John. It is, Sir; and we are not to have that much longer, for they say we must come into the workhouse. Mary. (entering with the water.) Here, gentlemen. This jug is clean, if you can drink out of it. Harf. The workhouse, do you say? Mary. Yes, gentlemen-that makes my poor husband so uneasy--that we should come in our old days to die in a workhouse. We have lived better, I assure you-but we were turned out of our little farm by the great farmer near the church; and since that time we have been growing poorer and poorer, and weaker and weaker, so that we have nothing to help ourselves with. John. (sobbing.) To die in a parish workhouse-I can hardly bear the thought of it.-But God knows best, and we must submit. Harf. But, my good people, have you no children or friends to assist you? John. Our children, Sir, are all dead, except one that is settled a long way off, and as poor as we are. Beaum. But surely, my friends, such decent people as you seem to be must have somebody to protect you. Mary. No, Sir-we know nobody but our neighbours, and they think the workhouse good enough for the poor. Harf. Pray, was there not a family of Harfords once in this village? John. Yes, Sir, a long while ago-but they are all dead and gone, or else far enough from this place. Mary. Ay, Sir, the youngest of them, and the finest child among them, that I'll say for him, was nursed in our house when we lived in the old spot near the green. He was with us till he was thirteen, and a sweet behaved boy he was-I loved him as well as ever I did any of my own children. Harf. What became of him? John. Why, Sir, he was a fine, bold, spirited boy, though the best tempered creature in the world-so last war he would be a sailor, and fight the French and Spaniards, and away he went, nothing could stop him, and we have never heard a word of him since. Mary. Ay, he is dead or killed, I warrant-for if he was alive and in England, I am sure nothing would keep him from coming to see his poor daddy and mammy, as he used to call us. Many a night have I lain awake thinking of him! Harf. (to Beaum.) I can hold no longer! Beaum. (to him.) Restrain yourself awhile-Well, my friends, in return for your kindness I will tell you some news that will please you. This same Harford, Edward Harford.... Mary. Ay, that was his name-my dear Ned-What of him, Sir? Is he living? John. Let the gentleman speak, my dear. Beaum. Ned Harford is now alive and well, and a lieutenant in his majesty's navy, and as brave an officer as any in the service. John. I hope you do not jest with us, Sir. Beaum. I do not, upon my honour. Mary. O thank God-thank God-if I could but see him! John. Ay, I wish for nothing more before I die. Harf. Here he is-here he is-My dearest, best benefactors! Here I am, to pay some of the great debt of kindness I owe you. (Clasps Mary round the neck and kisses her.) Mary. What this gentleman my Ned! Ay, it is, it is— I see it, I see it. John. O my old eyes!-but I know his voice now. (Stretches out his hand, which Harford grasps). Harf. My good old man! O that you could see me as clearly as I do you! John. Enough-enough-it is you, and I am contented. Harf. Did you think I could ever forget you? John. O no-I knew you better-but what a long while it is since we parted! Mary. Fifteen years come Whitsuntide. Harf. The first time I set foot in England all this long interval was three weeks ago. John. How good you were to come to us so soon. Mary. What a tall strong man you are grown!—but you have the same sweet smile as ever. John. I wish I could see him plain-but what signifies!he's here, and I hold him by the hand. Where's the other good gentleman? 80 ! Beaum. Here-very happy to see such worthy people made Harf. He has been my dearest friend for a great many years, and I am beholden to him almost as much as to you two. Mary. Has he? God bless him and reward him! Harf. I am grieved to think what you must have suffered from hardship and poverty. But that is all at an end-no workhouse now! John. God bless you! then I shall be happy still. But we must not be burdensome to you. Harf. Don't talk of that. As long as I have a shilling, it is my duty to give you sixpence of it. Did you not take care of me when all the world forsook me-and treated me as your own child when I had no other parent-and shall I ever forsake you in your old age? Oh, never-never! Mary. Ay, you had always a kind heart of your own. I always used to think our dear Ned would some time or other prove a blessing to us. Harf. You must leave this poor hut, that is not fit to keep out the weather, and we must get you a snug cottage, either in this village or some other. John. Pray, my dear sir, let us die in this town, as we have always lived in it. And as to a house, I believe that where old Richard Carpenter used to live in is empty, if it would not be too good for us. Harf. What, the white cottage on the green? I remember it-it is just the thing. You shall remove there this very week. Mary. This is beyond all my hopes and wishes. Harf. There you shall have a little close to keep a cowand a girl to milk her, and take care of you both-and a garden well stocked with herbs and roots-and a little yard for pigs and poultry—and some good new furniture for your house. John. O too much-too much! Mary. What makes me cry so, when so many good things are coming to us? Harf. Who is the landlord of that house? John. Our next neighbour, Mr Wheatfield. Harf. I'll go and speak about it directly, and then come to you again, Come, Beaumont. God bless you both! John. God in Heaven bless you! Mary. O happy day-O happy day! THE SWALLOW AND TORTOISE. A TORTOISE in a garden's bound, An ancient inmate of the place, Had left his winter-quarters under ground, And with a sober pace Was crawling o'er a sunny bed, And thrusting from his shell his pretty toad-like head. Just come from sea, a swallow, As to and fro he nimbly flew, Beat out old racer hollow: At length he stopt direct in view, And said, "Acquaintance, brisk and gay, How have you fared this many a day?' "Thank you!" (replied the close housekeeper) "Since you and I last autumn parted, I've been a precious sleeper, And never stirred nor started, Nor did I put my head abroad Till all the snow and ice were thaw'd." "But I," (rejoined the bird) "Who love cold weather just as well as you, Soon as the warning blasts I heard, Away I flew, And mounting in the wind, Left gloomy winter far behind. Directed by the mid-day sun, O'er sea and land my vent'rous course I steer'd, Till Afric's verdant coast appear'd. There, all the season long, I chased gay butterflies and gnats, And gave my negro friends a morning song, And housed at night among the bats. Then, at the call of spring, I northward turn'd my wing, And here again her joyous message bring." "Lord! what a deal of needless ranging," (Return'd the reptile grave) "For ever hurrying, bustling, changing; As if it were your life to save! Why need you visit foreign nations? Secure from trouble and mishap." "A pleasant nap, indeed!" (replied the swallow) The bright example I may follow; I only measure time by its employment, As doze out half one's days like you, you stupid dunce!" THE PRICE OF PLEASURE. "I THINK I will take a ride,”—said the little Lord Linger, after breakfast. "Bring me my boots, and let my horse be brought to the door." The horse was saddled, and his lordship's spurs were putting on. 66 No," said he "I'll have my low chair and the ponies, and take a drive round the park." The horse was led back, and the ponies were almost harnessed, when his lordship sent his valet to countermand them. He would walk into the corn-field, and see how the new pointer hunted. "After all," says he-" I think I will stay at home, and play a game or two at billiards." He played half a game, but could not make a stroke to please himself. His tutor, who was present, now thought it a good opportunity to ask his lordship if he would read a little. "Why-I think-I will-for I am tired of doing nothing. What shall we have?" "Your lordship left off last time in one of the finest passages of the Æneid. Suppose we finish it." "Well-ay! But-no-I had rather go on with Hume's history. Or-suppose we do some geography?” "With all my heart. The globes are upon the study table." They went to the study; and the little lord, leaning upon his elbows, looked at the globe-then twirled it round two or three times-and then listened patiently while the tutor ex |