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dinner; my watch strung out three days' grace to four and let me go to protest; I gradually drifted back into yesterday, then day before, then into last week, and by-and-by the comprehension came upon me that all solitary and alone I was lingering along in week before last, and the world was out of sight. I seemed to detect in myself a sort of sneaking fellow-feeling for the mummy in the museum, and a desire to swop news with him. I went to a watchmaker again. He took the watch all to pieces while I waited, and then said the barrel was “swelled.” He said he could reduce it in three days. After this the watch averaged well, but nothing more. For half a day it would go like the very mischief, and keep up such a barking and wheezing and whooping and sneezing and snorting, that I could not hear myself think for the disturbance; and as long as it held out there was not a watch in the land that stood any chance against it. But the rest of the day it would keep on slowing down and fooling along until all the clocks it had left behind caught up again. So at last, at the end of twenty-four hours, it would trot up to the judges' stand all right and just in time. It would show a fair and square average, and no man could say it had done more or less than its duty. But a correct average is only a mild virtue in a watch and I took this instrument to another watchmaker. He said the kingbolt was broken. I said I was glad it was nothing more serious. To tell the plain truth, I had no idea what the kingbolt was, but I did not choose to appear ignorant to a stranger. He repaired the kingbolt, but what the watch gained in one way it lost in another. It would run awhile and then stop awhile, and then run awhile again, and so on, using its own discretion about the intervals. And erery time it went off it kicked back like a musket. I padded my breast for a few days, but finally took the watch to another watchmaker. He picked it all to pieces, and turned the ruin over and over under his glass; and then he said there appeared to be something the matter with the hair-trigger. He fixed it, and gave it a fresh start. It did well now, except that always at ten minutes to ten the hands would shut together like a pair of scissors, and from that time forth they would travel together. The oldest man in the world could not make out the time of day by such a watch, and so I went again to have the thing repaired. This person said that the crystal had got bent, and that the mainspring was not straight. He also remarked that part of the works needed half-soling. He made these things all right, and then my timepiece performed unexceptionably, save that now and then she would reel off the next twenty-four hours in six or seven minutes, and then stop with a bang. I went with a heavy heart to one more watchmaker, and looked on while he took her to pieces. Then I prepared to cross-question him rigidly, for this thing was getting serious. The watch had cost two hundred dollars originally, and I seemed to have paid out two or three thousand for repairs. While I waited and looked on I presently recognized in this watchmaker an old acquaintance-a steamboat engineer of other days, and not a good engineer either. He examined all the parts carefully, just as the other watchmakers had done, and then delivered his verdict with the same confidence of manner.

He said"She makes too much steam-you want to hang the monkeywrench on the safety-valve!"

I foored him on the spot.

My uncle William (now deceased, alas!) used to say that a good horse was a good horse until it had run away once, and that a good watch was a good watch until the repairers got a chance at it.


Those evening bells! those evening bells !
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!
Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone, -
That tuneful peal will still ring on;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.


“ You can't help the baby, parson,

But still I want ye to go
Down an' look in upon her,

An' read an' pray, you know,
Only last week she was skippin' 'round

A pullin' my whiskers 'n' hair,
A climbin' up to the table

Into her little high chair.
“The first night that she took it

When her little cheeks grew red,
When she kissed good night to papa,

And went away to bed-
Sez she,' 'Tis headache, papa,

Be better in mornin'-bye;'
An' somethin' in how she said it,

Just made me want to cry.
“But the mornin' brought the fever,

And her little hands were hot,
An' the pretty red uv her cheeks

Grew into a crimson spot,
But she laid there jest ez patient

Ez ever a woman could,
Takin' whatever we give her

Better 'n a grown woman would.
“The days are terrible long an' slow,

An' she's growin' wus in each;
And now she's jest a slippin'

Clear away out uv our reach.
Every night when I kiss her,

Tryin' hard not to cry,
She says in a way that kills me-

'Be better in mornin'-bye.'
“She can't get thro' the night, parson,

So I want ye to come an' pray,
And talk with mother a little-

You'll know jest what to say ;-
Not that the baby needs it,

Nor that we make any complaint
That God seems to think He's needin'

The smile uy the little saint."
I walked along with the Corporal

To the door of his humble home,

To which the silent messenger

Before me had also come,
And if I had been a titled prince,

I would not have been honored more
Than I was with his heartfelt welcome

To his lowly cottage door. Night falls again in the cottage;

They move in silence and dread Around the room where the baby

Lies panting upon her bed. “Does baby know papa, darling ?”

