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Seth, we'll have a little warm Santa Cruz,” said the Green Mountain grocer, as he opened the stove door, and stuffed in as many sticks as the space would admit.
“Without it, you'd freeze going home such a night
Seth felt very uncertain; he had the butter, and was exceedingly anxious to be off, but the temptation of something warm” sadly interfered with his resolution
This hesitation, however, was soon settled by the right owner of the butter taking Seth by the shoulders, and planting him in a seat close to the stove, where he was in such a manner cornered in by barrels and boxes that, while the country grocer sat before him, there was no possibility of his getting out, and right in this very place, sure enough, the storekeeper sat down.
Seth already felt the butter settling down closer to his hair, and he declared he must go.
“Not till you have something warm, Seth: come, I've got a story to tell you, Seth ; sit down now;" and Seth was again pushed into his seat by his cunning tormentor.
“Oh! it's too hot here," said the petty thief, again attempting to rise.
“I say, Seth, sit down; I reckon now, on such a night as this, a little something warm wouldn't hurt a fellow; come, sit down.
“Sit down-don't be in such a plaguey hurry," repeated the grocer, pushing him back in his chair.
“But I've got the cows to fodder, and some wood to split, and I must be a-goin,” continued the persecuted chap. “But you mustn't tear yourself away, Seth, in this
Sit down; let the cows take care of themselves, and keep yourself cool; you appear to be fidgetty," said the roguish grocer, with a wicked leer.
The next thing was the production of two smoking glasses of hot rum toddy, the very sight of which in
Seth's present situation would have made the hair erect upon his head, had it not been oiled and kept down by the butter.
Seth, I'll give you a toast now, and you can butter it yourself,” said the grocer, yet with an air of such consummate simplicity, that poor Seth still believed himself unsuspected.
. “Seth, here's—here's a Christmas goose, well roasted and basted, eh? I tell you, Seth, it's the greatest eating in creation. And, Seth, don't you use hog's fat or common cooking butter to baste a goose with. Come, take your
butter-I mean, Seth, take your toddy."
Poor Seth now began to smoke as well as to melt, and his mouth was as hermetically sealed up as though he had been born dumb. Streak after streak of the butter came pouring from under his hat, and his handkerchief was already soaked with greasy overflow. Talking away as if nothing was the matter, the grocer kept stuffing the wood into the stove, while poor Seth sat bolt upright, with his back against the counter, and his knees almost touching the red-hot furnace before him.
“Very cold night this," said the grocer ; "why, Seth, you seem to perspire as if you were warm! Why don't you take your
hat off? Here, let me put your hat away.”
“No!” exclaimed poor Seth at last, with a spasmodic effort to get his tongue loose, and clapping both hands upon his hat, “No!-I must go—let me out I aint well—let me go!" A greasy cataract was now pouring down the poor fellow's face and neck, and soaking into his clothes, and trickling down his body into his very boots, so that he was literally in a perfect bath of oil.
“ Well, good-night, Seth,” said the humorous Vermonter, you will go;" adding, as Seth got out into the road, “ Neighbour, I reckon the fun I've had out of you
is worth sixpence; so I shan't charge you for that half-pound of butter."
THE CHAMPION'S BANNER.
J. M. BRINDLEY.
THERE was joy in merry England, in the cottage, and
the hall, From where blue Teviot rippling flows to Dover's sea
girt wall; When the high-soul'd Prince William came, the cham
pion of our cause, To defend our pure religion, our liberties, and laws. There was joy when into Exeter the champion's army
passed, And banners from the housetops were floating in the
blast; The gazers throng'd the windows, and garlands deck'd
the street, The bells peal'd from the steeples, and the war drums
wildly beat; Whilst trumpets blared defiance, to all who dar'd
gainsay The good Prince William's right to wear old England's
crown that day. As thro' the densely-crowded street a goodly sight to
see, In glittering helms and corselets rode the hero's chi
valry : How shouted each bold Briton, as freely, widely
spread, The good Prince William's banner came towering over
head, Thrill'd at the bright words glowing, in rich embroidery
there, Shouts from ten thousand manly throats pealed upward
thro' the air;
For in the champion's motto, the old land lives again, Her pure faith and her “liberties” he sweareth to
16 maintain." Lo! where the hero rideth, with lofty look and high : No marvel, that for such a prince true men should
bravely die. See his old foeman Schomberg, in peace rides with him
now, O'er many a well-fought field hath beam'd his laurel
wreathed brow. There Bentinck, Solmes, and Mackey came, like brothers
hand in hand, And fill'd the rear, in warrior pride, lamented Ossory's
band. Gone is that glorious pageant, the sight is seen no
more, Save in the misty dreamland of the vanished days of
yore. Gone are those noble heroes to their last and holy rest, Quenched is the fiery zeal which glowed in every
patriot's breast. Their battle blades and helmets are coated thick with
rust, And the strong right hands that grasped those swords
have crumbled into dust. And that bright and holy banner, hath that too passed
away? Or on its glorious motto doth still the sunlight play, In some lofty Gothic minster, where many banners
wave, In grandeur, o'er the last long home of the mighty and
the brave? Hath mildew dimm'd the fiery words, once brightly
blazon'd there? Or hath oblivion's dull cold hand effaced the motto
rare? No! though the silk has perished, the words shall never
die, Still shall true voices ring them, like a pean to the
Whilst hearts shall glow and pulses beat, Oh! daughter
of the main, Thy laws, thy liberties, thy creed, we nobly will
maintain: And the good champion's motto, a legacy shall be To us the brave free children of the Island of the
And if ever foreign foemen assail our sea-girt strand, We'll shout the champion's motto thro' all our native
land; O'er crag and dell we'll send it forth, in all its pristine
might; And with stout heart and mighty voice cry
Defend the Right !"
(By permission of the Author.)
THE LOST HUNTER.
ALFRED B. STREET,
[Mr. Alfred B. Street takes rank among the foremost poets of America ; he describes forest scenes with remarkable fidelity and minuteness, while his skill in narration is considerable, rendering his verses peculiarly adapted for reading aloud.
Mr. Street was born in 1811, was brought up to the law, and is now a member of the American bar. He resides in Albany.]
NUMB'd by the piercing, freezing air,
And burden'd by his game,
Dragg’d on his shivering frame;
His pouch was void of food;
Would wrap the solitude.