It is a pleasant place;

And through the window one sees Into old-fashioned gardens

Full of old yew trees.

And on that table, that funny table,
With the curious thin legs,-
Stand little tea-cups, a china jar,
And great ostrich eggs.

One can see in a moment,

That she is very rich indeed;
With nothing to do, all day long,
But sit in a chair and read.

And those are very antique chairs,
So heavy and so strong;

The seats are tent-stitch, the lady's work,
All done when she was young.

And that's Mr. Fortescue's portrait,
That hangs there on the wall,
In the thunder-and-lightning coat,
The bag-wig and all.

Very old-fashioned and stately,
With a sword by his side;
But 't is many a long year now,
Since the old gentleman died.

Thus you see the room complete,

With a Turkey carpet on the floor; And get a peep into other rooms Through that open door.

But the chiefest thing of all

We have yet passed over,

The tortoise-shell cat, which our motto says "Now lives in clover."

Meaning she has nothing to do,

All the long year through,

But sleep and take her meals

With good Madam Fortescue.

Only look, on that crimson cushion,
How soft and easy she lies,
Just between sleep and wake,
With half buttoned-up eyes!
And good Madam Fortescue,

She lifts her eyes from her book,

To see if she want anything,

And to give her a loving look.

But now turn your eyes

Behind this great Indian screen,-
There sits Madam Fortescue's woman
Very crabbed and very lean.

She makes believe to her lady,
To be very fond of the cat;
But she hates her,

And pinches when she pretends to pat.

But the lady never knows it,

For the cat can but mew; She can tell no tales, however ill used, And that Mrs. Crabthorn knew.

So she smiled, and was smooth-spoken,
And the lady said, "Crabthorn,
You are the best waiting woman
That ever was born!

"And when I die, good Crabthorn,
In my will it shall appear,
That my cat I leave to you,
And fifty pounds a year.

"For I certainly think, Crabthorn,
You will love her for my sake!"
"That I shall!" said the waiting woman,
"And all my pleasure will she make!"
Now all this has been said and done
This very day, I am sure-

For there lies the lady's will,
Tied up with red tape secure.

PART II.

"New men, new measures," as 't is said;

Now Madam Fortescue is dead-
And the poor Cat, as we shall show,
In little time doth suffer woe.

Now comes the second picture;

And here we shall discover, That the poor pussy now

No longer lives in clover.

For she gets no sups of cream, —
Not even a crumb of bread;
Cross Mrs. Crabthorn rules the house,
Now Madam Fortescue is dead.

And the fine crimson cushion,
Into the lumber-room is thrown -
Only look at that poor cat,

She would melt a heart of stone.

She may well look so forlorn,

Poor creature! that she may;
And only think what kicks she's had,
And nothing to eat all day?
This, then, is the dressing room,
Grand and stately as you can see;

Yet everything in the room
Looks as solemn as can be!

The very peacock's feathers

Over the old glass on the wall,
Look like great mourning plumes
Waving at a funeral.

And that glass in the black frame;
And the footstool on the floor,

And the chair where Madam sate to dress,
But where she'll sit no more!

Everything looks as if some

Great sorrow would befall! See there's the old tabby gown Hanging on the wall;

And there's the lace cap,

But there's no lace border on it;

And in that half-open box,

Is the dear old lady's bonnet.

And there lie the black silk mits, And the funny high-heeled shoes; And there the pomatum-pot,

And the powder-puffs she used to use.

But she will never use them more,
Neither to-day nor to-morrow !
She is dead and gone from this world,
As the cat knows to her sorrow!

But now through that open door,
If you take a peep,

You see the great stately bed,
On which she used to sleep.

And there rests her coffin

On that very stately bed, -
For you must clearly understand,
That Madam Fortescue is dead!

See now, in this dressing-room,

There sits the poor cat;
Could you have thought a few days
Would make a change like that?

See, how woe-begone she looks-
In what miserable case,
I really think I see the tears

All running down her face!

She has reason enough to cry, poor thing, She has had a great loss!

She had a mistress, the best in the world, She has one now-so cross!

There she sits trembling,

And hanging down her head,

As if she knew misfortune was come, Now Madam Fortescue is dead!

And look, there stands Mrs. Crabthorn,

With a rope in her hand, Giving to that surly fellow A very strict command.

For what? to hang the cat!

For then, Scroggin," says she,

"I shall still have my fifty pounds a-year, And what's the cat to me!

