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"Why, yes; for memory would recall My fond paternal joys;

I could not bear to leave them all:
I'll take-my-girl-and-boys!"
The smiling angel dropp'd his pen-
The man would be a boy again,
"Why, this will never do;

And be a father, too!"

And so I laugh'd-my laughter woke

The household with its noise-And wrote my dream, when morning broke,

To please the gray-hair'd boys.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

IN ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.

It happen'd on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tatter'd habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woeful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village past, To a small cottage came at last Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried; Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink, Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what was wonderful) they found "Twas still replenish'd to the top, As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.

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The good old couple were amazed,
And often on each other gazed;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry "What ar't?”
Then softly turn'd aside to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
Told them their calling and their errand:
Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but saints," the hermits said;
"No hurt shall come to you or yours:
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drown'd;
While you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes."
They scarce had spoke, when fair and
soft,

The roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fasten'd to a joist,
But with the up side down, to show
Its inclination for below:
In vain; for a superior force
Applied at bottom stops its course:
Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increased by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slower.
The flier, though it had leaden feet,
Turn'd round so quick you scarce could
see't;

But, slacken'd by some secret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near allied,
Had never left each other's side;
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But, up against the steeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and still adhered;
And still its love to household cares,
By a shrill voice at noon, declares,
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roast meat which it cannot turn.

The groaning chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And with small change, a pulpit grew.

The porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glittering show
To a less noble substance changed,
Were now but leathern buckets ranged.

The ballads pasted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The little Children in the Wood,
Now seem'd to look abundance better,
Improved in picture, size, and letter:
And, high in order placed, describe
The heraldry of every tribe.

A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphosed into pews;
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folks disposed to sleep.

The cottage, by such feats as these,
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desired their host
To ask for what he fancied most.
Philemon, having paused a while,
Return'd them thanks in homely style;
Then said, "My house is grown so fine,
Methinks, I still would call it mine.
I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parson if you please."

He spoke, and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels:
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassock grew,
And both assumed a sable hue;
But, being old, continued just
As threadbare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues:
He smoked his pipe, and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamp'd in the preface and the text;
At christenings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Wish'd women might have children fast,
And thought whose sow had farrow'd last;
Against dissenters would repine,
And stood up firm for "right divine;"
Found his head fill'd with many a system;
But classic authors,-he ne'er miss'd 'em.

Thus having furbish'd up a parson, Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. Instead of homespun coifs, were seen Good pinners edged with colberteen ; Her petticoat, transform'd apace, Became black satin, flounced with lace. "Plain Goody" would no longer down, "Twas "Madame," in her grogram gown. Philemon was in great surprise, And hardly could believe his eyes. Amazed to see her look so prim, And she admired as much at him.

Thus happy in their change of life, Were several years this man and wife: When on a day, which proved their last, Discoursing o'er old stories past, They went by chance, amid their talk, To the churchyard to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cried out, "My dear, I see your forehead sprout !""Sprout!" quoth the man; "What's this you tell us?

I hope you don't believe me jealous!
But yet, methinks I feel it true,
And really yours is budding too-
Nay, now I cannot stir my foot;
It feels as if 'twere taking root."

Description would but tire my Muse,
In short, they both were turn'd to yews.
Old Goodman Dobson of the green
Remembers he the trees has seen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to show the sight;
On Sundays after evening prayer,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew,
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew:
Till once a parson of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which, 'tis hard to be believed
How much the other tree was grieved,
Grew scrubbed, died a-top, was stunted.
So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.
JONATHAN SWIFT.

TAKE THY OLD CLOAK ABOUT
THEE.
THIS winters weather itt waxeth cold,
And frost doth freese on every hill,
And Boreas blowes his blasts soe bold,

That all our cattell are like to spill;

Bell my wiffe, who loves noe strife,
Shee sayd unto me quietlye,
Rise up, and save cow Cumbockes liffe,
Man, put thine old cloake about thee.

HE.

O Bell, why dost thou flyte "and scorne?” Thou kenst my cloak is very thin:

Itt is soe bare and overworne

A cricke he theron cannot renn : Then Ile no longer borrowe nor lend, "For once Ile new appareld bee, To-morrow Ile to towne and spend," For Ile have a new cloake about mee.

SHE.

Cow Cumbocke is a very good cowe,

Shee ha beene alwayes true to the payle, Shee has helpt us to butter and cheese, I trow,

And other things shee will not fayle; I wold be loth to see her pine,

Good husband, councell take of mee, It is not for us to go soe fine, Man, take thine old cloake about thee. HE.

My cloake it was a very good cloake,

Itt hath been always true to the weare, But now it is not worth a groat;

I have had it four and forty yeere; Sometime itt was of cloth in graine,

'Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see, It will neither hold out winde nor raine; And Ile have a new cloake about mee.

SHE.

It is four and fortye yeeres agoe

Since the one of us the other did ken, And we have had betwixt us towe Of children either nine or ten; Wee have brought them up to women and men;

In the feare of God I trow they bee; And why wilt thou thyselfe misken? Man, take thine old cloake about thee.

HE. O Bell my wiffe, why dost thou "floute?" Now is nowe and then was then : Seeke now all the world throughout,

Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen

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