couldent git along without him no way. Parson Potter | dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his seldom went to confrence meetin, and when he wa'n't there, who was ther' pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all come onto Deacon Bedott-and he was always ready and willin' to do his duty, you know; as long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence meetin'; why, I've knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely crawl on account o' the pain in the spine of his back. He had a wonderful gift, and he wa'n't a man to keep his talents hid up in a napkin-so you see 'twas from a sense o' duty he went when I was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was I? Oh !— If I was sick a single jot, He called the doctor in I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott A wonderful tender heart he had, That felt for all mankind It made him feel amazin' bad To see the world so blind. Whiskey and rum he tasted not That's as true as the Scripturs,-but if you'll believe it, Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house, how't she'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! did you ever! Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything she says. I've knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the truth-beside she always had a pertikkeler spite against husband and me, and between us tew I'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for I make it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin'-distracted after my husband herself, but it's a long story, I'll tell you about it some other time, and then you'll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin' me down. See-where had I got to? Oh, I remember now Whiskey and rum he tasted not He thought it was a sin I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott I never got married agin. But now he's dead! the thought is killin', He never left a single shillin' His widder to console. But that wa'n't his fault-he was so out o' health for a number o' year afore he died, it ain't to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin'-however, it dident give him no great oneasiness-he never cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back-begrudged folks their vittals when they came to his house! did you ever! why, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born days. If I'd such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I'd hold my tongue about my neighbor's husbands. He was al life, and he had an awful high temper-used to swear like all possest when he got mad-and I've heard my husband say, (and he wa'n,t a man that ever said anything that wa'n't true)—I've heard him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! "His widder to console"-ther ain't but one more verse, tain't a very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he "What did you stop so soon for?"--but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby's she thought I'd better a' stopt afore I'd begun-she's a purty critter to talk so, I must say. I'd like to see some poitry o' hern-I guess it would be astonishin' stuff; and mor'n all that, she said there wa'n't a word o' truth in the hull on't-said I never cared tuppence for the deaWhat an everlastin' lie! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal. But that's a painful subject, I won't dwell on't. I conclude as follers : con. I'll never change my single lot I think 't would be a sin The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott Excuse my cryin'-my feelin's always overcomes me FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER. PAT'S CRITICISM. HERE'S a story that's old, But good if twice told, Who cured beast and man On his portal of pine And a lake where a sprite, Was sporting in sweet dishabille. Pat McCarty one day, As he sauntered that way, Saying, "Pat, how is that for a sign?" "There's wan thing," says Pat, But, to make it complate, "Ah! indeed! pray then, tell, To make it look well, What bird do you think it may lack?" Says Pat, "Of the same I've forgotten the name, But the song that he sings is 'Quack! quack!'” CHARLES F. Adams. SOCRATES SNOOKS. ISTER Socrates Snooks, a lord of creation, The second time entered the marriage relation: Xantippe Caloric accepted his hand, And they thought him the happiest man in the land. But scarce had the honeymoon passed o'er his head, When one morning to Xantippe, Socrates said, "I think, for a man of my standing in life, This house is too small, as I now have a wife: So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy.' "Now, Socrates dearest," Xantippe replied, "I hate to hear everything vulgarly my'd; Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again, Say, our cow-house, our barn-yard, our pig-pen." "By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my trees." "Say our," Xantippe exclaimed in a rage. "I won't, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an age!" Oh, woman! though only a part of man's rib, If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib, Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel with you, To ward off the blows which descended like rain- At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate, bed?" "Hah! hah!" she exclaimed, "Mr. Socrates Snooks, I perceive you agree to my terms by your looks: Now, Socrates—hear me—from this happy hour, If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour." 'Tis said the next Sabbath, ere going to church, He chanced for a clean pair of trousers to search: Having found them, he asked, with a few nervous twitches, HERE, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you were this morning. There, you needn't begin to whistle: people don't come to bed to whistle. But it's just like you; I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the best creature living now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows! Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, weren't you? Well, then I don't know what a passion is; and I think I ought to by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that. It's a pity you haven't something worse to complain of than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a needle-and-thread in my hand; what with you and the children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt-what do you say "ah" at? I say once, Mr.. Caudle; or twice, or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudie, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I should like to know where were your buttons then? Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's how you always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and "My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breeches?" then, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to your- turned to me with, "Now, you little rascal, you've selves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. played truant; be off to school, or you'll rue it !" A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's "Alas!" thought I, "it is hard enough to turn a nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A grindstone, but now to be called a little rascal, is too pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if much." It sank deep into my mind, and often have poor women only knew what they had to go through! I thought of it since. When I see a merchant over What with buttons, and one thing and another! They'd polite to his customers, methinks, "That man has an never tie themselves to the best man in the world, I'm ax to grind." What would they do, Mr. Caudle?-Why, do much better without you, I'm certain. sure. And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything! All I know is, it's very odd the button should be off the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd. However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and shan't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And I dare say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love; that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife will look after your buttons! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back. DOUGLAS JERrold. AN AX TO GRIND. HEN I was a little boy, I remember, one cold winter morning I was accosted by a smiling man with an ax on his shoulder. "My pretty boy," said he, "has your father a grindstone?" "Yes, sir." said I. "You are a fine little fellow," said he; will you let me grind my ax on it?" Pleased with the compliment of "fine little fellow," "Oh, yes, sir," I answered; "it is down in the shop." “And will you, my man,” said he, patting me on the head, "get me a little hot water ?" How could I refuse? I ran and soon brought a kettleful. "I am sure," continued he, “you are one of the finest lads that ever I have seen; will you just turn a few minutes for me?" Pleased with the flattery, I went to work; and I toiled and tugged till I was almost tired to death. The school-bell rang, and I could not get away; my hands were blistered, and the ax was not half ground. At length, however, it was sharpened; and the man When I see a man, who is in private life a tyrant, flattering the people, and making great professions of attachment to liberty, methinks, Look out, good people! that fellow would set you turning grindstones !" BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. で KRIS KRINGLE'S SURPRISE. ITH heavy pack upon his back, Kris Kringle waded through the snow, His sack that made him sweat and tug And up and down throughout the town On Christmas eve he asked for leave The woolen stockings he had worn, The cunning boy, on Christmas joy He thought he'd never get them full, Young Johnny Street, the little cheat, HENRY DAVENPORT, |