three apposite quotations. The first is from a Father of the Roman Church, the second from a Father of the Anglican, and the third from a Father of modern English poetry. The Puritan divines would furnish me with many more such. St. Bernard says, Sapiens nummularius est Deus: nummum fictum non recipiet; "A cunning money-changer is God: he will take in no base coin." Latimer says, "You shall perceive that God, by this example, shaketh us by the noses and taketh us by the ears." Familiar enough, both of them, one would say! But I should think Mr. Biglow had verily stolen the last of the two maligned passages from Dryden's "Don Sebastian," where I find "And beg of Heaven to charge the bill on me!" And there I leave the matter, being willing to believe that the Saint, the Martyr, and even the Poet, were as careful of God's honor as my critics are ever likely to be. J. R. L. THE COURTIN'. GOD makes sech nights, all white an' still Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown A fireplace filled the room 's one side There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, The ole queen's-arm thet gran❜ther Young The very room, coz she was in, "T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look He was six foot o' man, A 1, He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, But long o' her his veins 'ould run She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir ; My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher. An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upun it. Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, All ways to once her feelins flew He kin' o' l'itered on the mat An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal.. no I come dasignin' "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." To say why gals acts so or so, He stood a spell on one foot fust, An' on which one he felt the wust Says he, "I'd better call agin; When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, For she was jes' the quiet kind Like streams that keep a summer mind The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'. |