Aunt Molly’s asides were often amusing.  She was so very deaf that she could not hear her own voice, and often imagined she was whispering, when she could be heard across the room.

On one occasion she saw a gentleman who was a stranger to her, in the parlor, when she went to visit one of the ladies who were kind and attentive to her.  She sat a few minutes looking keenly at him, and then whispered, “Who’s that?” “Mr. Jay.”  “Who?” “MR. JAY.”  “Who?” “MR. JAY.”  “Oh-o-oh!  Mr. Jay.  Well, what does he do for a living?” “He’s a tutor, Ma’am.”  “What?” “A TUTOR.”  “What?” “A TUTOR.”  “Oh-o-oh!  I thought you said a suitor!”

Aunt Molly owned the little brown cottage, where her widowed mother, she said, had lived, and there she died.  As soon as she was laid in her grave, it was torn down, and the precious damson-tree was felled.  I was rather glad that the school-house was so ugly, that I might have a double reason for hating the usurper.  If Nemesis cared for school-boys, she doubtless looks on with a grin, now, to see them scampering at their will round the precincts of the former enemy of their race, and listens with pleasure while they “make day hideous” where once the bee and the humming-bird only broke the quiet of the little garden.

Aunt Molly had a vigorous, active mind, and a strong, tenacious memory; and her love of the departed grandeur and Toryism of Court Row, as she called that part of Brattle Street from Ash Street to Mount Auburn, was pleasant and entertaining to those who listened to her tales of other times.

Peace to her memory!

THE SOUNDS OF MORNING IN CAMBRIDGE.

  I sing the melodies of early morn. 
  Hark!—­’t is the distant roar of iron wheels,
  First sound of busy life, and the shrill neigh
  Of vapor-steed, the vale of Brighton threading,
  Region of lowing kine and perfumed breeze. 
  Echoes the shore of blue meandering Charles. 
  Straightway the chorus of glad chanticleers
  Proclaims the dawn.  First comes one clarion note,
  Loud, clear, and long drawn out; and hark! again
  Rises the jocund song, distinct, though distant;
  Now faint and far, like plaintive cry for help
  Piercing the ear of Sleep.  Each knight o’ the spur,
  Watchful as brave, and emulous in noise,
  With mighty pinions beats a glad reveille. 
  All feathered nature wakes.  Man’s drowsy sense
  Heeds not the trilling band, but slumbrous waits
  The tardy god of day.  Ah! sluggard, wake! 
  Open thy blind, and rub thy heavy eyes! 
  For once behold a sunrise.  Is there aught
  In thy dream-world more splendid, or more fair? 
  With crimson glory the horizon streams,
  And ghostly Dian hides her face ashamed. 
  Now to the ear of him who lingers long
  On downy couch, “falsely luxurious,”
  Comes the unwelcome din of college-bell