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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
matter how she is dressed,

For Harry-sweetest of earthly lispers- has
said in my ear, in loudest whispers,
With his dear short arms around my neck, that
he "likes the grown-up bonnets best."

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
have n't money enough to marry ";

He has sixty cents in his little tin “ bank," and
a keepsake in his drawer;
But he always promises, "I'll get plenty — I 'll
find where they make it, when I'm twenty
I'll go down town where the other men do, and
bring it out of the store.
And then he describes such wonderful dresses,
and gives me such gallant hugs and caresses,
With items of courtship from Mother Goose, silk
cushions and rings of gold,

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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
a young man, gay and naughty,
Flirting and dancing, and shooting guns, driv-
ing fast horses and cracking whips,

deem this an idle myth,

While I shall sometimes push up my glasses,
and sigh as my baby-lover passes,
And wonder if Heaven sets this world right, as
I look at Mr. Smith!

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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
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me that shame would never betide,
With Truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat, and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshiped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped, -
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled!
And I learned how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.

"T is past, 't is past! but I gaze on it now,
With quivering breath and throbbing brow :
'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died,
And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

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
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

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