66

THE TWO STAMMERERS.

'N a small, quiet country town

IN

Lived Bob, a blunt but honest clown; Who, spite of all the school could teach, From habit stammer'd in his speech; And second nature, soon, we're sure, Confirm'd the case beyond a cure. It happen'd once upon a timeI word it thus to suit my rhyme; For all our country neighbors know It can't be twenty years ago— Our sturdy ploughman, apt to strike, Was busy delving at his dyke; Which, let me not forget to say, Stood close behind a public way: And, as he lean'd upon his spade Reviewing o'er the work he'd made, A youth, a stranger in that place,

Stood right before him, face to face. 'P-p-p-p-pray," says he,

"How f-f-f-f-far may't be

To-o," the words would not come out,

“To-o Borough-Bridge, or thereabout?”
Our clown took huff; thrice hemm'd upon,
Then smelt a kind of an affront.
Thought he " This bluff, foolhardy fellow,
A little crack'd, perhaps, or mellow,
Knowing my tongue an inch too short,
Is come to fleer and make his sport:
If me he means, or dares deride,

By all that's good, I'll tan his hide!"
Thus, full resolved, he stood aloof,
And waited mute, for farther proof.
While t'other, in a kind of pain,
Applied him to his tongue again—
"Speak, friend; c-c-c-c-can you, pray,
Sh-sh-sh-show me-on my-way?
Nay, sp-e-eak!—I'll smoke thy bacon!
You have a t-ongue, or I'm mistaken."
"Yes-that, th-that I-I-I have;

But not for y-y-you-you knave!" "What!" cried the stranger, "wh-wh-what! D'ye mock me? T-t-take you that!" "Hugh! you mock-me !" quoth Hob, amain, "So t-t-take you that again!"

Then to 't they fell, in furious plight,

While each one thought himself i' th' right;
And, if you dare believe my song,

They likewise thought each other wrong.
The battle o'er, and somewhat cool-
Each half suspects himself a fool;
For, when to choler folks incline 'em,
Your argumentum baculinum
Administer'd in dose terrific,

Was ever held a grand specific.

Each word the combatants now utter'd,

Conviction brought, that both dolts stutter'd;
And each assumed a look as stupid,

As, after combat, looks Dan Cupid :
Each scratch'd his silly head, and thought
He'd argue ere again he fought.
Hence I this moral shall deduce-

Would anger deign to sign a truce

Till reason could discover truly,
Why this mad Madam were unruly,
So well she would explain their words,
Men little use could find for swords.

BETTE

BETTER THINGS.

ETTER to smell the violet cool, than sip the glowing wine;

Better to hark a hidden brook, than watch a diamond

shine.

Better the love of a gentle heart, than beauty's favor proud;

Better the rose's living seed, than roses in a crowd.

Better to love in loneliness, than to bask in love all

day;

Better the fountain in the heart, than the fountain by

the way.

Better be fed by a mother's hand, than eat alone at

will;

Better to trust in God, than say: "My goods my storehouse fill."

Better to be a little wise, than in knowledge to abound; Better to teach a child, than toil to fill perfection's round.

Better to sit at a master's feet, than thrill a listening

State;

Better suspect that thou art proud, than be sure that thou art great.

Better to walk the real unseen, than watch the hour's

event;

Better the "Well done!" at the last, than the air with shouting rent.

Better to have a quiet grief, than a hurrying delight; Better the twilight of the dawn, than the noonday burning bright.

Better. a death when work is done, than earth's most favored birth;

Better a child in God's great house, than the king of all the earth.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

G

ON THE STAIRWAY.

IRLIE on the stairway, mother up above,

Girlie's eyes and mother's full of tender love;

Girlie's little fingers throw a hurrying kiss

Right to mother, loving, fearing not to miss.

Mother throws one downward to her golden-hair, Girlie cries: "They're meeting, mother, meeting in the air."

By and by the girlie stands all, all alone,
Looking sadly upward for the mother, gone
Up the heavenly stairway, girlie standing here
Knows the mother surely, surely must be near.
If she throws her kisses up the golden-stair
Will they meet the mother's half-way in the air?

MOTHER AND POET.

LAURA SAVIO, OF TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA,

DEAD!

1861.

EAD! One of them shot by the sea in the east,
And one
of them shot in the west by the sea.
Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast,
And are wanting a great song for Italy free,
Let none look at me!

Yet I was a poetess only last year,

And good at my art, for a woman, men said;
But this woman, this, who is agonized here,

The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head
Forever, instead.

What art's for a woman? To hold on her knees
Both darlings, to feel all their arms round her throat
Cling, strangle a little; to sew by degrees

And broider the long clothes and neat little coat;
To dream and to doat!

To teach them-It stings there! I made them, indeed,
Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no

doubt,

That a country's a thing men should die for at need.
I prated of liberty, rights, and about

The tyrant cast out.

And, when their eyes flash'd,-O, my beautiful eyes! I exuited; nay, let them go forth at the wheels

Of the guns and denied not. When one sits quite alone! kneels!

But then the surprise

Then one weeps,

God, how the house feels!

then one