"To be sure I promised Madam
To love the cat like a relation,-
But now she is dead and gone,
Why that 's no signification !

* And cats I never could bear,
And I'll not be plagued with that;
So take this new rope, Scroggin.
And see you hang the cat!
"Be sure to do it safely,-

Hang her with the rope double;
And her skin will make you a cap,
Friend Scroggin, for your trouble!"

See now my dear brother

This is the great dining-hall, Where the company is assembled After the funeral.

It is a very noble room;

But now we cannot stay,
We must look at the old wainscot,
And the pictures some other day.

See, here sits the company,

The heir and all the cousins

The nephews and the grand-nephews,
And the nieces by dozens.
And there is the lawyer
Reading the lady's will,
For an hour they've sat listening,
All of them, stock still.

The lawyer he has just reached
To where the will said,
"Mrs. Crabthorn shall have fifty pounds
A-year, till the cat be dead.

"That fifty pounds a-year

Shall be left to her to keep

The cat in good condition,

With a cushion whereon to sleep;

"That as long as the cat live

The money shall be her due."

And the old lady prayed her, in her will,
To be a loving guardian and true.

"Goodness me!" screamed Mrs. Crabthorn,
"The cat's dead, I do declare!
Who thought that Madam meant the money
Only for the cat's share!

"Lawk sirs, she loved my lady More than all the world beside; And so, like any Christian,

She took to her bed and died!

"She died of grief for my lady,
On the third day and no other!'
You shall not be forgotten, Crabthorn!
Said good Madam Fortescue's brother.

And with that up jumps Scroggin,
You see where he stands,
Dangling the very rope

In his great, rough hands.

And moreover than that,

To make it past a doubt,
There's the cat-skin in his pocket,
Which he will presently pull out.
And he tells all the company

Assembled there that day,
How Crabthorn had misused the cat,
And had her made away.
Now if you inquire of me

Why her death he did not smother,
I can only say, bad people

Often betray one another.

And I can very well suppose

They have quarrelled since that day, And now to be revenged on her He determines to betray.

But you see how angry she is,

How her face is in a blaze;

But she deserved her disappointment,
And so every one says.

And now remember this,

My dear little brother, Never be unkind or cruel

To one thing or another.

For nobody knows how sorely

They may have cause to repent;
And always, sooner or later,
There comes a punishment!

ANDREW LEE,

THE FISHER BOY.

АH! Fisher Boy, I well know thee, Brother thou art to Marion Lee! What! didst thou think I knew thee not, Couldst thou believe I had forgot? For shame, for shame! what? I forget The treasures of thy laden net! And how we went one day together, One day of showery summer weather, Up the sea-shore, and for an hour Stood sheltering from a pelting shower, With an upturned, ancient boat, That had not been for years afloat! No, no, my boy! I liked too well The old sea-stories thou didst tell; I liked too well thy roguish eye Thy merry speech - thy laughter sly; Thy old sea-jacket, to forget,And then the treasures of thy net! Oh Andrew. thou hast not forgot, I'm very sure that thou hast not,

All that we talked about that day,
Of famous countries far away!
Of Crusoes in their islands lone,
That never were, nor will be known,
And yet this very moment stand
Upon some point of mountain land,
Looking out o'er the desert sea,

If chance some coming ship there be.
Thou know'st we talked of this-thou know'st
We talked about a ship-boy's ghost-
A wretched little orphan lad
Who served a master stern and bad,
And had no friend to take his part,
And perished of a broken heart;
Or by his master's blows, some said,
For in the boat they found him dead,
And the boat's side was stained and red!

And then we talked of many a heap Of ancient treasure in the deep, And the great serpent that some men, In far-off seas, meet now and then; Of grand sea-palaces that shine Through forests of old coralline; And wondrous creatures that may dwell In many a crimson Indian shell; Till I shook hands with thee, to see Thou wast a poet-Andrew Lee! Though thou wast guiltless all the time Of putting any thoughts in rhyme; Ah, little fisher boy! since then, Ladies I've seen and learned men, All clever, and some great and wise, Who study all things, earth and skies, Who much have seen, and much have read,

And famous things have writ and said;

But Andrew, never have I heard

One who so much my spirit stirred,

As he who sate with me an hour,
Screened from the pelting thunder-shower-
Now laughing in his merry wit;
Now talking in a serious fit,
In speech that poured like water free;
And that was thou-poor Andrew Lee!

