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So plenteously all weed-hidden roots
Full in the middle of this pleasantness
the sacred sward last eve, And so the dawned light in
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass ;
BARBARA FRIETCHI E.
John GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
Up from the meadows rich with corn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
of the famished rebel horde,
up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic-window the staff she set,
The nobler nature within him stirred
" Who touches a hair of
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
Honour to her! and let a tear
TOM BROWN'S PILGRIMAGE TO THE DOCTOR'S
Thomas HUGHES, M.A., M.P. In the summer of 1842, our hero stopped once again at the well-known station; and, leaving his bag and fishing-rod with a porter, walked slowly and sadly up towards the town. It was now July. He had rushed away from Oxford the moment that term was over, for a fishing ramble in Scotland with two college friends, and had been for three weeks living on oatcake, muttonhams, and whisky, in the wildest parts of Skye. They had descended one sultry evening on the little inn at Kyle Rhea ferry, and while Tom and another of the party put their tackle together and began exploring the stream for a sea-trout for supper, the third strolled into the house to arrange for their entertainment. Presently he came out in a loose blouse and slippers, a short pipe in his mouth, and an old newspaper in his hand, and threw himself on the heathery scrub which met the shingle, within easy hail of the fishermen. There he lay, the picture of free-and-easy, loafing,
hand-to-mouth young England, "improving his mind," as he shouted to them, by the perusal of the fortnightold weekly paper, soiled with the marks of toddy-glasses and tobacco-ashes, the legacy of the last traveller, which he had hunted out from the kitchen of the little hostelry, and being a youth of a communicative turn of mind, began imparting the contents to the fishermen as he went on.
“What a bother they are making about these wretched corn-laws; here's three or four columns full of nothing but sliding-scales and fixed duties.—Hang this tobacco, it's always going out l-Ah, here's something better-a splendid match between Kent and England, Brown! Kent winning by three wickets. Felix fifty-six runs without a chance, and not out !"
Tom, intent on a fish which had risen at him twice, answered only with a grunt.
“ Anything about the Goodwood ?" called out the third man.
“Rory-o-More drawn. Butterfly colt amiss," shouted the student.
“ Just my luck,” grumbled the inquirer, jerking his flies off the water, and throwing again with a heavy sullen splash, and frightening Tom's fish. "I say, can't
you throw lighter over there? We ain't fishing for grampuses,” shouted Tom across the stream.
“Hullo, Brown! here's something for you," called out the reading man next moment. “Why, your old master, Arnold of Rugby, is dead.”
Tom's hand stopped half-way in his cast, and his line and flies went all tangling round and round his rod; you might have knocked him over with a feather. Neither of his companions took any notice of him luckily; and with a violent effort he set to work mechanically to disentangle his line. He felt completely carried off his moral and intellectual legs, as if he had lost his standing-point in the invisible world. Besides which, the deep loving loyalty which he felt for his old