That night, I tell ye, she looked some!
She seemed to’ve gut a new soul,
For she felt sartin-sure he’d come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heerd a foot, an’ knowed it tu,
A-rasping on the scraper;
All ways at once her feelin’s flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin’ o’ loitered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o’ the sekle;
His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,
But her’n went pity Zekle.

An yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder,
An’ on her apples kep’ to work,
Parin’ away like murder.

“You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?”
“Wal—­no—­I come dasignin’—­”
“To see my Ma?  She’s sprinklin’ clo’es
Agin to-morrer’s i’nin.”

To say why gals act so or so,
Or don’t, ‘ould be presumin’;
Mebbe to mean yes an’ say no
Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t’other,
An’ on which one he felt the wust
He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.

Says he, “I’d better call agin;”
Says she, “Think likely, Mister;”
Thet last word prick’d him like a pin,
An’—­wal, he up an’ kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips,
An’ teary roun’ the lashes.

For she was jes’ the quiet kind
Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snow-hid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun’ her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin’,
Tell mother see how metters stood,
An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.

Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o’ Fundy;
An’ all I know is they was cried
In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.

THE HERITAGE.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

The Rich Man’s Son inherits lands,
And piles of brick, and stone, and gold;
And he inherits soft white hands
And tender flesh that fears the cold—­
Nor dares to wear a garment old: 
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce could wish to hold in fee. 
The Rich Man’s Son inherits cares: 
The bank may break—­the factory burn;
A breath may burst his bubble shares;
And soft white hands could hardly earn
A living that would serve his turn. 
The Rich Man’s Son inherits wants: 
His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds, with brown arms bare—­
And wearies in his easy-chair.

          What doth the Poor Man’s Son inherit? 
        Stout muscles, and a sinewy heart,
        A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
        King of two hands, he does his part
        In every useful toil and art: 
        A heritage, it seems to me,
        A king might wish to hold in fee. 
        What doth the Poor Man’s Son inherit?