foot, in a place they call Oyster Bay, treatin' a Yankee that I never laid eyes on before, and never expect to agin. Day was breakin' by the time I got to the St. Nicholas Hotel and I pledge you my word I did not know my name. The man asked me the number of my room, and I told him, "Hot music on the half-shell for two!" THE IDEAL AND THE REAL.-I. EDGAR JONES. "I have seen," said the maid, "often seen in my dreams, The man that my image of bravery seems; A form like a statue, a face like a god's; A hero that battles, nor thinks of the odds; But moves in the strength of his majesty's might, And his form like Apollo's for beauty and grace." 'Do you see,' said her comrade, " that figure forlorn, Far out a brave ship, with a shud 'er and shock, But Apsalom Smith walked erect to his boat, "As he plunged in the valleys, or hung on the brink, All those that were left of the terrified band Were, thanks to his courage, brought safe to the land. He's rough and unlettered, but not on God's ground Can truer or worthier hero be found." The maiden, with meek and admiring surprise, DAILY DYING. The maple does not shed its leaves Our death is gradual like these; Less of life than we had last year Throbs in your veins, and throbs in mine, MORNING.-EDWARD EVERETT. As we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more perceptible; the intense blue of the sky began to soften; the smaller stars, like little children, went first to rest; the sister beams of the Pleiades soon melted together; but the bright constellations of the west and north remained unchanged. Steadily the wondrous transfiguration went on. Hands of angels hidden from mortal eyes shifted the scenery of the heavens; the glories of night dissolved into the glories of the dawn. The blue sky now turned more softly gray; the great watch-stars shut up their holy eyes; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled with the inflowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down from above in one great ocean of radiance; till at length, as we reached the Blue Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds. In a few seconds the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of man, began his state. FATHER MOLLOY.-SAMUEL LOVER. THE DYING CONFESSION OF PADDY M'CABE. Paddy McCabe was dying one day, And Father Molloy he came to confess him; Paddy prayed hard he would make no delay, But forgive him his sins and make haste for to bless him "First tell me your sins," says Father Molloy, "For I'm thinking you've not been a very good boy." "Oh," says Paddy, "so late in the evenin' I fear "Twould trouble you such a long story to hear, For you've ten long miles o'er the mountain to go, And your Reverence has towld us unless we tell all 'Tis worse than not makin' confession at all: So I'll say, in a word, I'm no very good boy, And therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy.” “Well, I'll read from a book,” says Father Molloy, “The manifold sins that humanity's heir to ; And when you hear those that your conscience annoy, You'l. just squeeze my hand, as acknowledging thereto." Then the Father began the dark roll of iniquity, And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety, And he gave such a squeeze that the priest gave a roar― 'Oh, murdher!" says Paddy, "don't read any more; 66 For if you keep readin', by all that is thrue, Your Reverence's fist will be soon black and blue; That your Reverence should have any hand in my sins. For whether they're great ones, or whether they're small, 'Tis your Reverence knows how to absolve them, asthore: So I'll say, in a word, I'm no very good boy, And therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy." "Well," says Father Molloy, "if your sins I forgive, So you must forgive all your enemies truly, And promise me also that, if you should live, You'll leave off your old tricks, and begin to live newly." "I forgive ev'rybody," says Pat, with a groan, 66 Except that big vagabone, Micky Malone; And him I will murdher if ever I can-” "Tut, tut!" says the priest, "you're a very bad man; I forgive-if I die; but as sure as I live That ugly blackguard I will surely desthrey So now for your blessin', sweet Father Molloy !* That friends, like flowers, spring and bloom, Like flowers they wither, droop, and fall; We lay them gently in the tomb Which time holds open for us all, And turn away in grief, to find There's naught but memory left behind. This little flaxen curl I hold, Carries me back full many a day She shook her head; and then, in strife, In leaf torn from my spelling-book And blushing, looked most wondrous fair. I kept the ringlet for my own, And half in earnest, half in play, Promised when we were older grown, To give her one of mine in pay. From that time forth there seemed to be The next few years flew swiftly by; With both fair locks together laid, We watched each other turning gray. |