Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown
An' peeked in thru' the winder,
An' there sot Huldy all alone,

'Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side
With half a cord o' wood in—

There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her,
An' leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An' in amongst 'em rusted

The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in,

Seemed warm from floor to ceilin',
An' she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin'.

'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look
On sech a blessed cretur,
A dog-rose blushin' to a brook
Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A 1,
Clean grit an' human natur';
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,

He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells

All is, he couldn't love 'em.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,
A-raspin' on the scraper-

All ways to once her feelins flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle,
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk

Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work,

Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s' pose?"

"Wal. . . . no . . . I come dasignin'"—

....

"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals acts so or so,
Or don't, 'ould be presumin';
Mebby to mean yes an' say no,
Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t'other,
An' on which one he felt the wust
He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call agin";

Says she, "Think likely, Mister "; Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' . . . . Wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips

An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind

Whose naturs never vary,

Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin',

Tell mother see how metters stood,
And gin 'em both her blessin’.

Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,

An' all I know is they was cried

In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

'TIS ONLY MY HUSBAND.

BY JOSEPH C. NEAL.

JOSEPH C. NEAL, author of the once famous "Charcoal Sketches," was

born in Greenland, N. H., in 1807, and died in 1847 at Philadelphia, where he passed nearly two-thirds of his life in connection with different journals. He was the author of two other volumes: "The City Worthies," and "Peter Ploddy and other Oddities."

"GOODNESS, Mrs. Pumpilion, it's a gentleman's voice, and me such a figure!" exclaimed Miss Amanda Corntop, who had just arrived in town to visit her friend, Mrs. Pumpilion, whom she had not seen since her marriage.

"Don't disturb yourself, dear," said Mrs. Pumpilion, quietly, "it's nobody-'tis only my husband. He'll not come in; but if he does, 'tis only my husband."

So Miss Amanda Corntop was comforted, and her agitated arrangements before the glass being more coolly completed, she resumed her seat and the interrupted conversation. Although, as a spinster, she had a laudable and natural unwillingness to be seen by any of the masculine gender in that condition so graphi

cally described as "such a figure," yet there are aegrees in this unwillingness. It is by no means so painful to be caught a figure by a married man as it is to be surprised by a youthful bachelor; and, if the former be of that peculiar class known as "only my husband," his unexpected arrival is of very little consequence. He can never more, "like an eagle in a dove cote, flutter the Volsces." It is, therefore, evident that there exists a material difference between "my husband" and "only my husband;" a difference not easily expressed, though perfectly understood; and it was that understanding which restored Miss Amanda Corntop to her pris

tine tranquillity.

"Oh!" said Miss Corntop, when she heard that the voice in question was that of Mr. Pumpilion. "Ah!" added Miss Corntop, intelligently and composedly, when she understood that Pumpilion was "only my husband." She had not paid much attention to philology but she was perfectly aware of the

value of that diminu

tive prefix "only."

"ONLY MY HUSBAND."

"I told you he would not come in, for he knew there was some one here," continued Mrs. Pumpilion, as the spiritless footsteps of "only my husband" passed the door, and slowly plodded upstairs. He neither came in, nor did he hum, whistle, or bound three steps at a time; "only my husband" never does. He is simply a transportation line; he conveys himself from place to place, according to order, and indulges not in episodes and embellishments.

Poor Pedrigo Pumpilion! Have all thy glories shrunk to this little measure? Only my husband! Does that appellation circumscribe him who once found three chairs barely sufficient to