Part 2 — CHAPTER XIII. (continued 2)

I did not lose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would not think about biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come to its assistance. A man can't handle many mice at once to advantage.

Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen, and asked what she should do—as though I could hold the mouse and plan a campaign at the same time.

I told her to think of something, and she thought she would throw things at the intruder; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal scuttle. She paused for breath, but I kept bobbing around. Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. "Oh, Joshua," she cried, "I wish you had not killed the cat." Now, I submit that the wish was born of the weakness of woman's intellect. How on earth did she suppose a cat could get where that mouse was?—rather have the mouse there alone, anyway, than to have a cat prowling around after it. I reminded Maria of the fact that she was a fool. Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to that process, except as a last resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare to let go for fear it would run up. Matters were getting desperate. I told her to think of something else, and I kept jumping. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor very dead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy.

That was not the end of trouble, for before I had recovered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole company followed him through, and they dragged hose around, and mussed things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some one had run down and told him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the house clear.

Now, when mice run out of the cupboard I go out doors, and let Maria "shoo" them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don't pay for the trouble.

Joshua Jenkins.

* * * * *

IN SCHOOL DAYS.

Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry vines are running.

Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial;

The charcoal frescoes on its wall; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window panes, And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy Her childish favour singled: His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered;— As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered,

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand's tight caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing.

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word; I hate to go above you, Because,"—the brown eyes lower fell,— "Because, you see, I love you!"

Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing.

He lives to learn, in life's hard school, How few who pass above him Lament their triumphs and his loss, Like her,—because they love him.

Whittier.

* * * * *

WATERLOO.

It struck my imagination much, while standing on the last field fought by Bonaparte, that the battle of Waterloo should have been fought on a Sunday. What a different scene did the Scotch Grays and English Infantry present, from that which, at that very hour, was exhibited by their relatives, when over England and Scotland each church-bell had drawn together its worshippers! While many a mother's heart was sending up a prayer for her son's preservation, perhaps that son was gasping in agony. Yet, even at such a period, the lessons of his early days might give him consolation; and the maternal prayer might prepare the heart to support maternal anguish. It is religion alone which is of universal application, both as a stimulant and a lenitive, throughout the varied heritage which falls to the lot of man. But we know that many thousands rushed into this fight, even of those who had been instructed in our religious principles, without leisure for one serious thought; and that some officers were killed in their ball dresses. They made the leap into the gulf which divides two worlds—the present from the immutable state without one parting prayer, or one note of preparation!

As I looked over this field, now green with growing corn, I could mark, with my eye, the spots where the most desperate carnage had been marked out by the verdure of the wheat. The bodies had been heaped together, and scarcely more than covered; and so enriched is the soil, that, in these spots, the grain never ripens. It grows rank and green to the end of harvest. This touching memorial, which endures when the thousand groans have expired, and when the stain of human blood has faded from the ground, still seems to cry to Heaven that there is awful guilt somewhere, and a terrific reckoning for those who caused destruction which the earth could not conceal. These hillocks of superabundant vegetation, as the wind rustled through the corn, seemed the most affecting monuments which nature could devise, and gave a melancholy animation to this plain of death.

When we attempt to measure the mass of suffering which was here inflicted, and to number the individuals that fell, considering each who suffered as our fellow-man, we are overwhelmed with the agonizing calculation, and retire from the field which has been the scene of our reflections, with the simple, concentrated feeling—these armies once lived, breathed, and felt like us, and the time is at hand when we shall be like them.

Lady Morgan.

* * * * *

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose, with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell:— But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet— But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; Who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since, upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier, ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb. Or whispering with white lips—"The foe! they come, they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose— The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard—and heard too have her Saxon foes— How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years; And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears.

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass Grieving—if aught inanimate e'er grieves— Over the unreturning brave—alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass, Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure; when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal sound of strife; The morn the marshalling of arms; the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse—friend, foe—in one red burial blent!

Lord Byron.

* * * * *

THE BRIDAL WINE-CUP.

SCENE—Parlour, with wedding party, consisting of JUDGE OTIS; MARION, his daughter, the bride; HARRY WOOD, the bridegroom; a few relatives and friends; all gathered around the centre table, on which are decanters and wine-glasses.

One of the company—Let us drink the health of the newly-wedded pair. (Turns to Harry.) Shall it be in wine? (turns to Marion,) or in sparkling cold water?

