"Don't talk that way,' says he; 'let's go up and fire a cupple barrels more into the blastid rebbils, fur vengenz.'
"No yer don't, this mornin', as I knows on,' said I; 'I've got enough shootin craws your fashun. Next time I go shootin' crows 'long any boddy, I'm goin' to do it Christian-fashun, with gun-barrils, and not blastid old flour-barrils filled with gravil. That kind o' shootin' don't suit my style o' bones—'speehally head-fo'most inter a dead kaow!"
'On-ly four crows killt!' said the Squire, with a groan. 'To think what a feller might have done, if he had only have spread his-self judishuslously as he came tumblin' onto 'em spang! Wal!' (looking cheeringly to young Tyler,) 'you couldn't do more'n fire both barrils into 'em, ef they was flour-barrils, could you?'
THE LEGEND OF JESUS AND THE MOSS.
In the desert of Engedi
Lies a valley deep and lone;
Softly there the mild air slumbered,
Lovely there the sunlight shone.
In the bosom of this valley,
By the path that leads across,
Lay a modest velvet carpet
Of the finest, softest moss.
But the careless traveler, passing,
Heedless of it went his way;
Thus this miracle of beauty
Lone in hidden glory lay.
Bloom and sunshine, sweeter, brighter,
Him from distant mountains greet;
On to that the stranger hurries,
Past the moss-bed at his feet.
Then the moss-bed sighed, complaining
To the evening dew that fell;
And its tufted bosom heaving,
Thus its 'plains began to tell:
'Ah! men love you, bloom and sunshine,
Long its rosy glow to see,
Feed their eyes on luring flowers
Whilst their feet tread rude on me!'
Now, when mellow rays of sunset
Lingered golden on the trees,
Came a weary pilgrim slowly
From the bordering forest leas.
This was Jesus, just returning
From his fast of forty days;
Worn by Satan's fierce temptations,
He for rest and comfort prays.
Sore his sacred feet are blistered,
Wandering o'er the desert-sands;
Torn and bleeding from the briers,
Sufferings which the curse demands.
When he came upon the moss-bed,
Soon he felt how cool and sweet
Lay the soft and velvet carpet
'Neath his wounded, bleeding feet.
'Then he paused and spake this blessing:
'Gift of my kind Father's love!
Fret not, little plant, thy record
Shineth in the book above.
By the careless eye unheeded,
Bear thy lowly, humble lot;
Thou hast eased my weary walking,
Thou art ne'er in heaven forgot.'
Scarcely had he breathed this blessing
On the moss that soothed his woes,
When upon its bosom gathered,
Budded, bloomed, a lovely rose!
And its petals glowed with crimson
Like the clouds at close of day;
And a glory on the mosses
Like the smile of cherubs lay.
Then said Jesus to the flower:
'Moss-rose—this thy name shall be—
Spread thou o'er all lands, the sweetest
Emblem of humility.
Out of lowly mosses budding,
Which have soothed a pilgrim's pain,
Thou shalt tell the world what honor
All the lowly, lovely gain.'
Hear his words, ye lonely children,
By the world unseen, unknown;
Wait ye for the suffering pilgrim,
Coming weary, faint, and lone.
Keep your hearts still soft and tender,
Like the velvet bed of moss;
God will bless the love you render,
To some bearer of the cross.
In our May number we spoke old Englishly of the Boston demoiselle. In the present number we have:
YE PHILADELPHIA YOUNGE LADYE.
Ye Philadelphia young ladye 1s not evir of ruddie milke and blonde hew, like unto hir cosyn of Boston, natheless is shee not browne as a chinkapinn or persymon like unto ye damosylles of Baltimore. Even and clere is hir complexioun, seldom paling, and not often bloshing, whyeh is a good thynge for those who bee fonde of kissing, sith that if ther mothers come in sodanely ther checkes wyll not be sinful tell-tayles of swete and secrete deeds. Of whych matter of blushing itt is gretely to the credyt of the Philadelphienne that shee blosheth not muche, sith that Aldrovandus, and as methynketh also, Mizaldus in his Mirabile Centuries, doe affirme thatt not to bloshe is a sign of noble bloods and gentyl lineage—for itt may bee planely seene that every base-borne churle's daughter blosheth, if thatt yee give hir a poke under ye chinn, whereas ye countesse of highe degre only smileth sweetlie and sayth merily, 'Aha! messire—tu voys que mon joly couer est endormy!' for shee well knoweth that a gentyllman, like ye kynge, can doe noe wronge.