T. Buchanan Read.
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ELIZABETH.
Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Red-breast
Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other
That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithely
All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting,
Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only
Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they
were building.
With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Hadden
Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless.
Thus came the lovely spring, with a rush of blossoms and music,
Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal.
Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly
Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims,
Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly Meeting
In the neighbouring town; and with them came riding, John Estaugh.
At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting
Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey
Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of the garden,
Then re-mounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey,
And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid.
But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning
Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh:
"Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee,
Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others;
Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth."
And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together.
It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest;
It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morning
Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance,
As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded:
"I will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee;
I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh."
And John Estaugh made answer, surprised by the words she had spoken:
"Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit;
Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's immaculate whiteness,
Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning,
But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me.
When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labour completed
He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness
Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for His guidance."
Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit,
"So is it best, John Estaugh, we will not speak of it further,
It hath been laid on me to tell thee this, for to-morrow
Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not
When I shall see thee more; but if the Lord hath decreed it,
Thou wilt return again to seek me here, and to find me."
And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others.
Longfellow.
"ASK MAMMA."
A bachelor squire of no great possession, long come to what should have been years of discretion, determined to change his old habits of life, and comfort his days by taking a wife. He had long been the sport of the girls in the place,—they liked his good, simple, quiet, cheery, fat face; and whenever he went to a tea-drinking party, the flirts were in raptures—our friend was so hearty! They'd fasten a cord near the foot of the door, and bring down the jolly old chap on the floor; they'd pull off his wig while he floundered about, and hide it, and laugh till he hunted it out; they would tie his coat-tails to the back of his seat, and scream with delight when he rose to his feet; they would send him at Christmas a box full of bricks, and play on his temper all manner of tricks. One evening they pressed him to play on the flute, and he blew in his eyes a rare scatter of soot! He took it so calmly, and laughed while he spoke, that they hugged him to pardon their nasty "black joke." One really appeared so sincere in her sorrow, that he vowed to himself he would ASK her tomorrow,—and not one of the girls but would envy her lot, if this jolly old bachelor's offer she got; for they never had dreamed of his playing the beau, or doubtless they would not have treated him so. However, next day to fair Fanny's amazement, she saw him approach as she stood at the casement; and he very soon gave her to know his desire, that she should become the dear wife of the squire. "La! now, Mr. Friendly, what would they all say?" but she thought that not one of them all would say nay: she was flustered with pleasure, and coyness, and pride to be thus unexpectedly sued for a bride. She did not refuse him, but yet did not like, to say "Yes," all at once— the hot iron to strike; so to give the proposal the greater eclat, she said, "Dear Mr. Friendly,—you'd best, ask mamma!" Good morning, then, Fanny, I'll do what you say; as she's out, I shall call in the course of the day. Fanny blushed as she gave him her hand for good-bye, and she did not know which to do first—laugh or cry; to wed such a dear darling man, nothing loth; for variety's sake in her joy, she did both! "O, what will mamma say, and all the young girls?" she thought as she played with her beautiful curls. "I wish I had said Yes at once,—'twas too bad—not to ease his dear mind—O, I wish that I had! I wish he had asked me to give him a kiss,—but he can't be in doubt of my feeling—that's bliss! O, I wish that mamma would come for the news; such a good dear kind soul, she will never refuse! There's the bell—here she is…. O, mamma!"—"Child, preserve us! What ails you dear Fanny? What makes you so nervous?" "I really can't tell you just now,—bye and bye Mr. Friendly will call—and he'll tell you—not I." "Mr. Friendly, my child what about him, pray?" "O, mamma,—he's to call—in the course of the day. He was here just this minute,—and shortly you'll see he'll make you as happy as he has made me. I declare he has seen you come home—that's his ring; I will leave you and him, now to settle the thing" Fanny left in a flutter: her mother—the gipsy—she'd made her as giddy as though she'd been tipsy! Mr. Friendly came in, and the widow and he, were soon as delighted as Fanny could be; he asked the dear widow to change her estate;—she consented at once, and a kiss sealed her fate. Fanny came trembling in—overloaded with pleasure—but soon she was puzzled in as great a measure. "Dear Fanny," said Friendly, "I've done what you said," but what he had done, never entered her head—"I've asked your mamma, and she's given her consent;" Fanny flew to his arms to express her content. He kissed her and said,—as he kissed her mamma,—"I'm so glad, my dear Fan, that you like your papa!" Poor Fanny now found out the state of the case, and she blubbered outright with a pitiful face; it was all she could do, under heavy constraint, to preserve herself conscious, and keep off a faint! She determined, next time she'd a chance, you may guess, not to say, "Ask mamma," but at once to say "Yes!"
A. M. Bell.
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