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The tapestry of Fate. Above the roar
'Twas in Thy name we bid the war drum suund.
Like vengeful spirits on the thoughtless foe
Of shell on steel,--the screaming fire-birds broke
Hail to the hero! He has earned his place
Lord, in our memory be Thy goodness set !
FRANKLYN W. LEE.
for a bed. There's confusion in the parlor, 'n' a heap sight more up-stairs, While I kaint find comfort nowhere fer the varnish on the
First they tore up all the carpets; then they pulled down all the
shades, Till the place looked like a homestead after one of Moseby's
raids; Next the walls were renervated, 'n' the floors was soaked 'n'
scrubbed, 'N' M'rilly bossed the workers as they pounded, shook 'n'
Oh, I tell yer, 'tain't so funny when yer eatin' off the shelf,
O use denyin', Haines; it's all my fault
That the poor creatur' a'n't turned out this minute.
Wish I'd a shanty o' my own—you'd see!
To give to me, sir, an' I'd have you know it.
Savin' you'd had the gumption not to show it.
Writin' an' all. She never once mistrusted
But what I was a sheriff. Fur a minute
She looked so clean took in I nearly bu'sted; But when she giv' a groan and p'inted-well,
There laid a youngun cold an' dead—that's soAn' one most dyin'—what with the dark room
An' scant o' time, I hadn't seen, you know.
Well, when I see that lyin' in the corner
An' how the rest were starvin' on ter death, An' this 'ere writ o' 'jectment served upon 'em
To turn 'em out, it made me ketch my breath. (I don't deny it 't all. In course, she owed it
In course, you want your rent-No, sir! Stop there! You ha'n't seed for yerself the sight I see, Haines,
Er blame me ef you'd say, No more 'an fair.")
Snowin', an' not a stick ner splint o' kindlin';
The clothes upon 'em wasn't clothes, but rags;
None o' yer dried-up, saller kind o' hags.
Leastwise in others, 's when, with quite an air
Sorry the gentleman can't have a chair."
I kind o' slipped my hat off then (forgot it
At first), an' 'fore I knowed it she was tellin How fer a week she hedn't fed her children,
An' how she hadn't nothin' left worth sellin'; An' how her husband dead an' gone a fortnight, Had bin a trial-allus drunk er fightin’;
a An' how she'd strove fur work—then bu’st out cryin'
Whilst I just grabbed that blasted bit o' writin’
An' run off like a fool. An' here I am, Haines,
An' here's the dockyment-I'd like ter soak it! You'll sarve your own ejectments after this 'ere!
Put that into yer stingy pipe an’ smoke it! Hey? Well, that's more 'n I took you fur, old feller!
You a’n't a-goin' to let the gal off clean?
Ar' let her stay? By Josh! Haines, fur a poor chap
I a’n't come nigh a better man this year.
Rec'lect the thing you told me long ago
'Bout you an' Bully Bangs? There now! Let go! Can't a man speak in private conversation ?
It wa’n’t your fault-I allus said it, Haines. He drawed you on. Well, well—I won't; but sartain,
Honest repentance takes out blackest stains.
An' Haines, old chap, it's allers seemed to me
You've blamed yerself a heap more'n you ought to. What's all this drivin' at? Why, only this:
That starvin' woman yonder's Bully's daughter, Bangs' oldest gal, by thunder! Why, he's off!
“Thank God!” 'd he say? Actchally gone to fetch herHer an' her younguns! Well, that's Haines all over!
I bet he won't let no more trouble tetch her.
Through Moscow's busy street one winter's day.
Along his path there moved a funeral,
Gray spectacle of poverty and woe:
Slowly across the snow;
And on the sledge, blown by the winter wind,
Lay a poor coffin, very rude and bare; And he who drew it bent before his load
With dull and sullen air.