“Meary, oi’m afear’d you don’t feel like oie.”

“P’r’aps not—­women can’t feel like men.  I’m sorry that you are going, Jacob, for you have been very kind and obliging, and I wish you well.”

“Meary,” cried Jacob, growing desperate at her coyness, and getting quite close up to her, “will you marry oie?  Say yeez or noa?”

This was coming close to the point.  Mary drew farther from him, and turned her head away.

“Meary,” said Jacob, seizing upon the hand that held the apron-string.  “Do you think you can better yoursel’?  If not—­why, oie’m your man.  Now, do just turn about your head and answer oie.”

The girl turned round, and gave him a quick, shy glance, then burst out into a simpering laugh.

“Meary, will you take oie?” (jogging her elbow.)

“I will,” cried the girl, jumping up from the log, and running into the house.

“Well, that bargain’s made,” said the lover, rubbing his hands; “and now oie’ll go and bid measter and missus good-buoy.”

The poor fellow’s eyes were full of tears, for the children, who loved him very much, clung, crying, about his knees.  “God bless yees all,” sobbed the kind-hearted creature.  “Doan’t forget Jacob, for he’ll neaver forget you.  Good-buoy!”

Then turning to Mary, he threw his arms round her neck, and bestowed upon her fair cheek the most audible kiss I ever heard.

“And doan’t you forget me, Meary.  In two years oie will be back to marry you; and may be oie may come back a rich man.”

Mary, who was an exceedingly pretty girl, shed some tears at the parting; but in a few days she was as gay as ever, and listening with great attention to the praises bestowed upon her beauty by an old bachelor, who was her senior by five-and-twenty years.  But then he had a good farm, a saddle mare, and plenty of stock, and was reputed to have saved money.  The saddle mare seemed to have great weight in old Ralph T—–­h’s wooing, and I used laughingly to remind Mary of her absent lover, and beg her not to marry Ralph T—–­h’s mare.

THE CANADIAN HUNTER’S SONG

  The northern lights are flashing,
    On the rapids’ restless flow;
  And o’er the wild waves dashing,
    Swift darts the light canoe. 
      The merry hunters come. 
        “What cheer?—­what cheer?”—­
        “We’ve slain the deer!”
      “Hurrah!—­You’re welcome home!”

  The blithesome horn is sounding,
    And the woodman’s loud halloo;
  And joyous steps are bounding
    To meet the birch canoe. 
      “Hurrah!—­The hunters come.” 
        And the woods ring out
        To their merry shout
      As they drag the dun deer home!

  The hearth is brightly burning,
    The rustic board is spread;
  To greet the sire returning
    The children leave their bed. 
      With laugh and shout they come—­
        That merry band—­
        To grasp his hand,
      And bid him welcome home!