The Condemned and Reprieved. A SCENE IN PRISON. FATHER. SON. FATHER. SON. FATHER. SON. JAILER. PRISONER, BY MRS. C. W. DENISON. Father and Son. "Where are you, William ?" "Father, come not near; "Oh! father-can you weep? I cannot shed one cooling tear-and sleep Look at my brow; you shudder; is it changed? And all my brain is burning, and deranged; 1 know my eye is sunken, for I feel The hollow circle, like a band of steel. My God-my agony-my agony! And ere to-morrow's dawn. Old man look there; It pales your brow; no wonder o'er my own, "Pray, my poor boy." "Pray, pray, I cannot pray ; Are prayers, and gibbets, coffins, death and pain. For I am thinking alway of my crime. To go without repentance to my God, With blood upon my soul; a heavy clod Of humau blood-that these-these hands have spilt; Oh let me live-could I but live, I'd be A slave in midnight mines, beyond the sea; Or feel these chains, till every bone should wear "Your child is here-and yonder is your wife." "My wife-my Mary-oh! Almighty One; 188 The Sewing Girl's Song. I love you, Mary, though a felon now, "Twill make me mad-but one short, wretched night, And die unpitied, by my fellow man. Wrench off these loathsome irons; I will fall [Jan. WIFE. FATHER. PRISONER. CHILD. PRISONER. I fear for him; he cannot bear this joy; Then, sobbing, sinks upon the stony ground. The grey-haired father walks the narrow cell, "Tis well," he whispers, "oh my God 'tis well." Their joys the jailer's wonted frown disarms, He turns; leaves father, wife and child, clasped in each other's arms. The Sewing Girl's Song. WAN and weary-sick and cheerless By a feeble taper's light, Bat and sang the never-tearless, The burden of her lay Was work, work away; We are many in the city Work we ever-pay is scanty, For 'tis work, work away, Hearts are breaking, souls are sinking, While we work, work away, ARTICLE LXXVI. The City's Poor. BY MRS. H. J. LEWIS. OUR attention is frequently called to the low prices awarded to female labor in our large cities, and the subject is one which draws largely upon the sympathies of the philanthropic. While fashionable dress-makers demand one dollar and twenty-five cents per day, or hire a room, employ apprentices and receive from three to ten dollars for making one dress, the above mentioned apprentices give six months' time, boarding themselves, and in some establishments are never allowed to see a dress fitted, it being disagreeable to customers. I believe it is considered next to an impossibility for a woman to clothe and board herself with the profits of plain sewing, and our Intelligence Offices are filled with applicants, mostly Irish, for situations in families. Now, while our cities are overflowing with male and f male seekers for profitable employment, how is it with our thriving, pleasant villages? Just step into an Intelligence Office and inquire for a servant to go a few miles into the country. Out of a hundred waiting ones, destitute of money and friends, you may find some half-dozen who are willing to forgo the attractions of the city and bury themselves in the comfortable farm houses of our pleasant country towns. I have tried the experiment and know the truth of my statements. A few of the poorest, tempted by the offer of high wages, having experienced the difficulty of obtaining a place where servants are so plenty, will consent to go into the country for the Summer months, but even they cannot be induced to prolong their exile through the Winter. There are many excuses offered for this state of affairs, such as "the loneliness of the country," "the separation from the few who are dear to them in this strange land, and as in the case of the Irish, "their unavoidable absence from the churches of their faith?" These objections would have more weight were the calls for servants loudest from places far distant from the great cities. They are in the greatest demand in those towns connected with the emporiums by rail-roads and stages and where the means of access to their churches and friends are easy and cheap. On the whole, is it better for them to suffer in the cities or enjoy all the necessaries of life, with a small amount of labor, comparatively, in the country? In a large village near which I have dwelt within a short period, there was not a person in need of charity, and not one who would go out to do a day's work. Apparently exercising much condescension, one Irish woman would wash a few clothes, provided they could be sent to her and sent for when done, but she was quite indifferent on the subject and her work was performed accordingly. "Why," said I to a friend who looked thoroughly fatigued, "why do you not hire your hard work done for you?" "Because I cannot without sending two and a half miles in the morning for a woman and sending her back in the evening. This only leaves her about half a day's time, and we are obliged to pay her full price, (city wages) and trouble some one to tackle the horse twice during the day; and knowing our dependence upon her, she takes adVantage and does but little after all." 190 Winter. [Jan. There was but one dress-maker "in all the region round about," and she, not feeling compelled to labor but a small portion of the time, generally felt most indisposed for work when most needed, so that we were dependent upon the city even to the cutting and fitting of a morning dress. Having had patience quite exhausted in waiting for the independent seamstress, set off on a three miles' journey in search of one who was considered quite