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A SMALL brisk woman, capped with many a
"Yes," so she says, "and younger, too, than
Who bids me, bustling, "God speed," when I go, And gives me, rustling, "Welcome," when I
"Ay, sir, 'tis cold,-and freezing hard, they say ;
A musky haunt of lavender and shells, Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and trays
A life's collection-where each object tells
Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways:
A glossy screen, where wide-mouth dragons ramp;
A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set;
With yellow writing faded underneath.
Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair,
"Where is he?" "Ah, sir, he is dead-my boy!
Nigh ten long years ago-in 'sixty-three;
"There were two souls washed overboard, they said,
And one the waves brought back; but he was
They saw him place the life-buoy o'er his head; The sea was running wildly;-he was left.
"He was a strong, strong swimmer.
When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried, And prayed to God,-though 'twas so long
He did not struggle much before he died.
"'Twas his third voyage. That's the box he brought,
Or would have brought-my poor deserted boy! And these the words the agents sent they thought
That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy.
"Look, sir, I've something here that I prize more : This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat,That other clutched him as the wave went o'er, And this stayed in his hand. That's what they wrote.
"Well, well, 'tis done. My story's shocking
Grief is for them that have both time and
We can't mourn much, who have much work
to do ;
Your fire is bright. Thank God, I have my health!"
BEFORE THE CURTAIN
"MISS PEACOCK's called.”
Not I who write, for certain;
That some such face as fresh as hers
And yet, most strange to say, I find
The pleased young premier led her on,
Where is "Sir Lumley Leycester, Bart."?
BEFORE THE CURTAIN
Where is the cool Detective,-he
The men who worked the cataract?
Think what a crowd whom none recall,
Women for whom no bouquets fall,
Ah, Reader, ere you turn the page,
I leave you this for Moral:-