This imaginary squirrel haunted n.o.ble night and day. The very squirrel himself would run up before his face into the tree, and, crouched in a crotch, would sit silently watching the whole process of bombarding the empty hole, with great sobriety and relish. But n.o.ble would allow of no doubts. His conviction that that hole had a squirrel in it continued unshaken for six weeks. When all other occupations failed, this hole remained to him. When there were no more chickens to harry, no pigs to bite, no cattle to chase, no children to romp with, no expeditions to make with the grown folks, and when he had slept all that his dogskin would hold, he would walk out of the yard, yawn and stretch himself, and then look wistfully at the hole, as if thinking to himself, "Well, as there is nothing else to do, I may as well try that hole again!"--_Eyes and Ears._

N. P. Willis was usually the life of the company he happened to be in.

His repartee at Mrs. Gales's dinner in Washington is famous. Mrs. Gales wrote on a card to her niece, at the other end of the table: "Don't flirt so with Nat Willis." She was herself talking vivaciously to a Mr.

Campbell. Willis wrote the niece's reply:

"Dear aunt, don't attempt my young feelings to trammel.

Nor strain at a Nat while you swallow a Campbell."

OLD GRIMES

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man We never shall see more: He used to wear a long, black coat, All b.u.t.ton'd down before.

His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true: His hair was some inclined to gray-- He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burn'd: The large, round head upon his cane From ivory was turn'd.

Kind words he ever had for all; He knew no base design: His eyes were dark and rather small, His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true: His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue.

Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes He pa.s.s'd securely o'er, And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more.

But good old Grimes is now at rest, Nor fears misfortune's frown: He wore a double-breasted vest-- The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert: He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse-- Was sociable and gay: He wore large buckles on his shoes.

And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view, Nor made a noise, town-meeting days, As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune's chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circ.u.mstances.

Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares.

His peaceful moments ran; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman.

ALBERT GORTON GREENE.

IDENTIFIED

Nathaniel Hawthorne was a kind-hearted man as well as a great novelist.

While he was consul at Liverpool a young Yankee walked into his office.

The boy had left home to seek his fortune, but evidently hadn't found it yet, although he had crossed the sea in his search. Homesick, friendless, nearly penniless, he wanted a pa.s.sage home. The clerk said Mr. Hawthorne could not be seen, and intimated that the boy was not American, but was trying to steal a pa.s.sage. The boy stuck to his point, and the clerk at last went to the little room and said to Mr. Hawthorne: "Here's a boy who insists upon seeing you. He says he is an American, but I know he isn't." Hawthorne came out of the room and looked keenly at the eager, ruddy face of the boy. "You want a pa.s.sage to America?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you say you're an American?"

"Yes, sir."

"From what part of America?"

"United States, sir."

"What State?"

"New Hampshire, sir."

"Town?"

"Exeter, sir."

Hawthorne looked at him for a minute before asking him the next question. "Who sold the best apples in your town?"

"Skim-milk Folsom, sir," said the boy, with glistening eye, as the old familiar by-word brought up the dear old scenes of home.

"It's all right," said Hawthorne to the clerk; "give him a pa.s.sage."

ONE BETTER

Long after the victories of Washington over the French and English had made his name familiar to all Europe, Doctor Franklin chanced to dine with the English and French Amba.s.sadors, when, as nearly as the precise words can be recollected, the following toasts were drunk:

"England'--The _Sun_, whose bright beams enlighten and fructify the remotest corners of the earth."

The French Amba.s.sador, filled with national pride, but too polite to dispute the previous toast, drank the following:

"France'--The _Moon_, whose mild, steady and cheering rays are the delight of all nations, consoling them in darkness and making their dreariness beautiful."

Doctor Franklin then arose, and, with his usual dignified simplicity, said:

"George Washington'--The Joshua who commanded the Sun and Moon to stand still, and they obeyed him."

MY AUNT

My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!

Long years have o'er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp That binds her virgin zone; I know it hurts her--though she looks As cheerful as she can; Her waist is ampler than her life, For life is but a span.

My aunt, my poor deluded aunt!

Her hair is almost gray; Why will she train that winter curl In such a spring-like way?

How can she lay her gla.s.ses down, And say she reads as well, When, through a double convex lens, She just makes out to spell?