It makes me sigh to think on it, but yet
My days will not be better days, should I forget.
When I remember something promised me,

But which I never had, nor can have now,
Because the promiser we no more see

In countries that accord with mortal vow;
When I remember this, I mourn,-but yet
My happier days are not the days when I forget.

THE DEATH OF THE OLD SQUIRE.

Twas a wild, mad kind of night, as black as the bottomless pit;

The wind was howling away, like a Bedlamite in a fit, Tearing the ash boughs off, and mowing the poplars down, In the meadows beyond the old flour mill, where you turn off to the town.

And the rain (well, it did rain) dashing against the window glass,

And deluging on the roof, as the Devil were come to pass; The gutters were running in floods outside the stable-door, And the spouts splashed from the tiles, as they would never give o'er.

Lor', how the winders rattled! you'd almost ha' thought that thieves

Were wrenching at the shutters; while a ceaseless pelt of leaves

Flew to the doors in gusts; and I could hear the beck

Falling so loud I knew at once it was up to a tall man's neck.

We was huddling in the harness-room, by a little scrap of fire,

And Tom, the coachman, he was there, a-practicing for the choir;

But it sounded dismal, anthem did, for squire was dying fast, And the doctor said, Do what he would, Squire's breaking up at last.

The death-watch, sure enough, ticked loud just over th' owd mare's head;

Though he had never once been heard up there since master's boy lay dead;

And the only sound, beside Tom's toon, was the stirring in the stalls,

And the gnawing and the scratching of the rats in the owd walls. NNNN

We couldn't hear Death's foot pass by, but we knew that he was near;

And the chill rain and the wind and cold made us all shake

with fear;

We listened to the clock up-stairs, 'twas breathing soft and low,

For the nurse said, At the turn of night the old Squire's soul would go.

Master had been a wildish man, and led a roughish life; Didn't he shoot the Bowton squire, who dared write to his wife?

He beat the Rads at Hindon Town, I heard, in twenty-nine, When every pail in market-place was brimmed with red port wine.

And as for hunting, bless your soul, why for forty year or

more

He'd kept the Marley hounds, man, as his fayther did afore; And now to die, and in his bed-the season just begun"It made him fret," the doctor said," as it might do any one."

And when the young sharp lawyer came to see him sign his will,

Squire made me blow my horn outside as we were going to kill;

And we turned the hounds out in the court-that seemed to do him good;

For he swore, and sent us off to seek a fox in Thornhill Wood.

But then the fever it rose high, and he would go see the

room

Where mistress died ten years ago when Lammastide shall come;

I mind the year, because our mare at Salisbury broke down; Moreover the town-hall was burnt at Steeple Dinton Town.

It might be two, or half-past two, the wind seemed quite asleep;

Tom, he was off, but I, awake, sat watch and ward to keep; The moon was up, quite glorious like, the rain no longer fell, When all at once out clashed and clanged the rusty turret bell.

That hadn't been heard for twenty year, not since the Luddite days.

Tom he leaped up, and I leaped up, for all the house a-blaze Had sure not scared us half as much, and out we ran like

mad,

I, Tom, and Joe, the whipper-in, and t' little stable lad.

"He's killed himself," that's the idea that came into my head; I felt as sure as though I saw Squire Barrowly was dead; When all at once a door flew back, and he met us face to face;

His scarlet coat was on his back, and he looked like the old

race.

The nurse was clinging to his knees, and crying like a child, The maids were sobbing on the stairs, for he looked fierce and wild;

"Saddle me Lightning Bess, my men," that's what he said to me;

"The moon is up, we're sure to find at Stop or Etterly.

"Get out the dogs; I'm well to-night, and young again and sound,

I'll have a run once more before they put me under-ground; They brought my father home feet first, and it never shall be said

That his son Joe, who rode so straight, died quietly in his bed. "Brandy!" he cried; "a tumbler full, you women howling there;"

Then clapped the old black velvet cap upon his long gray hair,

Thrust on his boots, snatched down his whip, though he was old and weak;

There was a devil in his eye that would not let me speak.

We loosed the dogs to humor him, and sounded on the horn; The moon was up above the woods, just east of Haggard Bourne;

I buckled Lightning's throat lash fast; the Squire was watching me;

He let the stirrups down himself so quick, yet carefully.

Then up he got and spurred the mare, and, ere I well could mount

He drove the yard gate open, man, and called to old Dick Blount,

Our huntsman, dead five years ago-for the fever rose again, And was spreading like a flood of flame fast up into his brain.

Then off he flew before the dogs, yelling to call us on, While we stood there, all pale and dumb, scarce knowing he was gone;

We mounted, and below the hill we saw the fox break out, And down the covert ride we heard the old Squire's parting shout.

And in the moonlit meadow mist we saw him fly the rail Beyond the hurdles by the beck, just half way down the vale;

I saw him breast fence after fence-nothing could turn him back;

And in the moonlight after him streamed out the brave old pack.

'Twas like a dream, Tom cried to me, as we rode free and fast,

Hoping to turn him at the brook, that could not well be passed,

For it was swollen with the rain; but ah, 'twas not to be; Nothing could stop old Lightning Bess but the broad breast of the sea.

The hounds swept on, and well in front the mare had got her stride;

She broke across the fallow land that runs by the down side; We pulled up on Chalk Linton Hill, and as we stood us there, Two fields beyond we saw the Squire fall stone dead from the

mare.

Then she swept on, and in full cry the hounds went out of sight;

A cloud came over the broad moon and something dimmed our sight,

As Tom and I bore master home, both speaking under breath; And that's the way I saw th' owd Squire ride boldly to his death.

-Baltimore Elocutionist.

THE RAINY DAY.-HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering past.
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

A RAILWAY STATION IN THE NORTH OF ENGLAND. WILLIAM ANDERSON.

SCENE. THE PLATFORM, ALL BUSTLE AND CONFusion.

Paper Boy (calling loud and quick).-Manchester Examiner, Manchester Guardian, Leeds Mercury, Bradford Observer, Standard, Times, Daily News, Yorkshire Post, Bradshaw & Dinton's Time Tables. [Repeat.]

Porter. The other side for Shipley, Bradford, and Leeds.

Old Woman (rather deaf).—I say which is't booking office? Is this t'place where they give tickets? Have you begun giving tickets?

Agent.-No, we haven't begun giving 'em yet; its where we sell 'em; what do you want, missis?

Old W.-I want a ticket.

Agt.-Where for?

Old W.-What? I want a third class ticket.
Agt.-There's no third class by this train.

Old W.-Ah's that? but I want a third class.

Agt.-Well, you can't have a third class, because

Old W.-What? What do you say? Can't have one? Oh, these railways, I cannot abide 'em; I reckon nowt on 'em. I'd rayther ride e ahr applecart an' then we knaw where we are. How long hev I to wait for a third class?

Agt.—Where are you going, missis?

Old W.-Why, I'm going to see my grondaughter; sho's varry poorly.

Agt.-Ah well, but where does she live? What place do you want to go to?

Old W.-Why its-its somewhere near-bless my life, I've clean forgotten! Oh, its ather this side or tother side of Doncaster.

Agt.-Why there's a train just gone that way. There isn't another for an hour.

Old W.-So long as that? I'st that t'nixt train?

Agt.-Yes, that is the "nixt."

Old W.-Isn't there one afore?

Porter.-Train for Skipton, Colne Settle, and Lancaster.