---

I do my mother wrongI'll hence and win the bread I eat, I've burdened you too long!' "Oh! many tears my mother shed;

And earnestly did pray, That he would still abide with us, And be the house's stay; And be like morning to her eyes,

As he had been alway.

"But Marc he had a steadfast will, A purpose fixed and good, And calmly still and manfully

Her prayers he long withstood; Until at length she gave consent, Less willing than subdued.

""T was on a shining morn in June, He rose up to depart;

I dared not to my mother show
The sadness of my heart;
We said farewell, and yet farewell,
As if we could not part.

"There seemed a gloom within the house,
Although the bright sun shone;
There was a want within our hearts
For he, the dearest one,
Had said farewell that morn of June,
And from our sight was gone.

"At length most doleful tidings came,
Sad tidings of dismay;

The plague was in the distant town,
And hundreds died each day;
We thought, in truth, poor Marc would die,
'Mid strangers far away.

"Weeks passed, and months, and not a word
Came from him to dispel
The almost certainty of death
Which o'er our spirits fell;

My mother drooped from fear, which grew
Each day more terrible.

At length she said, 'I'll see my son

In life if yet he be,

Or else the turf that covers him!"

When sank she on her knee, And clasped her hands in silent prayer, And wept most piteously. "She went into the distant town,

Still asking everywhere

For tidings of her long-lost son: -
In vain she made her prayer;
All were so full of woe themselves,
No pity had they to spare.
"To hear her tell that tale would move
The sternest heart to bleed;
She was a stranger in that place,

Yet none of her took heed;
And broken-hearted she came back,
A bowed and bruised reed.

"I marked her cheek yet paler grow,
More sunken yet her eye;
And to my soul assurance came
That she was near to die,

And hourly was my earnest prayer
Put up for her on high.

"Oh, what a woe seemed then to us,
The friendless orphan's fate!

I dared not picture to my mind,

How drear, how desolate-
But, like a frightened thing, my heart
Shrunk from a pang so great!
"We rarely left my mother's side,

"T was joy to touch her hand,
And with unwearying, patient love,
Beside her couch to stand,
To wait on her, and every wish
Unspoke to understand.

"At length, oh joy beyond all joys!
When we believed him dead,
One calm and sunny afternoon,
As she lay on her bed
In quiet sleep, methought below
I heard my brother's tread.
"I rose, and on the chamber stair,
I met himself-no other-
More beautiful than ere before,

My tall and manly brother!

I should have swooned, but for the thought
Of my poor sleeping mother.

"I cannot tell you how we met;-
I could not speak for weeping;
Nor had I words enough for joy,—
My heart within seemed leaping,

I should have screamed, but for the thought
Of her who there lay sleeping!
"That Marc returned in joy to us,
My mother dreamed e'en then,
And that prepared her for the bliss
Of meeting him again;—

To tell how great that bliss, would need
The tongue of wisest men!

"His lightest tone, his very step,

More power had they to win
My drooping mother back to life,
Than every medicine;
She rose again, like one revived
From death where he had been!

"The story that my brother told
Was long, and full of joy;
Scarce to the city had he come,

A poor and friendless boy,

Than he chanced to meet a merchant good, From whom he asked employ.

"The merchant was a childless man;

And in my brother's face,
Something he saw that moved his heart
To such unusual grace;

'My son,' said he, is dead, wilt thou

Supply to me his place?'

"Even then, bound to the golden East,

His ship before him lay;

And this new bond of love was formed
There, standing on the quay;
My brother went on board with him,
And sailed that very day!

"The letter that he wrote to us,

It never reached our hand;

And while we drooped with anxious love,
He gained the Indian strand,
And saw a thousand wondrous things,
In that old, famous land.

"And many rich and curious things,
Bright bird and pearly shell,

He brought as if to realize

The tales he had to tell;

My mother smiled, and wept, and smiled, And listened, and grew well.

"The merchant loved him more and more, And did a father's part; And blessed my brother for the love

That healed his wounded heart; He was a friend that heaven had sent Kind mercy to impart.

"So do not droop, my gentle friend,
Though grief may burden sore;
Look up to God, for he hath love

And comfort in great store,
And ofttimes moveth human hearts
To bless us o'er and o'er."

A SWINGING SONG.

MERRY it is on a summer's day,
All through the meadows to wend away;
To watch the brooks glide fast or slow,
And the little fish twinkle down below;
To hear the lark in the blue sky sing,
Oh, sure enough, 't is a merry thing
But 't is merrier far to swing-to swing!