Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe THE COURTIN'. FROM THE "BIGLOW PAPERS," SECOND SERIES. God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown A fireplace filled the room's one side There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbly crook-necks hung, The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clean grit an' human natur'; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter. He 'd sparked it with full twenty gals, Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spellsAll is, he couldn't love 'em. But long o' her his veins 'ould run She thought no v’ice hed such a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, O' blue eyes sot upon it. Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, All ways to once her feelin's flew, He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, 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, He stood a spell on one foot fust, He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, "I'd better call agin"; When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid 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 And all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday. AUX ITALIENS. At Paris it was, at the Opera there ; And she look'd like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore: And Mario can soothe with a tenor note The souls in Purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow: And who was not thrill'd in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burn'd low, The Emperor there, in his box of state, Look'd grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city-gate, Where his eagles in bronze had been. |