famous. She received me with the pride of a duchess, and informed me that she did not go out to work, and would not take tho dress home to make, as that was her resting season, and she had all the customers she wished to serve. Her lowest price for a plain dress was three dollars. Now, is it not a little provoking that people loiter about a city, and suffer and complain, instead of going where labor waits for willing hands and where her compensation is generous? Where do the emigrants locate themselves who swarm to our shores in beggarly condition? In crowded cities, where want stares them perpetually in the face, where they have been found, twenty or more in one room, breathing pestilential air, and needing the crust with which the farmer feeds his swine. Foreigners in the country are quite a curiosity, though there they have a chance at least of comfortably providing for themselves and families. It is often found very difficult to hire a man to do a few day's work about a farm, such as cutting wood, laying stone walls, and digging a drain occasionally. After riding perhaps a circuit of ten miles to find a mechanic, he comes after a few weeks delay and commences your job, and ten chances to one, leaves it for another few weeks, in answer to the beseeching appeals of your neighbors, who are as much troubled as yourself. to get a roof shingled, or a closet made. Among countless benevolent societies, I should be pleased to see one formed to enable some of our poorest citizens to locate themselves in country villages. Much good I am sure might be done in this way, and country life rendered much more pleasant to those who flee from the marts of gain, with their dust and confusion, to the quiet and beauty which Nature lavishes upon our beloved land. Winter. 'Winter! I love thec-all unlovely as thou seemst, I crown thee King of ultimate delights, "LET winter come!" says a contemporary; "let it come since it does not visit us without a smile, or throw its frost around us, without a genial consolation. There is, then, a cordiality in frost and snow; they soften down the asperity of our nature, and give a kindlier, a more liberal tone to our feelings. Who is not fond of his own fireside? Who does not acknowledge the superior sociability of the winter evening? Then, who is there, who does not like to stir the fire? What a host of speaking reflections rush upon one's memory, while seated in an easy elbow or rocking chair, before; a glowing coal fire! The head is never so full of ideas, the imagination is never so fertile, as while enjoying the comforts of a cheerful hearth." ARTICLE LXXVII. The Troublesome Neighbors. BY MRS. M. A. LIVERMORE. "AH, good morning, neighbor Taylor! Fine weather, this, for haying! You've got a heavy piece of grass here to cut." And the speaker, a stout, athletic man, with a scythe swung over his shoulder, advanced to the fence of the mowing lot, and resting one foot upon the rails, and leaning with the unoccupied arm upon the top of the fence, seemed meditating a little gossip, or neighborly chit-chat. "Yes, yes, beautiful weather!" replied Mr. Taylor, ceasing his employment, and wiping his scythe-blade with a handful of the newly-cut grass, "and I'm out bright and early, trying to make the most of it while it lasts. Make hay while the sun shines,' is the old proverb, you know." "That's it, sir," was the rejoinder. "A few more of these hot days will carry us through haying. But how happens it that you are at work alone? I hired all the hands I could raise, and mean to wind up by tomorrow night, if the weather holds good." "I haven't much help, and what I have doesn't get on the ground very early. I tried to hire the Lawrences to-day, but James couldn't, and Dick wouldn't come, and so I had to do without them." And I should rather do without, than with them, if I were you. I never want one of those Lawrences to come within gun-shot of me, the ugly dogs. To live in the town with them is enough. By the way, sir, have you heard that Dick is going to move into that house opposite you?" "Ah! Dick shifts about some doesn't he? But that house isn't tenantable. It leaks, the sills are rotting away, the plastering has fallen off, the chimnies smoke, and there isn't a window in it that hasn't broken panes." "Just the place, then, for Dick and his family. I wouldn't rent them a decent house of mine, unless I wanted it ruined. I pity you, if you are going to have him for a neighbor. You'll find him a hard customer, I can tell you." "Oh! I don't know," replied the charitable Mr. Taylor; "Dick isn't the worst fellow that ever lived. His bark is worse than his bite, you may depend. A great deal is said against him, but you can't believe all that you hear." "A great deal is said against him!" repeated Mr. Watson; "I tell you he is Satan's own child-the very worst scape-grace that ever went unhung. He is a complete nuisance wherever he lives, and generally gets turned out of every house he hires. Nobody lives near him in peace, and as for his boys, all I have got to say is, that they'll swing on the gallows before they are men, unless they mend their ways." "I'm sorry to hear such an account of them, friend Watson; and it cer tainly isn't pleasant to think of having such people for neighbors. However, I hope there'll be no difficulty." "But there will be, I can tell you, and that in less than a month after Dick comes into your neighborhood. He has bet an oyster supper with some of the rummies at the tavern, that you and he will fight like the |