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HUNGER AND COLD.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Sisters two, all praise to you,
With your faces pinched and blue;
To the poor man ye've been true
From of old:

Ye can speak the keenest word,
Ye are sure of being heard,

From the point ye're never stirred,
Hunger and Cold!

Let the Statesman temporize;
Palsied are his shifts and lies

When they meet your blood-shot eyes,
Grim and bold;

Policy ye set at naught,

In their traps ye'll not be caught,
Ye're too honest to be bought,

Hunger and Cold!

Bolt and bar the palace door;
While the mass of men is poor

Naked truth grows more and more
Uncontrolled;

Ye had nevet yet, I guess,
Any praise for bashfulness,
Ye can visit, sans court dress,
Hunger and Cold!

When the Toiler's heart ye clutch,
Conscience is not valued much,
He recks not a bloody smutch
On his gold:

Every thing to you defers,
Ye are potent reasoners,
At your whisper Treason stirs,
Hunger and Cold!

Rude comparisons ye draw,
Words refuse to sate your maw,
Your gaunt limbs the cobweb law
Cannot hold;

Ye're not clogged with foolish pride,
But can seize a right denied,
Somehow God is on your side,
Hunger and Cold!

Ye respect no hoary wrong
More for having triumphed long;
Its past victims, haggard throng,
From the mould

Ye unbury; swords and spears
Weaker are than poor men's tears,
Weaker than your bitter jeers,
Hunger and Cold!

Let them guard both hall and bower;
Through the window ye will glower,
Patient till your reckoning hour
Shall be tolled;

Cheeks are pale, but hands are red,
Guiltless blood may chance be shed,
But ye must and will be fed,
Hunger and Cold!

God has plans man must not spoil, Some were made to starve and toil, Some to share the wine and oil,

We are told:

Devils' theories are these,

Stifling hope and love and peace, Framed your hideous lusts to please, Hunger and Cold!

Scatter ashes on thy head, Tears of burning sorrow shed, Earth! and be thy Pity led

To Love's fold;

Ere they block the very door
With lean corpses of the poor,
And will hush for naught but gore,-
Hunger and Cold!

THINK OF OUR COUNTRY'S GLORY.

BY ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER,

Think of our country's glory,

All dimmed with Afric's tearsHer broad flag stained and gory,

With the hoarded guilt of years! Think of the frantic mother,

Lamenting for her child,

Till falling lashes smother

Her cries of anguish wild!

Think of the prayers ascending,

Yet shrieked, alas, in vain, When heart from heart is rending, Ne'er to be joined again! Shall we behold unheeding,

Life's holiest feelings crushed? When woman's heart is bleeding,

Shall woman's voice be hushed?

O, no! by every blessing

That Heaven to thee may lend-Remember their oppression,

Forget not, sister, friend. Think of the prayers ascending,

Yet shrieked, alas, in vain, When heart from heart is rending, Ne'er to be joined again!

VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED.

No. 16.

THE SILVER TANKARD.

possessions spread before him. At that instant a neighbor, of six miles' distance, rode up on horseback and beckoned to him from the gate of the enclosure around the house.

"Good morning, neighbor Gordon," said he, "I have come out of my way in going to meeting, to tell you that Tom Smith-that daring thief-with two others, have been seen prowling about in these parts, and that you'd better look out, lest you have a visit. I have got nothing in my house to bring them there, but they may be after the silver tankard, neighbor, and the silver spoons. I have often told you that these things were not fit for these new parts. Tom is a bold fellow, but I suppose the fewer he meets when he goes to steal the better. I don't think it safe for you all to be off to meeting to day but I am in a hurry, neighbor, so good-bye."

On a slope of land opening itself to the south, in a now thickly settled town in the State of Maine, some hundred and more years ago, stood a farmhouse to which the epithet "comfortable" might be applied. The old forest came down to the back of it; in front were cultivated fields; beyond which was ground partially cleared, full of pine stumps, and here and there, standing erect, the giant trunks of trees which the fire had scorched and blackened, though it had failed to overthrow them. The house stood at the very verge of the settlement, so that from it no other cottage could be seen; the nearest neighbor was distant about six miles. Daniel Gordon, the owner and occupant of the premises we have described, had chosen this valley in the wilderness, a wide, rich tract of land, not only as his This communication placed our friend Daniel in own home, but, prospectively as the home of his an unpleasant dilemma. It had been settled that children, and his children's children. He was no one was to be left at home but his daughter willing to be far off from men, that his children Mehitable, a beautiful little girl, about nine years might have room to settle around him. He was old. Shall I stay or go? was the question. Daniel looked upon as the rich man of that district, well was a Puritan; he had strict notions of the duty of known over all that part of the country. His house worshipping God in His temple, and he had faith was completely finished, and was large for the that God would bless him only as he did his duty; times, having two stories in front and one behind, but then he was a father, and little Hitty was the with a long sloping roof; it seemed as if it leaned to light and joy of his eyes. the south, to offer its back to the cold winds from the northern mountains. It was full of the comforts of life, the furniture ever a little showy" for a Puritan; and when the table was set, there was, to use a Yankee phrase, considerable" silver plate, among which a large tankard stood pre-eminent. This silver had been the property of his father, and was brought over from the mother country.

