Poems" in 1844; "The Vision of Sir Launfal" in 1845; "Conversations on Some of the Old Poets" in 1845, and more "Poems" in 1848. His reputation as a humorist and satirist was established by The Biglow Papers and "A Fable for Critics" (1848). Mr. Lowell traveled in Europe in 1851-1852, lectured before the Lowell Institute at Boston, 1854-1856, on the British Poets; and in 1855 succeeded Longfellow as Professor of Modern Languages and Belles-Lettres at Harvard. He edited the Atlantic Monthly from its start to 1862, and the North American Review from 18631872, contributing largely to both. The Civil War called out much of his finest verse, including the magnificent "Commemoration Ode," recited at Harvard, July 21, 1865, and the second series of The Biglow Papers, collected in 1867. Editions of his poems had appeared in 1854 and 1858; to these were added "Under the Willows," etc. (1869); "The Cathedral" (1869); and "Heartsease and Rue" (1888). His principal prose works are "Fireside Travels" (1864); "Among My Books" (1870-1876); "My Study Windows" (1870); "Democracy and Other Addresses" (1887); "American Ideas for English Readers" and "Latest Literary Essays" published 1893; and "Letters" (1894), edited by C. E. Norton. While abroad in 1872-1874 he was honored with degrees by the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. He was sent as United States Minister to Spain in 1877, and transferred to England in 1880, where he remained till 1885. He was elected Lord Rector of St. Andrews University, Glasgow, in 1884. He was very popular in England, personally, and as a writer, and a window to his memory was placed in the vestibule to the chapter house of Westminster Abbey in November of 1893, the address on the occasion of the unveiling being delivered by Leslie Stephen. |