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Barnet's boy left a sack of flour at Archibald's last even. ing. It was one of those evil-minded paper sacks that had a hundred pounds in it.

"Henry, won't you take that flour up in the garret ?'' said Mrs. A. persuasively after supper.

"Ain't it awful heavy ?" and Henry looked at it apprehensively.

“If I was as big as you, I wouldn't talk about any thing being heavy."

“Big, eh? I like the big part of it. Who busted one of the West-Ward cars last summer, I'd like to know ?"

“Old man, you look out now! we are not discussing streetcars. You just grab that sack, and I'll help you with a boost behind."

Henry persuaded the sack on a chair, and from the chair to the table. Then he leaned down, and pulled it over on his shoulder; but it came on him with such a rush, that it jammed him against the kitchen-door, nearly knocking the top of his head in.

“Where are you going ?” screamed Mrs. A. as he staggered back, ramming her over the stove, stepping on the hired girl's corn and the dog's tail in one motion.

“ What are you kicking things around that way for, you benighted old idiot ?”

“Why don't you grab hold of this thing, and steady it, afore it chases a fellow down the cellar? Blamed thing weighs about a ton."

She grabbed the hind end of the sack, and steered Henry to the stairs. They were crooked, and he went up them with caution. At the next turn something stopped him: the miserable sack had fonnd a nail.

“What in sin are you pullin' back for ?"

“Who's a-pullin' back? Go on, you bandy-legged imbecile, afore a person lifts their heart out helping you."

Henry gave a jerk and a grunt. The bag came loose, and ten pounds of flour came down on Mrs. A.'s head. “Whew!--phew!-merciful powers !"

But she was too mad for language, and struck out wildly, hitting Henry just back of the knee, on the leg that had all the strain on it. That leg doubled up like a dissipated dishcloth. He reeled wildly a moinent, and let go the sack, which immediately went down on top of Mrs. Archibald, precipitated her into the kitchen on top of the girl, who went backwards into the basket of clean clothes, at the same time nearly breaking the dog's back with her head. Henry just went backwards into a heap until his head struck the wall at the turn of the stairs; when he rolled over, and sat three steps up, feeling around for the place where his backbone came through with one hand, while he rubbed the flour and stars out of his eyes with the other.

“Old woman, didn't you spill something ?” he meekly inquired.

"O you murderous villain !" and she fired the stove-lifter at him; which, with a woman's usual aim, went out at the window, and knocked over her pet lily.

“Old woman's getting mad, I guess !” and Henry scrambled up into the garret and belted himself in, and leaned out at the end window, inflicting an hour-and-a-half joke on Oxtoby, next door, about the Russians being fond of poultry, because they were going to live on Turkey all summer.


When klingle, klangle, klingle,
Far down the dusty dingle,

The cows are coming home;
Now sweet and clear, now faint and low,
The airy tinklings come and go,
Like chimings from the far-off tower,
Or patterings of an April shower

That makes the daisies grow;
Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle,
Far down the darkening dingle,

The cows come slowly home.
And old-time friends, and twilight plays,
And starry nights and sunny days,
Come trooping up the misty ways

When the cows come home.

With jingle, jangle, jingle,
Soft tones that sweetly minglo-

The cows are coming home;
Malvine, and Pearl, and Florimel,
DeKamp, Red Rose, and Gretchen Schell,
Queen Bess, and Sylph, and Spangled Sue,
Across the fields I hear her " 100-00"

And clang her silver bell;
Go-ling, go-lang, golingledingle,
With faint, far sounds that mingle,

The cows come slowly home.
And mother-songs of long-gone years,
And baby-joys and childish fears,
And youthful hopes and youthful tears,

When the cows come home.
With ringle, rangle, ringle,
By twos and threes and single,

The cows are coming home.
Through violet air we see the town,
And the summer sun a-sliding down,
And the maple in the hazel glade
Throws down the path a longer shade,

And the hills are growing brown;
To-ring, to-rang, toringleringle,
By threes and fours and single,

The cows come slowly home.
The same sweet sound of wordless psalm,
The same sweet June-day rest and calm,
The same sweet smell of buds and balm,

When the cows come home.
With tinkle, tankle, tinkle,
Through fern and periwinkle,

The cows are coming home.
A-loitering in the checkered stream,
Where the sun-rays glance and gleam,
Clarine, Peach-bloom., and Phebe Phillis
Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies,

In a drowsy dream;
To-link, to-lank, tolinklelinkle,
O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle,

The cows come slowly home.
And up through memory's deep ravine
Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen,
And the crescent of the silver queen,

When the cows come home.

With klingle, klangle, klingle,
With loo-oo, and moo-oo, and jingle,

The cows are coming home.
And over there on Merlin Hill
Sounds the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will,
And the dew-drops lie on the tangled vines,
And over the poplars Venus shines,

And over the silent mill.
Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle,
With ting-a-ling and jingle,

The cows come slowly home.
Let down the bars ; let in the train
Of long-gone songs, and flowers, and rain;
For dear old times come back again,

When the cows come home.


Merrily swinging on brier and weed,

Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;
Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.

Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,

Wearing a bright black wedding coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;
Look, what a nice new coat is mine,
Sure there was never a bird so fine.

Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings :

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;
Brood, kind creature; you need not fear
Thieves and robbers while I am here.

Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she,

One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;
Never was I afraid of man;
Catch me, cowardly knaves if you can.

Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;
Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.

Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell

Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seed for the hungry brood.

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;
This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made

Sober with work and silent with care;
Off is his holiday garment laid,
Half forgotten that merry air,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;
Nobody knows but my mate and I
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.

Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown;

Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln 's a humdrum crono; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes :

Bob-o'-link, bob-n'-link,

Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again.

Chee, chee, chee.

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