his name, and that made matters worse. It was not until he had roused up everybody around, broken in the basement door with an axe, gotten into the kitchen with his cursed savage dogs and shooting-iron, and seized me by the collar, that he recognized me, and then he wanted me to explain it! But what kind of an explanation could I make to him? I told him he would have to wait until my mind was composed, and then I would let him understand the matter fully. But he never would have had the particulars from me, for I do not approve of neighbors that shoot at you, break in your door, and treat you in your own house as if you were a jailbird. He knows all about it, however, somebody has told him-somebody tells everybody every thing in our village. OME one has gone from this strange world of ours, No more to gather its thorns with its flowers; No more to linger where sunbeams must fade, Where on all beauty death's fingers are laid; Weary with mingling life's bitter and sweet, Weary with parting and never to meet, Some one has gone to the bright golden shore; Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door! Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door! Some one is resting from sorrow and sin, Happy where earth's conflicts enter not in, Joyous as birds when the morning is bright, When the sweet sunbeams have brought us their light. Weary with sowing and never to reap, Weary with labor, and welcoming sleep, Some one's departed to heaven's bright shore; Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door! Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door! Angels were anxiously longing to meet One who walks with them in heaven's bright street; Loved ones have whispered that some one is blest, Free from earth's trials and taking sweet rest. THE WHISTLE. 283 "Oh! men with sisters dear! Oh! men with mothers and wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A SHROUD as well as a shirt! "But why do I talk of death, I hardly fear his terrible shape, Because of the fast I keep: O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap! Work-work-work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw. A shatter'd roof-and this naked floor- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "Work-work-work! As prisoners work for crime! Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand! Work-work-work! In the dull December light; And work-work-work! When the weather is warm and bright: While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, And twit me with the Spring. "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet; With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet: For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, A respite, however brief! A little weeping would ease my heart- My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders the needle and thread!" With eyelids heavy and red, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; A "Yet once more would I blow, and the music divine Would bring me the third time an exquisite bliss: You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine, And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss." The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee, "What a fool of yourself with your whistle For only consider, how silly 't would be, A SUFI SAINT TRANSLATED FROM THE PERSIAN BY WM. R. ALGER. T heaven approached a Sufi Saint, Besought admission at God's gate. Said God, Who seeks to enter here?" "'Tis I, dear Friend," the Saint replied, And trembling much with hope and fear. "If it be thou, without abide." Sadly to earth the poor Saint turned, But aye his heart within him yearned To mix and lose its love in God's. He roamed alone through weary years, By cruel men still scorned and mocked, Until from faith's pure fires and tears Again he rose, and modest knocked. Asked God, "Who now is at the door?" RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. WASHINGTON IRVING. N rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of external influences. The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders of rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest heartfelt enjoyments of common life. Indeed the very amusements of the country THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 285 bring men more and more together, and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in England than they are in any other country; and why the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life; those incomparable descriptions of nature which abound in the British poets, that have continued down from "The Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms; but the British poets have revelled with her-they have wooed her in her most secret hauntsthey have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze-a leaf could not rustle to the ground-a diamond drop could not patter in the stream-a fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. ELIZA COOK. LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare | I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs. chair? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, Not a tie will break, not a link will start; 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; |