To seek surcease from sorrer in a fur, seclooded

Only to find that there air things that, somehow,

seem to live

For nothin' in the world but jest the misery they

give!

I've travelled eighteen hundred miles, but that toon has got here first;

I'm done, I'm blowed, I welcome death, an'

Ibid it do its worst!"

Then, like a man whose mind wuz sot on yieldin' to his fate,

He waltzed up to the counter an' demanded whiskey straight,

Wich havin' got outside uv, both the likker and

We never seen that stranger in the bloom uv health

no more!

But some months later, what the birds had left uv

him wuz found

Associated with a tree, some distance from the ground;

And Husky Sam, the coroner, that set upon him,

said

That two things wuz apparent, namely: first, deceast wuz dead;

And, second, previously had got involved beyond all hope

In a knotty complication with a yard or two uv

rope!

MEDIEVAL EVENTIDE SONG.

COME

'OME hither, lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night,

For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt

white,

And yonder sings ye angell as onely angells may, And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.

To them that have no lyttel childe Godde sometimes sendeth down

A lyttel childe that ben a lyttel lambkyn of his owne; And if so bee they love that childe, He willeth it

to staye,

But elsewise, in His mercie He taketh it awaye.

And sometimes, though they love it, Godde yearneth for ye childe,

And sendeth angells singing, whereby it ben be

guiled;

They fold their arms about ye lamb that croodleth at his play,

And beare him to ye garden that bloometh farre awaye.

I wolde not lose ye lyttel lamb that Godde hath lent to me;

If I colde sing that angell songe, how joysome I sholde bee!

For, with mine arms about him, and my musick in

his eare,

What angell songe of paradize soever sholde I feare?

Soe come, my lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night,

For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white, And yonder sings that angell, as onely angells may, And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.

MARTHY'S YOUNKIT.

THE

HE mountain brook sung lonesomelike, and loitered on its way

Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play; The wild-flowers uv the hillside bent down their

heads to hear

The music uv the little feet that had somehow

grown so dear;

The magpies, like winged shadders, wuz a-flutterin' to an' fro

Among the rocks an' holler stumps in the ragged gulch below;

The pines an' hemlocks tosst their boughs (like they wuz arms) and made

Soft, sollum music on the slope where he had often played;

But for these lonesome, sollum voices on the moun

tain-side,

There wuz no sound the summer day that Marthy's younkit died.