316 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. "And I did not come out ?" "No! You know you didn't!" "There was an excellent reason for that, my dear. I wasn't there," said Centre, calmly. "You weren't there, you wretch! How dare you tell me such an abominable lie! But I have found you out. You go there every day, yes, twice, three times, a day! I know your amiable cousin, now! She can lie as well as you!" "How dare you tell me such a lie! You have been with Sophia all the evening. She is a nasty baggage!" Nay, Mrs. Centre, you are mistaken," interposed Mrs. Wallis. "Mr. Centre has been with me in this room all the evening." Street ?" "What! didn't I see him go out, and follow him to C "No, my dear, I haven't been out this evening. I changed my mind." Just then Wallis entered the room with that peculiar Kossuth on his head, and the mystery was explained. Mrs. Centre was not a little confused, and very much ashamed of herself. Wallis had been in Smithers' library smoking a cigar, and had not seen Sophia. Her statement that she had not seen Centre for a month was strictly true, and Mrs. Centre was obliged to acknowledge that she had been jealous without a cause, though she was not "let into " the plot of Wallis. But Centre should have known better than to tell his wife what a pretty, intelligent, amiable, and kind-hearted girl Sophia was. No husband should speak well of any lady but his wife. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. ALFRED TENNYSON. ULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, Toll ye the church-bell, sad and slow, Old year, you must not die; You came to us so readily, He lieth still; he doth not move; He will not see the dawn of day; He gave me a friend, and a true, true love, He frothed his bumpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see. Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, Old year, if you must die. He was full of joke and jest; But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes! o'er the snow Shake hands before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin;— Close up his eyes, tie up his chin, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, BARBARA FRIETCHIE JOHN G. WHITTIER. P from the meadows rich with corn, Forty flags with their silver stars, Green-walled by the hills of Mary Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, land. Round about them orchards sweep, Fair as a garden of the Lord, To the eyes of the famished rebel horde. On that pleasant morn of the early Fall, Over the mountains winding down, Bowed with her four-score years and ten; In her attic-window the staff she set. Up the street came the rebel tread, Under his slouched hat left and right R CIVIL WAR. IFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot Straight at the heart of yon prowling vedette; Ring me a ball in the glittering spot That shines on his breast like an amulet!" "Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, There's music around when my barrel's in tune!" Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. "Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes and snatch From your victim some trinket to hansel first blood; A button, a loop, or that luminous patch That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!" "Oh captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track, When I gazed on the face of that fallen vedette, 320 THE DEACON'S PRAYER. Go, hear what I have heard,— The sobs of sad despair, As memory's feeling fount hath stirred, And its revealings there Have told him what he might have been, Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen. Go to my mother's side, And her crushed spirit cheer; Thine own deep anguish hide, Wipe from her cheek the tear; Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, And led her down from love and light, Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know Tell me I hate the bowl,- I loathe, abhor, my very soul |