She’s married since,—­a parson’s wife: 
     ’T was better for her that we should part,—­
  Better the soberest, prosiest life
     Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
  I have seen her?  Once:  I was weak and spent
     On the dusty road:  a carriage stopped: 
  But little she dreamed, as on she went,
     Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!

  You’ve set me talking, Sir; I’m sorry;
     It makes me wild to think of the change! 
  What do you care for a beggar’s story? 
     Is it amusing? you find it strange? 
  I had a mother so proud of me! 
     ’T was well she died before—­Do you know
  If the happy spirits in heaven can see
     The ruin and wretchedness here below?

  Another glass, and strong, to deaden
     This pain; then Roger and I will start. 
  I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
     Aching thing, in place of a heart? 
  He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,
     No doubt, remembering things that were,—­
  A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
     And himself a sober, respectable cur.

  I’m better now; that glass was warming.—­
     You rascal! limber your lazy feet I
  We must be fiddling and performing
     For supper and bed, or starve in the street.—­
  Not a very gay life to lead, you think? 
     But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,
  And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;—­
     The sooner, the better for Roger and me!

WILLIE WHARTON.

Would you like to read a story which is true, and yet not true?  The one I am going to tell you is a superstructure of imagination on a basis of facts.  I trust you are not curious to ascertain the exact proportion of each.  It is sufficient for any reasonable reader to be assured that many of the leading incidents interwoven in the following story actually occurred in one of our Western States, a few years ago.

It was a bright afternoon in the spring-time; the wide, flowery prairie waved in golden sunlight, and distant tree-groups were illuminated by the clear, bright atmosphere.  Throughout the whole expanse, only two human dwellings were visible.  These were small log-cabins, each with a clump of trees near it, and the rose of the prairies climbing over the roof.  In the rustic piazza of one of these cabins a woman was sewing busily, occasionally moving a cradle gently with her foot.  On the steps of the piazza was seated a man, who now and then read aloud some paragraph from a newspaper.  From time to time, the woman raised her eyes from her work, and, shading them from the sunshine with her hand, looked out wistfully upon the sea of splendor, everywhere waving in flowery ripples to the soft breathings of the balmy air.  At length she said,—­

“Brother George, I begin to feel a little anxious about Willie.  He was told not to go out of sight, and he is generally a good boy to mind; but I should think it was more than ten minutes since I have seen him.  I wish you would try the spy-glass.”