8.  ’T were Heaven indeed,
   Through fields of trackless light to soar,
     On Nature’s charms to feed,
   And Nature’s own great God adore.

Definitions.—­2.  Perch, to light or settle on anything. 3.  Pen’-ance, suffering for sin. 4.  Lays, songs. 5.  Choir (pro. kwir), a collection of singers.  Dome, an arched structure above a roof; hence, figuratively, the heavens. 6.  Con’se-crat-ed, set apart for the service of God. 8.  Track’less, having no path.

Note.—­This little poem was addressed to two swallows that flew into church during service.

LXXXVIII.  THE PEEVISH WIFE.

Maria Edgeworth (b. 1767, d. 1849) was born near Reading.  Berkshire, England.  In 1782 her father removed with his family to Edgeworthtown, Ireland, to reside on his estate.  She lived here during the remainder of her life, with the exception of occasional short visits to England, Scotland, and France.  She was educated principally by her father, and they were colaborers in literary productions, among which were “Essays on Practical Education,” and the “Parent’s Assistant.”  Her novels and tales were written without assistance, and her fame as a writer rests on them.  The best known of these are “Castle Rackrent,” “Moral Tales,” “Tales of Fashionable Life,” “Frank,” “The Modern Griselda,” and “Helen.”  Miss Edgeworth excels in the truthful delineation of character, and her works are full of practical good sense and genuine humor.

Mrs. Bollingbroke.  I wish I knew what was the matter with me this morning.  Why do you keep the newspaper all to yourself, my dear?

Mr. Bolingbroke.  Here it is for you, my dear; I have finished it.  Mrs. B. I humbly thank you for giving it to me when you have done with it.  I hate stale news.  Is there anything in the paper? for I can not be at the trouble of hunting it.

Mr. B. Yes, my dear; there are the marriages of two of our friends.

Mrs.B.  Who?  Who?

Mr. B. Your friend, the widow Nettleby, to her cousin John Nettleby.

Mrs. B. Mrs. Nettleby?  Dear!  But why did you tell me?

Mr. B. Because you asked me, my dear.

Mrs. B. Oh, but it is a hundred times pleasanter to read the paragraph one’s self.  One loses all the pleasure of the surprise by being told.  Well, whose was the other marriage?

Mr. B. Oh, my dear, I will not tell you; I will leave you the pleasure of the surprise.

Mrs. B. But you see I can not find it.  How provoking you are, my dear!  Do pray tell me.

Mr. B. Our friend Mr. Granby.

Mrs. B. Mr. Granby?  Dear!  Why did you not make me guess?  I should have guessed him directly.  But why do you call him our friend?  I am sure he is no friend of mine, nor ever was.  I took an aversion to him, as you remember, the very first day I saw him.  I am sure he is no friend of mine.