Puslapio vaizdai



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 ;
I'd like to give that hulking brute a hit-
Beating his horse in such a shameful way!—
Step here, sir, till your fire's blazed up a bit."

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 vexed inscription in a sampler-frame;
A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp;
A child's mug graven with a golden name;

A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set;
A card, with sea-weed twisted to a wreath,
Circling a silky curl as black as jet,

With yellow writing faded underneath.

Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair,
And note the objects slowly, one by one,
And light at last upon a portrait there,—
Wide-collared, raven-haired. "Yes, 'tis my


"Where is he?" "Ah, sir, he is dead-my boy!

Nigh ten long years ago-in 'sixty-three;
He's always living in my head-my boy!
He was left drowning in the Southern Sea.

"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.


Do you

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

you ;

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!"


"MISS PEACOCK's called.”


Not I who write, for certain;
If praise be due, one sure prefers

That some such face as fresh as hers
Should come before the curtain.

And yet, most strange to say, I find
(E'en bards are sometimes prosy)
Her presence here but brings to mind
That undistinguished crowd behind
For whom life's not so rosy.

The pleased young premier led her on,
But where are all the others?
Where is that nimble servant John?
And where's the comic Uncle gone?
And where that best of Mothers?

And who

Where is "Sir Lumley Leycester, Bart."?
And where the crafty Cousin ?—
That man may have a kindly heart,
And yet each night ('tis in the part)
Must poison half-a-dozen!


Where is the cool Detective,-he
Should surely be applauded?
The Lawyer, who refused the fee?—
The Wedding Guests (in number three)?—
Why are they all defrauded?

The men who worked the cataract?
The plush-clad carpet lifters ?—
Where is the countless host, in fact,
Whose cue is not to speak, but act,—
The "supers" and the shifters ?

Think what a crowd whom none recall,

Women for whom no bouquets fall,
And men whose names no galleries bawl,-
The Great un Benefit-ed!

Ah, Reader, ere you turn the page,


I leave you this for Moral:-
Remember those who tread Life's stage
With weary feet and scantest wage,
And ne'er a leaf for laurel!

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