XXXIII.-GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL I. H! what's the matter? what's the matter? What is 't that ails young Harry Gill? That evermore his teeth they chatter, Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, And coats enough to smother nine. II. In March, December, and in July, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; III. Young Harry was a lusty drover, IV. All day she spun in her poor dwelling, V. By the same fire to boil their pottage, But she, poor woman, dwelt alone. VI. But when the ice our streams did fetter, And then for cold not sleep a wink. VII. O joy for her! whene'er in winter As every man who knew her says, VIII. Now when the frost was past enduring, And made her poor old bones to ache. Could any thing be more alluring, Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? And now and then, it must be said, When her old bones were cold and chill, She left her fire, or left her bed, To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. IX. Now Harry he had long suspected X. And once behind a rick of barley, XI. Right glad was he when he beheld her: He stood behind a bush of elder, XII. And fiercely by the arm he took her, Then Goody, who had nothing said, Her bundle from her lap let fall; And kneeling on the sticks, she prayed XIII. She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, XIV. He went complaining all the morrow XV. "T was all in vain, a useless matter, And blankets were about him pinn'd: Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, Like a loose casement in the wind. And Harry's flesh it fell away; And all who see him say 'tis plain, That live as long as live he may, XVI. No word to any man he utters, His teeth they chatter, chatter still: WORDSWORTH. XXXIV. ONE OF MR. CROWFIELD'S MOODS. I T was evening, and I had just laid up the fire in the most approved style of architecture, and, projecting my feet into my slippers, sat, spitefully cutting the leaves of a caustic review. Mrs. Crowfield took the tongs and altered the disposition of a stick. 2. "My dear," I said, "I do wish you'd let the fire alone, -you always put it out." "I was merely admitting a little air between the sticks," said my wife. "You always make matters worse, when you touch the fire." 3. As if in contradiction, a bright tongue of flame darted up between the sticks, and the fire began chattering and snapping at me. Now, if there's anything which would provoke a saint, it is to be jeered and snapped at, in that way, by a man's own fire. It's an unbearable impertinence. I threw up my leg impatiently, and hit Rover, who gave a yelp that finished the upset of my nerves. I gave him a hearty kick, that he might have something to yelp for, and, in the movement, upset Jennie's embroidery-basket. 4. "O, papa!" "Your baskets and worsteds are everywhere, so that a man can't move; useless, wasteful things, too.” 'Wasteful?" said Jennie, coloring indignantly; for if there's anything Jennie piques herself upon, it's her economy. 5. "Yes, wasteful,-wasting time and money both. Here are hundreds of shivering poor to be clothed, and Christian females sit and do nothing but crochet worsted into useless knick-knacks. If they would be working for the poor, there would be some sense in it. But it's all just alike; no real Christianity in the world,-nothing but organized selfishness and self-indulgence." 6. "Why, dear," said Mrs. Crowfield, "you are not well |