We could linger much longer over our simple, brave old poet, were we sure of the ability of the reader approximately to distinguish his features through the veil of translation.  In turning the leaves of the smoky book, with its coarse paper and rude type,—­which suggests to us, by-the-by, the fact that Hebel was accustomed to hang a book, which he wished especially to enjoy, in the chimney, for a few days,—­we are tempted by “The Market-Women in Town,” by “The Mother on Christmas-Eve,” “The Morning-Star,” and the charming fairy-story of “Riedliger’s Daughter,” but must be content to close our specimens, for the present, with a song of love,—­“Hans und Verene,”—­under the equivalent title of

  JACK AND MAGGIE.

  There’s only one I’m after,
     And she’s the one, I vow! 
  If she was here, and standin’ by,
  She is a gal so neat and spry,
        So neat and spry,
     I’d be in glory now!

  It’s so,—­I’m hankerin’ for her,
     And want to have her, too. 
  Her temper’s always gay, and bright,
  Her face like posies red and white,
        Both red and white,
     And eyes like posies blue.

  And when I see her comin’,
     My face gits red at once;
  My heart feels chokin’-like, and weak,
  And drops o’ sweat run down my cheek,
        Yes, down my cheek,—­
     Confound me for a dunce!

  She spoke so kind, last Tuesday,
     When at the well we met: 
  “Jack, give a lift!  What ails you?  Say! 
  I see that somethin’ ’s wrong to-day: 
        What’s wrong to-day?”
     No, that I can’t forget!

  I know I’d ought to tell her,
     And wish I’d told her then;
  And if I wasn’t poor and low,
  And sayin’ it didn’t choke me so,
        (It chokes me so,)
     I’d find a chance again.

  Well, up and off I’m goin’: 
     She’s in the field below: 
  I’ll try and let her know my mind;
  And if her answer isn’t kind,
        If ’t isn’t kind,
     I’ll jine the ranks, and go!

  I’m but a poor young fellow,
     Yes, poor enough, no doubt: 
  But ha’n’t, thank God, done nothin’ wrong,
  And be a man as stout and strong,
        As stout and strong,
     As any roundabout.

  What’s rustlin’ in the bushes? 
     I see a movin’ stalk: 
  The leaves is openin’:  there’s a dress! 
  O Lord, forbid it! but I guess—­
        I guess—­I guess
     Somebody’s heard me talk!

  “Ha! here I am! you’ve got me! 
     So keep me, if you can! 
  I’ve guessed it ever since last Fall,
  And Tuesday morn I saw it all,
        I saw it all! 
     Speak out, then, like a man!

“Though rich you a’n’t in money,
Nor rich in goods to sell,
An honest heart is more than gold,
And hands you’ve got for field and fold,
For house and fold,
And—­Jack—­I love you well!”