Now we will go back to this pleasant valley as it was on a bright and beautiful morning in the month of June. It was Sunday; and though early, the two sons of Daniel Gordon and the hired man had gone to meeting, on foot, down to the Landing," a little village on the banks of the river, ten miles distant. Daniel himself was standing at the door, with the horse and chaise, ready and waiting for his good wife who had been somewhat detained. He was standing at the door-step enjoying the freshness of the morning, with a little pride in his heart, perhaps, as he cast his eye over the extent of his

As he

But these Puritans were stern and unflinching.-He soon settled the point. "I won't even take Hitty with me; for 'twill make her cowardly. The thieves may not come,-neighbor Perkins may be mistaken; and if they do come to my house, they will not hurt that child. At any rate, she is in God's hands; and we will go to worship Him, who never forsakes those who put their trust in Him. settled this, the little girl and her mother stepped to the chaise; the father saying to the child, « If any strangers come, Hitty, treat them well. We can spare of our abundance to the poor. What is silver and gold, when we think of God's holy word?"’— With these words on his lips he drove off,-a troubled man, in spite of his religious trust; because he left his daughter in the wilderness alone.

Little Hitty, as the daughter of a Puritan, was strictly brought up to observe the Lord's day. She knew that she ought to return to the house; but nature, for this once at least, got the better of her

training. No harm," thought she, "to see the brood of chickens." Nor did she, when she had given them some water, go into the house; but loitered and lingered, hearing the robin sing, and following with her eye the bob'lincoln, as he flitted from shrub to shrub. She passed almost an hour out of the house, because she did not want to be alone; and she did not feel alone when she was out among the birds, and was gathering here and there a little wild flower. But at last she went in, took her Bible, and seated herself at the window, sometimes reading and sometimes looking out.

As she was there seated, she saw three men coming up towards the house, and she was right glad to see them; for she felt lonely, and there was a dreary long day before her. Father," thought she, "meant something, when he told me to be kind to strangers. I suppose he expected them. I wonder what keeps them all from meeting. Never mind; they shall see I can do something for them, if I am little Hitty" so putting down the Bible, she ran to meet them, happy, confiding, and even glad that they had come. She called to them to come; and without waiting for them to speak, she called to them to come in with her, and said, “I am all alone; if mother was here she would do more for you, but I will do all I can ;"-and all this with a frank, loving heart, glad to do good to others, and glad to please her father, whose last words were, to spare of their abundance to the weary traveller.

Smith and his two companions entered. Now it was neither breakfast time nor dinner time, but about half way between both; yet little Hitty's head was full of the direction, spare of our abundance;" and almost before they were fairly in the house, she asked if she should get them something

to eat.

and so thoughtful of housewifery, that she took little
or no notice of the appearance and manners of her
guests. She did the work as cheerily and freely,
and was as unembarrassed, as if she had been sur-
rounded by her father and mother and brothers.
One of the thieves sat down doggedly, with his
hands on his knees, and his face down almost to his
hands, looking all the time on the floor. Another,
a younger and better looking man, stood confounded
and irresolute, as if he had not been well broken
into his trade; and often would he go to the window
and look out, keeping his back to the child. Smith,
on the other hand, looked unconcerned, as if he had
quite forgotten his purpose. He never once took
his attention off the child, following her with his
eye as she bustled about in arranging the dinner
table; there was even a half smile on his face.
They all moved to the table, Smith's chair at the
head, one of his companiops on each side, the child
at the foot, standing there to help her guests, and to
be ready to go for further supplies as there was need.

The men ate as hungry men, almost in silence; drinking occasionally from the silver tankard.— When they had done, Smith started up suddenly, and said, "Come! let's go." "What?" exclaimed the older robber, "go with empty hands when this silver is here." He seized the tankard. "Put that down," shouted Smith; " I'll shoot the man who takes a single thing from this house." Poor Hitty at once awoke to a sense of the character of her guests; with terror in her face and yet with a childlike frankness, she ran to Smith, took hold of his hand and looked into his face, as if she felt sure that he would take care of her.

Thus ended the visit of the thieves; thus God preserved the property of those who had put their trust in him. What a story had the child to tell when the family came home! How hearty was the thanksgiving that went up that evening from the family altar!

