Volume I Part 3 (2/2)

”Yes, sir.”

”And you say you're an American?”

”Yes, sir.”

”From what part of America?”

”United States, sir.”

”What State?”

”New Hamps.h.i.+re, sir.”

”Town?”

”Exeter, sir.”

Hawthorne looked at him for a minute before asking him the next question. ”Who sold the best apples in your town?”

”Skim-milk Folsom, sir,” said the boy, with glistening eye, as the old familiar by-word brought up the dear old scenes of home.

”It's all right,” said Hawthorne to the clerk; ”give him a pa.s.sage.”

ONE BETTER

Long after the victories of Was.h.i.+ngton over the French and English had made his name familiar to all Europe, Doctor Franklin chanced to dine with the English and French Amba.s.sadors, when, as nearly as the precise words can be recollected, the following toasts were drunk:

”England'--The _Sun_, whose bright beams enlighten and fructify the remotest corners of the earth.”

The French Amba.s.sador, filled with national pride, but too polite to dispute the previous toast, drank the following:

”France'--The _Moon_, whose mild, steady and cheering rays are the delight of all nations, consoling them in darkness and making their dreariness beautiful.”

Doctor Franklin then arose, and, with his usual dignified simplicity, said:

”George Was.h.i.+ngton'--The Joshua who commanded the Sun and Moon to stand still, and they obeyed him.”

MY AUNT

My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!

Long years have o'er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp That binds her virgin zone; I know it hurts her--though she looks As cheerful as she can; Her waist is ampler than her life, For life is but a span.

My aunt, my poor deluded aunt!

Her hair is almost gray; Why will she train that winter curl In such a spring-like way?

How can she lay her gla.s.ses down, And say she reads as well, When, through a double convex lens, She just makes out to spell?

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