she was a ravin'-distracted after my husband herself, but it's a long story, I'll tell you about it some other time, and then you'll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin' me down. See, where had I got to? Oh, I remember now, Whiskey and rum he tasted not, He thought it was a sin, I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott But now he's dead! the thought is killin', My grief I can't control He never left a single shillin' His widder to console. But that wa'n't his fault-he was so out o' health for a number o' year afore he died, it ain't to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin'-however, it dident give him no great oneasiness,--he never cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back, -begrudged folks their vittals when they came to his house! did you ever! way, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born days. If I'd such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I'd hold my tongue about my neighbors' husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper,-used to swear like all possests when he got mad, -and I've heard my husband say, (and he wa'n't a man that ever said anything that wa'n't true),—I've heard him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! "His widder to console,"―ther ain't but one more verse, 'tain't a very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read. it, he says to me, says he," What did you stop so soon for?"-but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby's she thought I'd better a' stopt afore I'd begun,-she's a purty critter to talk so, I must say. I'd like to see some poitry o' hern, I guess it would be astonishin' stuff; and mor'n all that, she said there wa'n't a word o' truth in the hull on't, said I never cared tuppence for the deacon. What an everlastin' lie!! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell, they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal. But that's a painful subject, I won't dwell on't I conclude as follers: I'll never change my single lot,— I think 'twould be a sin, The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott Don't intend to get married agin. Excuse my cryin'-my feelin's always overcomes me so when I say that poitry-0-0-0-0-0-0 ! F. M. Whitcher. CAOCH THE PIPER. ONE winter's day, long, long ago, A piper wandered to our door, Gray-headed, blind, and yellow,— Poor "Pinch" and Caoch O'Leary. And when he stowed away his "bag," And Fineen Burke and Shane Magee, Rushed in, with panting haste to "see," Oh! God be with those happy times, Poor Caoch and "Pinch" slept well that night, And in the morning early, He called me up to hear him play, "The wind that shakes the barley." And then he stroked my flaxen hair, And seasons came and went, and still His gait was slow and weary, Old Caoch! but ah! how woe-begone! The colors on his thread-bare "bag", "God's blessing here," the wanderer cried, "Far, far, be hell's black viper; Does anybody hereabouts Remember Caoch the Piper?" With swelling heart I grasped his hand; The old man murmured "deary! Are you the silky-headed child, That lov'd poor Caoch O'Leary ?" "Yes, yes," I said--the wanderer wept he sobbed, I found here twenty years ago?"- *Son of my heart. "Vo, Vo, Vo!" the old man cried, And you shall keep my pipes and dog, With "Pinch," I watched his bed that night, And there he sleeps his last sweet sleep,— J. Keegan. OLD TIMES AND NEW. 'Twas in my easy chair at home, I sat and puffed my light-cigar, I mused upon the Pilgrim flock, In my mind's eye, I saw them leave Alone that noble handful stood While savage foes lurked nigh— Their creed and watchword, "Trust in God, And keep your powder dry." Imagination's pencil then That first stern winter painted, When more than half their number died, And stoutest spirits fainted. A tear unbidden filled one eye, My smoke had filled the other I knew I was alone-but lo! (Let him who dares, deride me ;) I looked, and drawing up a chair, Down sat a man beside me. His dress was ancient, and his air, And said, "I'm Richard Warren. "You'll find my name among the list His finger pointed to the grate, Dug from the earth," he shook his head"It is, upon my soul !" I then took up a bit of stick, One end as black as night, And rubbed it quick across the hearth, My guest drew back, uprolled his eyes, |