voice was broken; she only said,        "Have pity, Richard, and let me go!"       And then—Heaven gave me strength, I think—        I stood before them calm and still; You might have thought my tranquil breast Had never known one passion-thrill. And they alternate flushed and paled; Rose tottered, and I feared would fall; I caught her in supporting arms, And whispered, "Rose, I heard it all.       "I had a dream, but it is passed, That we might journey, hand in hand Along the rugged steeps of life, Until we reached God's promised land.       "This was my dream;—'tis over now;—        Thank Heaven, it is not yet too late! I pray no selfish act of mine May keep two young hearts separate."       I placed her passive hand in his—        With how much pain God only knows—      And blessing him for her sweet sake, I left him standing with my Rose! 

  

       PHOEBE'S WOOING.     

      "PHOEBE! Phoebe! Where is the chit? When I want her most she's out of the way. Child, you're running a long account Up, to be squared on Judgment-day.       "Where have you been? and what have you there?"        "To the pasture for buttercups wet with dew."      "My patience! I think you are out of your wits; I wonder what good will buttercups do?       "There's pennyroyal you might have got,—        It might have been useful to you or me, But I never heard, in all my life, Of buttercup cordial or buttercup tea.       "I want you to stay and mind the bread, I've just put two loaves in the oven to bake; When they are clone take them carefully out, And put in their place this loaf of cake,       "While I run over to Widow Brown's; Her son, from the mines, has just got back. I don't believe he's a cent in his purse, Young men are so shiftless now, alack!       "It was very different when I was young;        Young men were prudent, and girls were wise; You wouldn't catch them gadding about Like so many idle butterflies."       So bustled and scolded the worthy dame, Until she had passed the outer sill, To do her justice, it seldom chanced That her hands were idle, or tongue was still. 

      So Phoebe gathered her knitting up, And sat her down in the chimney niche; But her mind was on other thoughts intent, And here and there she dropped a stitch. The yellow kitten purred on the hearth, While the kitchen clock, with its frame of oak, In the corner stood, like a sentinel,      

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