And your reverence has towld us, unless we tell all,

'Tis worse than not makin' confession at all:

So I'll say, in a word, I'm no very good boy,

And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy."

"Well, I'll read from a book," says Father Molloy,

"The manifold sins that humanity's heir to;

And when you hear those that your conscience annoy, You'll just squeeze my hand, as acknowledging thereto." Then the Father began the dark roll of iniquity,

And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety,

And he gave such a squeeze that the priest gave a roar —

"Oh, murdher!" says Paddy, "don't read any more,

Tut, tut!" says the priest, "you're a very bad man;

For without your forgiveness, and also repentance,

You'll ne'er go to Heaven, and that is my sentence.'

is thrue,

Your reverence's fist will be soon black and blue;

Besides, to be throubled my conscience begins,

That your reverence should have any hand in my sins;

So you'd betther suppose I committed them all,

For whether they're great ones, or whether they're small,

Or if they're a dozen, or if they're fourscore,

'Tis your reverence knows how to absolve them, asthore:

a very hard case,

With your Reverence and Heaven I'm content to make pace;

But with Heaven and your Reverence
I wondher-Och hone,
You would think of comparin' that
blackguard Malone -

But since I'm hard press'd and that
I must forgive,
forgive—if I die—but as sure as I

I

live

still

Fur'z you can look or listen,

Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten.

And peeked in thru' the win

der,

An' there sot Huldy all alone,

'Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side, With half a cord o' wood in

There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)

To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her,
And leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An' in among 'em rusted
The ole queen's-arm that granther
Young

Fetched back from Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in,

Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', And she looked full ez rosy agin

Ez the apples she was peelin'.

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look
On sech a blessed cretur,
A dog-rose blushin' to a brook
Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A 1,

Clean grit, an' human natur'; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,
Hed squired 'em, danced 'eni, druv
'em,
Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells:
All is, he couldn't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run
All crinkly like curled maple,
The side she breshed felt full o' sun
Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed such a swing

Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring. She knowed the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,

When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some!

She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,
A-raspin' on the scraper,-
All ways to once her feelins flew
Like sparks in burnt up, paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,

Some doubtfle o' the sekle, His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk

Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my pa, I s'pose?" "Wal... no ... I come dasignin'"

"To see my ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es

Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals acts so or so,

Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebby to mean yes an' say no

Comes nateral to women.

the powers.

Yet a dwarf on a dead giant's shoulders sees more

Than the 'live giant's eyesight availed to explore;

And in life's lengthen'd alphabet what used to be

To our sires X Y Z is to us A B C. A Vanini is roasted alive for his pains,

But a Bacon comes after and picks up his brains.

A Bruno is angrily seized by the throttle

And hunted about by thy ghost, Aristotle,

Till a More or Lavater step into his place:

Then the world turns and makes an admiring grimace.

THE ERRATIC GENIUS. WITH irresolute finger he knock'd at each one

Of the doorways of life, and abided in none.

His course, by each star that would cross it, was set,

And whatever he did he was sure to regret,

That target, discuss'd by the travellers of old,

Which to one appear'd argent, to one appear'd gold,

To him, ever lingering on Doubt's dizzy margent, Appeared in one moment both golden and argent.

The man who seeks one thing in life, and but one,

May hope to achieve it before life be done;

But he who seeks all things, wherever

he goes, Only reaps from the hopes which around him he sows