HARRY—Pledge in wine, if it be the choice of the company.

Several voices—Pledge in wine, to be sure.

MARION—(With great earnestness.)—O no! Harry; not wine, I pray you.

JUDGE OTIS—Yes, Marion, my daughter; lay aside your foolish prejudices for this once; the company expect it, and you should not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette. In your own house you may act as you please; but in mine, which you are about to leave, for this once please me, by complying with my wishes in this matter.

[A glass of wine is handed to Marion, which she slowly and reluctantly raises to her lips, but just as it reaches them she exclaims, excitedly, holding out the glass at arm's length, and staring at it,]

MARION—Oh! how terrible.

Several voices—(Eagerly)—What is it? What do you see?

MARION—Wait—wait, and I will tell you. I see (pointing to the glass with her finger) a sight that beggars all description; and yet listen, and I will paint it for you, if I can. It is a lonely spot; tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around; a river runs through, and bright flowers in wild profusion grow to the water's edge. There is a thick, warm mist, that the sun vainly seeks to pierce; trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds; and beneath them a group of Indians gather. They move to and fro with something like sorrow upon their dark brows, for in their midst lies a manly form, whose cheek is deathly pale, and whose eye is wild with the fitful fire of fever. One of his own white race stands, or rather kneels, beside him, pillowing the poor sufferer's head upon his breast with all a brother's tenderness. Look! (she speaks with renewed energy) how he starts up, throws the damp curls back from his high and noble brow, and clasps his hands in agony of despair; hear his terrible shrieks for life; and mark how he clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved from despair and death. O, what a terrible scene! Genius in ruins, pleading for that which can never be regained when once lost. Hear him call piteously his father's name; see him clutch his fingers as he shrieks for his sister—his only sister, the twin of his soul—now weeping for him in his distant home! See! his hands are lifted to heaven; he prays—how wildly!—for mercy, while the hot fever rushes through his veins. The friend beside him is weeping in despair; and the awe-stricken sons of the forest move silently away, leaving the living and the dying alone together. (The judge, overcome with emotion, falls into a chair, while the rest of the company seem awe-struck, as Marion's voice grows softer and more sorrowful in its tones, yet remains distinct and clear.) It is evening now, the great, white moon, is coming up, and her beams fall gently upon his forehead. He moves not; for his eyes are set in their sockets, and their once piercing glance is dim. In vain his companion whispers the name of father and sister; death is there to dull the pulse, to dim the eye, and to deafen the ear. Death! stern, terrible, and with no soft hand, no gentle voice, to soothe his fevered brow, and calm his troubled soul and bid it hope in God. (Harry sits down and covers his face with his hands) Death overtook him thus; and there, in the midst of the mountain forest, surrounded by Indian tribes, they scooped him a grave in the sand; and without a shroud or coffin, prayer or hymn, they laid him down in the damp earth to his final slumber. Thus died and was buried the only son of a proud father; the only, idolized brother of a fond sister. There he sleeps to-day, undisturbed, in that distant land, with no stone to mark the spot. There he lies—my father's son—MY OWN TWIN BROTHER! A victim to this (holds up the glass before the company) deadly, damning poison! Father! (turning to the judge,) father, shall I drink it now?

JUDGE OTIS—(Raising his bowed head and speaking with faltering voice)—No, no, my child! in God's name, cast it away.

MARION—(Letting her glass fall and dash to pieces)—Let no friend who loves me hereafter tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste that terrible poison. And he (turning to Harry,) to whom I have this night given my heart and hand, who watched over my brother's dying form in that last sad hour, and buried the poor wanderer there by the river, in that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in this resolve. Will you not, (offers him her hand, which he takes,) my husband?

HARRY—With the blessing of heaven upon my efforts, I will; and I thank you, beyond expression, for the, solemn lesson you have taught us all on this occasion.

JUDGE OTIS—God bless you (taking Marion and Harry by the hand and speaking with deep emotion,) my children; and may I, too, have grace given me to help you in your efforts to keep this noble resolve.

One of the company—Let us honour the firmness and nobleness of principle of the fair bride, by drinking her health in pure, sparkling water, the only beverage which the great Creator of the Universe gave to the newly-wedded pair in the beautiful Garden of Eden.

Dramatized by Sidney Herbert.

* * * * *

MARY STUART.