LITMIR.BIZ

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luck to yees," and without more of talk

      He pulled the forelock 'neath his tattered hat,

      And started off; but plans of mice and men

      Gang oft agley, again and yet again.

      Full half a mile upon his homeward road

      Poor Patrick toiled beneath his heavy load.

      A hilltop gained, he stopped to rest, alas!

      He laid his mare's egg on some treacherous grass;

      When down the steep hillside it rolled away,

      And at poor Patrick's call made no delay.

      Gaining momentum, with a heavy thump,

      It struck and split upon a hollow stump,

      In which a rabbit lived with child and wife,

      Frightened, the timid creature ran for life.

      "Shtop, shtop my colt!" cried Patrick, as he ran

      After his straying colt, but all in vain.

      With ears erect poor Bunny faster fled

      As "Shtop my colt!" in mournful, eager tones

      Struck on those organs, till with fright half dead

      He hid away among some grass and stones.

      Here Patrick searched till rose the harvest moon,

      Braying and whinnying till he was hoarse,

      Hoping to lure the colt by this fond cheat;

      "For won't the young thing want his mither soon,

      And come to take a bit of something t'eat?"

      But vain the tender accents of his call—

      No colt responded from the broken wall;

      And 'neath the twinkling stars he plodded on,

      To tell how he had got and lost his horse.

      "As swate a gray as iver eyes sat on,"

      He said to Bridget and the children eight,

      After thrice telling the whole story o'er,

      The way he run it would be hard to bate;

      So little, too, with jist a whisk o' tail,

      Not a pin-feather on it as I could see,

      For it was hatched out just sax weeks too soon!

      An' such long ears were niver grown before

      On any donkey in grane Ireland!

      So little, too, you'd hold it in your hand;

      Och hone! he would have made a gray donkey."

      So all the sad O'Flanigans that night

      Held a loud wake over the donkey gone,

      Eating their "pratees" without milk or salt,

      Howling between whiles, "Och! my little colt!"

      While Bunny, trembling from his dreadful fright,

      Skipped home to Mrs. B. by light of moon,

      And told the story of his scare and flight;

      And all the neighbouring rabbits played around

      The broken mare's egg scattered on the ground.

THE WORLD FOR SALE.

       Table of Contents

      REV. RALPH HOYT.

T HE world for sale! Hang out the sign; call every traveler here to me: who'll buy this brave estate of mine, and set this weary spirit free? 'Tis going! yes, I mean to fling the bauble from my soul away; I'll sell it, whatsoe'er it bring: the world's at auction here to-day! It is a glorious sight to see—but, ah! it has deceived me sore; it is not what it seems to be. For sale! it shall be mine no more. Come, turn it o'er and view it well; I would not have you purchase dear. 'Tis going! going! I must sell! Who bids! who'll buy this splendid Tear? Here's Wealth, in glittering heaps of gold; who bids? But let me tell you fair, a baser lot was never sold! Who'll buy the heavy heaps of Care? and, here, spread out in broad domain, a goodly landscape all may trace; hall, cottage, tree, field, hill and plain:—who'll buy himself a burial place? Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell that Beauty flings around the heart; I know its power, alas! too well; 'tis going! Love and I must part! Must part? What can I more with Love? all o'er is the enchanter's reign. Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove—a breath of bliss, a storm of pain? And Friendship, rarest gem of earth; who e'er has found the jewel his? Frail, fickle, false, and little worth! who bids for Friendship—as it is? 'Tis going! going! hear the call; once, twice and thrice, 'tis very low! 'Twas once my hope, my stay, my all, but now the broken staff must go! Fame! hold the brilliant meteor high; how dazzling every gilded name! Ye millions! now's the time to buy. How much for Fame? how much for Fame? Hear how it thunders! Would you stand on high Olympus, far renowned, now purchase, and a world command!—and be with a world's curses crowned. Sweet star of Hope! with ray to shine in every sad foreboding breast, save this desponding one of mine—who bids for man's last friend, and best? Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life, this treasure should my soul sustain! But Hope and Care are now at strife, nor ever may unite again. Ambition, Fashion, Show and Pride, I part from all forever now; Grief, in an overwhelming tide, has taught my haughty heart to bow. By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft, I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod; the best of all I still have left—my Faith, My Bible, and my God.

HOW WE HUNTED A MOUSE.

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      JOSHUA JENKINS.

      I WAS dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the good times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice came from the kitchen and to the kitchen I rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions, and shouting "shoo," in a general manner, at everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she screamed, "O Joshua! a mouse, shoo—wha—shoo—a great—ya, shoo—horrid mouse, and—she—ew—it ran right out of the cupboard—shoo—go away—O Lord—Joshua—shoo—kill it, oh, my—shoo."

      All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down, and ran off into another room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time I hit it I didn't poke it any on account of getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink; and I did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as anybody would; but I am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my garment. There is something real disagreeable about having a mouse inside the leg of one's pantaloons, especially if there is nothing between you and the mouse. Its toes are cold, and its nails are scratchy, and its fur tickles, and its tail feels crawly, and there is nothing pleasant about it, and you are all the time afraid it will try to gnaw out, and begin on you instead of on the cloth. That mouse was next to me. I could feel its every motion with startling and suggestive distinctness. For these reasons I yelled to Maria, and as the case seemed urgent to me I may have yelled with a certain degree of vigor; but I deny that I yelled fire, and if I catch the boy who thought that I did, I shall inflict punishment on his person.

      I

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