Part 29 (2/2)

Ere the sleep that knows no wakin' comes to waft us o'er the stream, Some great power may be takin' all the self-conceit from steam.

Well do we remember, Betsey, when the post-man carried mails, Ridin' horseback through the forest 'long the lonely Indian trails, How impatiently we waited--we were earnest lovers then-- For our letters comin' slowly, many miles through wood and glen.

Many times, you know, we missed them--for the post-man never came-- Then, not knowin' what had happened, we did each the other blame; Long those lover quarrels lasted, but the G.o.d who melts the proud Brought our strayin' hearts together and let suns.h.i.+ne through the cloud.

Then at last the tidings reached us that the faithful post-man fell Before the forest savage with his wild terrific yell, And your letters lay and moldered, while the sweet birds sang above, And I was savin' bitter things about a woman's love.

Long and tedious were the journeys--few and far between, the mails, In the days when we were courtin'--when we thrashed with wooden flails; Now the white winged cars are flyin' long the sh.o.r.es of inland seas.

And younger lovers read _their_ letters 'mid luxury and ease.

We have witnessed many changes in our three-score years and ten; We no longer sit and wonder at the discoveries of men; In the shadow of life's evenin' we rejoice that our dear boys Are not called to meet the hards.h.i.+ps that embittered half our joys.

Like the old mail through the forest, youthful years go slowly by; Like the fast mail of the present, manhood's years how swift they fly; We are sitting in the shadows; soon shall break life's brittle cord-- Soon shall come the welcome summons by the fast mail of the Lord.

STORY OF THE LITTLE RID HIN.

BY MRS. WHITNEY.

Well, thin, there was once't upon a time, away off in the ould country, livin' all her lane in the woods, in a wee bit iv a house be herself, a little rid hin. Nice an' quiet she was, and niver did no kind o' harrum in her life. An' there lived out over the hill, in a din o' the rocks, a crafty ould felly iv a fox. An' this same ould villain iv a fox, he laid awake o' nights, and he prowled around shly iv a day-time, thinkin' always so busy how he'd git the little rid hin, an' carry her home an' bile her up for his shupper. But the wise little rid hin niver went intil her bit iv a house, but she locked the door afther her and pit the kay in her pocket. So the ould rashkill iv a fox, he watched, an' he prowled, an' he laid awake nights, till he came all to skin an' bone, an' sorra a ha'porth o' the little rid hin could he git at. But at lasht there came a shcame intil his wicked ould head, an' he tuk a big bag one mornin', over his shouldher, an'

he says till his mother, says he, ”Mother, have the pot all bilin' agin' I come home, for I'll bring the little rid hin to-night for our shupper.” An'

away he wint, over the hill, an' came c.r.a.pin' shly an' soft through the woods to where the little rid hin lived in her shnug bit iv a house. An'

shure, jist at the very minute that he got along, out comes the little rid hin out iv the door, to pick up shticks to bile her tay-kettle. ”Begorra, now, but I'll have yees,” says the shly ould fox, an' in he shlips, unbeknownst, intil the house, an' hides behind the door. An' in comes the little rid hin, a minute afther, with her ap.r.o.n full of shticks, an' shuts too the door an' locks it, an' pits the kay in her pocket. An' thin she turns round,--an' there stands the baste iv a fox in the corner. Well, thin, what did she do, but jist dhrop down her shticks, and fly up in a great fright and flutter to the big bame acra.s.s the inside o' the roof, where the fox couldn't git at her!

”Ah, ha!” says the fox, ”I'll soon bring you out o' that!” An' he began to whirrul round, an' round, an' round, fashter, an' fashter, an' fashter, on the floor, afther his big, bushy tail, till the little rid hin got so dizzy wid lookin', that she jist tumbled down aff the bame, and the fox whipped her up and popped her intil his bag, and stharted off home in a minute. An'

he wint up the wood and down the wood, half the day long, with the little rid hin shut up shmotherin' in the bag. Sorra a know she knowed where she was at all, at all. She thought she was all biled an' ate up, an' finished shure! But, by an' by, she remimbered herself, an' pit her hand in her pocket, an' tuk out her little bright scissors, and shnipped a big hole in the bag behind, an' out she leapt, an' picked up a big shtone an' popped it intil the bag, an' rin aff home, an' locked the door.

An' the fox he tugged away up over the hill, with the big stone at his back thumpin' his shouldhers, thinkin' to himself how heavy the little rid hin was, an' what a fine shupper he'd have. An' whin he came in sight iv his din in the rocks' and shpied his ould mother awatchin' for him at the door, he says, ”Mother! have ye the pot bilin'?” An' the ould mother says, ”Sure, an' it is; an' have ye the little rid hin?” ”Yes, jist here in me bag. Open the lid o' the pot till I pit her in,” says he.

An' the ould mother fox she lifted the lid o' the pot, an' the rashkill untied the bag, and hild it over the pot o' bilin' wather, an' shuk in the big, heavy shtone. An' the bilin' wather shplashed up all over the rogue iv a fox, an' his mother, an' schalded them both to death. An' the little rid hin lived safe in her house foriver afther.

ONLY A SONG.

It was only a simple ballad, Sung to a careless throng; There were none that knew the singer, And few that heeded the song; Yet the singer's voice was tender And sweet as with love untold; Surely those hearts were hardened That it left so proud and cold.

She sang of the wondrous glory That touches the woods in spring, Of the strange, soul-stirring voices When ”the hills break forth and sing;”

Of the happy birds low warbling The requiem of the day, And the quiet hush of the valleys In the dusk of the gloaming gray.

And one in a distant corner-- A woman worn with strife-- Heard in that song a message From the spring-time of her life.

Fair forms rose up before her From the mist of vanished years; She sat in a happy blindness, Her eyes were veiled in tears.

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