And she moves her little face
With answer that she knows him;

But scarce a visible trace
Of her wonderful infantile beauty

Remains as it was before-
The unseen, silent messenger

Had waited at the door. “Papa-kiss-baby ;-I'se so tired.”

The man bows low his face,
And two swollen hands are lifted

In baby's last embrace.
And into her father's grizzled beard

The little red fingers cling,
While her husky whispered tenderness

Tears from a rock would wring, * Baby-is-80-sick-papa

But-don't-want you to cry;"
The little hands fall on the coverlet-

And night around the baby is falling,

Settling down hard and dense;
Does God need their darling in heaven

That He must carry her hence?
I prayed, with tears in my voice

As the Corporal solemnly knelt With grief such as never before

His great warın heart had felt. Oh, frivolous men and women!

Do you know that round you, and nighAlike from the humble and haughty

Goeth up evermore the cry:
“My child, my precious, my darling,

How can I let
Oh! hear ye the white lips whisper-


you die!"


ELIZABETH STUART Phelps. The following is a vivid description of the terrible disaster which took place at Lawrence, Mass., January 10, 1860. It is taken from “ The Tenth of January," a story of love, jealousy, and heroism, ending in the awful sacrifice here por. trayed. The entire story can be found in a work by the same author, entitled "Mex, WOMEN AND GHOSTS," published by James R. Osgood & Co.

(The writer describes Lawrence as “ unique in its way," and says,"Of the twenty-five thousand souls who mhabit that city, ten thousand are operatives in the factories. Of these ten thousand two-thirds are girls.

Asenath Martyn was slightly built and undersized. The children used to cry out, Tumpback! Humpback!” and people in passing would say, “Look at that girl!" Her face was gravely lined, but womanly and pleasant. The autbor says, "She puzzled one at the first glauce, and at the second. An artist, meeting her musing on a canal-bridge one day, went home and painted a May-flower budding in February." The world had, indeed, dealt harshly with her. Her deformity had been caused by a blow at the hands of a drunken mother. Sene remembered that, and her unhappy childhood,-and when the wretched mother had met a violent death,-she also remembered having heard some one say at the funeral, “ How glad Seue must be!". Since that, life had meant three things,- her father, the mills, and Richard Cross. The latter had, by chance, become a resident of the same home with Sene and her old father. A tender sympathy, combined with a oneness of interests, soon ripened into love and resulted in an engagement.

After a time, Sene discovered that Dick's affections were being drawn away from herself and centered upon Del Ivory, a pretty, fascinating, giddy creature, whose beauty she sometimes envied, but whose frivolity she despised. Dick, not knowing his secret was discovered, was too lionorable to think of breaking his engagement, and consequently attempted to resist and suppress his new love by avoiding Del and redunbling his attentions to Sene. The latter had long been trying to release hin, but could not find the courage to do so; and he, seeing that she suffered, wearied himself with plans to make her eyes shine; and did she try to speak her wretched secret, he suffocated her with kindness, and struck her dumb with tender words. It was the morning after the last of these ineffectual attempts on Sene's part that this reading opens.)

The silent city steeped and bathed itself in rose-tints; the river ran red, and the snow crimsoned on the distant New Hampshire hills; Pemberton, mute and cold, frowned across the disk of the climbing sun, and dripped, as she had seen it drip before, with blood.

The day broke softly, the snow melted, the wind blew warm from the river. The factory-bеll chimed cheerily, and a few sleepers, in safe, luxurious beds, were wakened by hearing the girls sing on their way to work. * * *

* Sene was a little dizzy that morning,—the constant palpitation of the floors always made her dizzy after a wakeful night,-and so her colored cotton threads danced out of place, and troubled her.

Del Ivory, working beside her, said, “How the mill shakes1 What's going on ?"



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