The old thief, looking to his young companion, and finding he was ready to give up the job, and Smith replied, "Yes, I will thank you, my seeing that Smith was resolute, put down the tanchild, for we are all hungry." This was indeed a kard, growling like a dog which has had a bone civil speech for the thief, who, half starved, had taken from him. "Fool! catch me in your combeen lurking in the woods to watch his chance to pany again;" and with such expressions left the steal the silver tankard, as soon as the men folks house, followed by the other. Smith put his hand had gone to meeting. "Shall I give you cold vic- on the head of the child and said, "Don't be afraid tuals, or will you wait till I can cook some meat?"-stay quiet in the house-nobody shall hurt you." asked Hitty. "We can't wait," was the reply, "give us what you have ready, as soon as you can." "I am glad you do not want me to cook for you,-but I would do it if you did,-because father would rather not have much cooking on Sundays." Then away she tripped about, making her preparation for their repast. Smith himself helped her out with the table. She spread upon it a clean white cloth, and placed upon it the silver spoons and the silver tankard full of " old orchard," with a large quantity of wheaten bread and a dish of cold meat. I don't know why the silver spoons were put on,-perhaps little Hitty thought they made the table look prettier. After all was done, she turned to Smith, and with a courtesy told him that dinner was ready. The child had been so busy in arranging her table,

A year or two after this, poor Tom Smith was arrested for the commission of some crime, was tried, and sentenced to be executed. Daniel Gordon heard of this, and that he was confined in a jail in the seaport town, to wait for the dreadful day when he was to be hung up like a dog between heaven and earth. Gordon could not keep away from him; he felt drawn to him for the protection of his daughter, and went down to see him. When he entered the dungeon, Smith was seated, his face was pale,

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his hair tangled and matted together, for why should he care for his looks; there was no other expression in his countenance, than that of irritation from being intruded upon, when he wanted to hear nothing, see nothing more of his brother man; he did not rise, nor even look up, nor return the salutation of Gordon, who continued to stand before him. At last, as if wearied beyond endeavor, he asked, "What do you want of me? Can't you let me alone, even here?"

"I come," said Gordon, to see you, because my daughter told me all you did for her when

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As if touched to the heart, Smith's whole appearance changed; an expression of deep interest came over his features; he was altogether another man. The sullen indifference passed away in an instant. "Are you the father of that little girl?-Oh what a dear child she is! Is she well and happy? How I love to think of her! That's one pleasant thing I have to think of. For once I was treated like other men. Could I kiss her once, I think I should be happier." In this hurried manner he poured out an intensity of feeling, little supposed to lie in the bosom of a condemned felon.

Gordon remained with Smith, whispered to him of peace beyond the grave for the penitent, smoothed in some degree his passage through the dark valley, and did not return to his family until Christian love could do no more for an erring brother, on whom scarcely before had the eye of love rested; whose hand had been against all men, because their hands had been against him.

I have told the story more at length, and interwoven some unimportant circumstances, but it is before you substantially as it was related to me.The main incidents are true; though, doubtless, as the story has been handed down from generation to generation, it has been colored by the imagination. The silver tankard as an heir loom has descended in the family-the property of the daughter named Mehitable, and is now in the possession of the lady of a clergyman in Massachusetts.

What a crowd of thoughts do these incidents cause to rush in upon the mind! How sure is the overcoming of evil with good,-How truly did Jesus Christ know what is in the heart of man,-How true to the best feelings of human nature are even the outcasts of society,-How much of our virtue do we owe to our position among men,-How inconsistent with Christian love is it to put to death our brother, whose crimes arise mainly from the vices and wrong structure of society,- How incessant should be our exertions to disseminate the truth, that the world may be reformed, and the law of love be substituted for the law of force. The reader will not however need our help to make the right use of the guarding of the silver tankard," by the kindness and innocence of a child.

POEMS BY MARY HOWITT.

A FOREST SCENE

IN THE DAYS OF WICKLIFFE.
A little child she read a book
Beside an open door;

And, as she read page after page,
She wonder'd more and more.

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The summer sun shone on the trees,
The deer lay in the shade;
And overhead the singing birds

Their pleasant clamour made.
There was no garden round the house,
And it was low and small,-
The forest sward grew to the door;
The lichens on the wall.

There was no garden round about,

Yet flowers were growing free, The cowslip and the daffodil,

Upon the forest-lea.

The butterfly went flitting by,

The bees were in the flowers;
But the little child sate steadfastly,
As she had sate for hours.

Why sit you here, my little maid?"
An aged pilgrim spake;

The child look'd upward from her book,
Like one but just awake.

Back fell her locks of golden hair,
And solemn was her look,

As thus she answer'd, witlessly,
Oh, sir, I read this book!"

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"And what is there within that book

To win a child like thee ?Up! join thy mates, the merry birds, And frolic with the bee!"

Nay, sir, I cannot leave this book, I love it more than play;-. I've read all legends, but this one Ne'er saw I till this day.

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