"No yer don't, this mornin', as I knows on,' said I; 'I've got enough shootin craws your fashun. Next time I go shootin' crows 'long any boddy, I'm goin' to do it Christian-fashun, with gun-barrils, and not blastid old flour-barrils filled with gravil. That kind o' shootin' don't suit my style o' bones—'speehally head-fo'most inter a dead kaow!"

'On-ly four crows killt!' said the Squire, with a groan. 'To think what a feller might have done, if he had only have spread his-self judishuslously as he came tumblin' onto 'em spang! Wal!' (looking cheeringly to young Tyler,) 'you couldn't do more'n fire both barrils into 'em, ef they was flour-barrils, could you?'

THE LEGEND OF JESUS AND THE MOSS

In the desert of Engedi Lies a valley deep and lone; Softly there the mild air slumbered, Lovely there the sunlight shone. In the bosom of this valley, By the path that leads across, Lay a modest velvet carpet Of the finest, softest moss. But the careless traveler, passing, Heedless of it went his way; Thus this miracle of beauty Lone in hidden glory lay. Bloom and sunshine, sweeter, brighter, Him from distant mountains greet; On to that the stranger hurries, Past the moss-bed at his feet. Then the moss-bed sighed, complaining To the evening dew that fell; And its tufted bosom heaving, Thus its 'plains began to tell: 'Ah! men love you, bloom and sunshine, Long its rosy glow to see, Feed their eyes on luring flowers Whilst their feet tread rude on me!' Now, when mellow rays of sunset Lingered golden on the trees, Came a weary pilgrim slowly From the bordering forest leas. This was Jesus, just returning From his fast of forty days; Worn by Satan's fierce temptations, He for rest and comfort prays. Sore his sacred feet are blistered, Wandering o'er the desert-sands; Torn and bleeding from the briers, Sufferings which the curse demands. When he came upon the moss-bed, Soon he felt how cool and sweet Lay the soft and velvet carpet 'Neath his wounded, bleeding feet. 'Then he paused and spake this blessing: 'Gift of my kind Father's love! Fret not, little plant, thy record Shineth in the book above. By the careless eye unheeded, Bear thy lowly, humble lot; Thou hast eased my weary walking, Thou art ne'er in heaven forgot.' Scarcely had he breathed this blessing On the moss that soothed his woes, When upon its bosom gathered, Budded, bloomed, a lovely rose! And its petals glowed with crimson Like the clouds at close of day; And a glory on the mosses Like the smile of cherubs lay. Then said Jesus to the flower: 'Moss-rose—this thy name shall be— Spread thou o'er all lands, the sweetest Emblem of humility. Out of lowly mosses budding, Which have soothed a pilgrim's pain, Thou shalt tell the world what honor All the lowly, lovely gain.' Hear his words, ye lonely children, By the world unseen, unknown; Wait ye for the suffering pilgrim, Coming weary, faint, and lone. Keep your hearts still soft and tender, Like the velvet bed of moss; God will bless the love you render, To some bearer of the cross.

In our May number we spoke old Englishly of the Boston demoiselle. In the present number we have:

YE PHILADELPHIA YOUNGE LADYE

Ye Philadelphia young ladye 1s not evir of ruddie milke and blonde hew, like unto hir cosyn of Boston, natheless is shee not browne as a chinkapinn or persymon like unto ye damosylles of Baltimore. Even and clere is hir complexioun, seldom paling, and not often bloshing, whyeh is a good thynge for those who bee fonde of kissing, sith that if ther mothers come in sodanely ther checkes wyll not be sinful tell-tayles of swete and secrete deeds. Of whych matter of blushing itt is gretely to the credyt of the Philadelphienne that shee blosheth not muche, sith that Aldrovandus, and as methynketh also, Mizaldus in his Mirabile Centuries, doe affirme thatt not to bloshe is a sign of noble bloods and gentyl lineage—for itt may bee planely seene that every base-borne churle's daughter blosheth, if thatt yee give hir a poke under ye chinn, whereas ye countesse of highe degre only smileth sweetlie and sayth merily, 'Aha! messire—tu voys que mon joly couer est endormy!' for shee well knoweth that a gentyllman, like ye kynge, can doe noe wronge.

The Philadelphienne dressyth not in garments like unto Joseph, his cote of manie colors, nethir dothe shee put on clothes whych look from afar off like geographie-mapps, where the hues are as well assortyd as iff a paint-mill had bursten and scattered the piggments all pele-mele into everlastynge miscellayneous scatteratioun. For shee doth greately go inn for subdued ratt-color, milde mouse-tints, temperate tea-caddy tones, moderate mode—dyes, gentyll gray—shades, tranquill drabb—tinges, temperate tawny, calm graye, sober ashie, pacifyed slate, mitigated dun, lenientlie dingie, and blandlie cinereous chromattics, since shee hadd a Quakir grandmother on the one syde, ande is too superblie proude on the other, 'to make a pecocke of hirselfe,' as shee wyll telle you whann thatt yee be spattered with the water whych is jetted from hose over ye pavementes. Hee thatt woulde see manye of these swete beeings, shoulde walke in Chestnutt strete whyles thatt shee goeth to shopp, or promenade in Walnutt strete, on Sundaye. And if he can telle mee of a citie on earthe where one can see more prettye, tiny feete, in neater shoos or gaytered bootes, thann hee may then beholde, I wolde fayne knowe where itt is, thatt I maye go there too.

Muche loveth shee little tea-parties where onlie girles bee; and to have ye gentylmen come, aske: 'Damsylle, wherefore walke ye nott in gayer garmentes?' Soe thatt itt often comes to passe thatt whenn walkyng in ye Broade Waye of New-Yorke, yee can tell a Philadelphienne by hir sober yet rich garbe, so that ye Cosmopolite sayth: 'Per ma fe! thatt is a ladye, I know shee is, by the waye shee lookes.' And trulie, as Dan Chaucer sayeth, shee is one:

'Well seemed by her apparaile, She is not wont to great travaile, And whan she kempt is fetously, And well arraied and richely. Then hath shee done all her journée, Gentyll and faire indede is shee!'

Ye Philadelphia younge ladye loveth to ryde of pleasaunte afternoones out untoe Pointe Breeze, adown ye Necke, in ye Parke, or along ye wynding Wissahickon. Peradventure shee goeth whyles with a beau who speaketh unto hir of love, to whych shee listeneth wyth tendir grace, and replyeth with art, untill thatt they have builded upp betwene them a flirtacioun. From tyme to tyme hee makyth a punn, and shee cryeth, 'Shame!' but itt shames him never a whitt or jott—nay, hee goeth on and maketh yett anothir—ofttimes untill ye horse takyth frighte and runneth awaie. Yett for all this she liketh hym still, so grete is ye love of woman and so enduring hir constancye.

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