And, Caudle, you look after the venison! There's a place I know, somewhere in the city, where you'll get it beautiful. You'll look at it? You will? Very well.

And now who shall we invite? Who I like? Now you know, Caudle, that's nonsense; because I only like whom you like. I suppose the Prettymans must come. But understand, Caudle, I don't have Miss Prettyman: I am not going to have my peace of mind destroyed under my own roof: if she comes, I don't appear at the table. What do you say? Very well? Very well be it, then.

And now Caudle, you'll not forget the venison? In the city, my dear! You'll not forget the venison? A haunch, you know: a nice haunch. And you'll not forget the venison? (A loud snore.) Bless me, if he ain't asleep! Oh, the unfeeling men!

THE WHISTLER.

"You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline,"You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood: I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine." "And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said, While an arch smile played over her beautiful face. "I would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maid Would fly to my side and would there take her place." "Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours

66

Without any magic!” the fair maiden cried :

"A favor so slight one's good-nature secures;"

And she playfully seated herself by his side.

"I would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charm Would work so that not even modesty's check

Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm.”
She smiled and she laid her white arm round his neck.
"Yet once more I would blow; and the music divine
Would bring me a 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 the whistle you'd make!
For only consider how silly 'twould be

To sit there and whistle for what you might take."

THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT.-R. & C. SOUTHEY.

A SCENE IN WINDSOR FOREST, ENGLAND.

Outstretched beneath the leafy shade
Of Windsor forest's deepest glade,
A dying woman lay;

Three little children round her stood,
And there went up from the greenwood
A woful wail that day.

"O mother!" was the mingled cry,
"O mother, mother! do not die,
And leave us all alone."

"My blessed babes!" she tried to say,
But the faint accents died away
In a low sobbing moan.

And then, life struggling hard with death,
And fast and strong she drew her breath,
And up she raised her head;

And, peering through the deep wood maze
With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze,
"Will she not come?" she said.

Just then the parting boughs between,
A little maid's light form was seen,
All breathless with her speed;
And following close, a man came on
(A portly man to look upon,)
Who led a panting steed.

"Mother!" the little maiden cried,
Or e'er she reached the woman's side,
And kissed her clay-cold cheek,-
"I have not idled in the town,

But long went wandering up and down,
The minister to seek.

"They told me here, they told me there,-
I think they mocked me everywhere;
And when I found his home,

And begged him on my bended knee
To bring his book and come with me,
Mother! he would not come.

"I told him how you dying lay,
And could not go in peace away
Without the minister:

I begged him, for dear Christ his sake,
But O, my heart was fit to break,-
Mother! he would not stir.

"So, though my tears were blinding me, I ran back, fast as fast could be,

To come again to you;

And here-close by-this squire I met, Who asked, so mild, what made me fret; And when I told him true,

"I will go with you, child,' he said,
'God sends me to this dying bed,'-
Mother, he's here, hard by."
While thus the little maiden spoke,
The man, his back against an oak,
Looked on with glistening eye.

The bridle on his neck hung free,
With quivering flank and trembling knee,
Pressed close his bonny bay;
A statelier man, a statelier steed,
Never on greensward paced, I rede,
Than those stood there that day.

So, while the little maiden spoke,
The man, his back against an oak,

Looked on with glistening eye
And folded arms, and in his look
Something that, like a sermon-book,
Preached," All is vanity."

But when the dying woman's face
Turned toward him with a wishful gaze,
He stepped to where she lay;
And, kneeling down, bent over her,
Saying, "I am a minister,

My sister! let us pray."

And well, withouten book or stole,
(God's words were printed on his soul!)
Into the dying ear

He breathed, as 'twere an angel's strain,
The things that unto life pertain,

And death's dark shadows clear.

He spoke of sinners' lost estate,
In Christ renewed, regenerate,―
Of God's most blest decree,
That not a single soul should die
Who turns repentant, with the cry
66 Be merciful to me."

He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil,
Endured but for a little while

In patience, faith, and love,—
Sure, in God's own good time, to be
Exchanged for an eternity
Of happiness above.

Then as the spirit ebbed away,
He raised his hands and eyes to pray
That peaceful it might pass;
And then-the orphans' sobs alone
Were heard, and they knelt, every one,
Close round on the green grass.

Such was the sight their wandering eyes
Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise,
Who reined their coursers back,
Just as they found the long astray,
Who, in the heat of chase that day,
Had wandered from their track.

But each man reined his pawing steed,
And lighted down, as if agreed,

In silence at his side;

And there, uncovered all, they stood,--
It was a wholesome sight and good
That day for mortal pride.

For of the noblest of the land
Was that deep-hushed, bareheaded band;
And central in the ring,

By that dead pauper on the ground,
Her ragged orphans clinging round,
Knelt their anointed king?

THE RIGHTEOUS NEVER FORSAKEN.

It was Saturday night, and the widow of the pine cottage sat by her blazing fagots with her five tattered children at her side, endeavoring, by listening to the artlessness of their juvenile prattle, to dissipate the heavy gloom that pressed *George III.

upon her mind. For a year, her own feeble hands had provided for her helpless family, for she had no supporter; she thought of no friend in all the wide, unfriendly world around. But that mysterious Providence, the wisdom of whose ways are above human comprehension, had visited her with wasting sickness, and her little means had become exhausted. It was now, too, midwinter, and the snow lay heavy and deep through all the surrounding forests, while storms still seemed gathering in the heavens, and the driving wind roared amidst the bending pines, and rocked her puny mansion.

The last herring smoked upon the hearth before her: it was the only article of food she possessed; and no wonder her forlorn desolate state brought up in her lone bosom all the anxieties of a mother, when she looked upon her children; and no wonder, forlorn as she was, if she suffered the heart-swellings of despair to rise, even though she knew that He whose promise is to the widow and the orphan cannot forget his word. Many years before, her eldest son had left his forest home to try his fortune on the billowy wave-of him the had heard no note or tidings; and in latter times Providence had deprived her of the companion and staff of her worldly pilgrimage, in the person of her husband. Yet to this hour she had been upborne; she had not only been able to provide for her little flock, but had never lost an opportunity of ministering to the wants of the miserable and destitute.

The indolent may well bear with poverty while the ability to gain sustenance remains. The individual who has but his own wants to supply may suffer with fortitude the winter of want; his affections are not wounded, his heart not wrung. The most desolate in populous cities may hope, for charity has not quite closed her hand and heart, and shut her eyes on misery. But the industrious mother of helpless and depending children, far from the reach of human charity, has none of these to console her. And such a one was the widow of the pine cottage; but as she bent over the fire and took up the last scanty remnant of food to spread before her children, her spirits seemed to brighten up, as by some sud

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