I have a little rival named Ada, she clings to a | The handsomest fellow!-- Heaven bless him! promise that Harry made her, setting the girls all wild to possess him, "To build her a house all full of doors," and live | With his dark mustache and hazel eyes, and with her there some day; cigars in those pretty lips! But Ada is growing lank and thin, --they say O, do you think he will quite forget me, do you she will have a peaked chin, believe he will ever regret me? And I think had nearly outgrown her "first Will he wish the twenty years back again, or love" before I came in the way. She wears short skirts, and a pink-trimmed Shaker, the nicest aprons her mother can make her, And a Sunday hat with feathers; but it does n't For Harry-sweetest of earthly lispers- has He says he shall learn to be a lawyer, but his private preference is a sawyer, And counselors, not less than carpenters, live by "sawdust" and by bores. It's easier to saw a plank in two than to bore a judicial blockhead through, And if panels of jurors fail to yield, he can always panel doors. It's a question of enterprise versus wood, and if his hammer and will be good, If his energetic little brown hand be as steady and busy then, Though chisel or pen be the weapon he's needing, whether his business is planing or pleading, Harry will cut his way through the ranks, and stand at the head of you men! I say to him sometimes, "My dearest Harry, we He has sixty cents in his little tin “ bank," and And I think what a fond true breast to dream on, what a dear, brave heart for a woman to lean on, What a king and kingdom are saving up for some baby a twelvemonth old! Twenty years hence, when I am forty, and Harry deem this an idle myth, While I shall sometimes push up my glasses, THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it How ardent I seized it, with hands that were with sighs. 'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start; Would you know the spell? —— a mother sat there! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I lingered near I sat, and watched her many a day, "T is past, 't is past! but I gaze on it now, Say it is folly, and deem me weak, ELIZA COOK. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew ;The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. glowing! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. SAMUEL WOODWOrth. I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn. He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day; But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, My spirit flew in feathers then, And summer pools could hardly cool |