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Last Interview with Scott

Washington Irving 207
Last Leaf, The

: Oliver Wendell Holmes 34
Little Breeches

John Hay 7
Long White Seam, The

: Jean Ingelow 151
Loro-Lei, The

Heinrich Heine 13
Monthly Nurse, The

Leigh Hunt 127
Moonlight March, The

Reginald Heber 10
Moorish Palace, A

Washington Irving 155
Moses, the Law Giver

Flavius Josephus 289
Mountain Echo, The .

Heinrich Heine 13
Nora Awakened

Henrik Ibsen 134
'Ode on a Grecian Urn

John Keats 301
Ode to a Nightingale

John Keats 298
Ode to Autumn

John Keats

Old Ironsides

Oliver Wendell Holmes 36
On Beachy Head

Richard Jefferies 220
On First Reading Chapman's Homer

John Keats 303
On Shakespeare

Samuel Johnson 270

Heinrich Heine 15
Phænix, The

Herodotus - 31
Plans for the Trip

Jerome K. Jerome 233
Primitive Habits in New Amsterdam,

Washington Irving 194
Private Prayer by Dr. Johnson, A Samuel Johnson 288

Samuel Johnson 278
Roman Brook, a :

Richard Jefferies 229
Rose and the Grave. The

Victor Marie Hugo 123
Rugby and Football

Thomas Hughes

Rural Life in England

Washington Irving 197
Sand Martins

Jean Ingelow 153
Serenade, A

Thomas Hood 59
Shepherd' Lady, The

Jean Ingelow 148

Jean Ingelow

Some Definitions

Samuel Johnson 287
Song of the Shirt, The

Thomas Hood 53
Songs of Spring

Heinrich Heine 14

John Keats 308
Stage Coach, The

Washington Irving 183

Washington Irving 163
Sunday in an Inn

Washington Irving 204

Heinrich Heine 16

Reginald Heber 10
Thin Shoes

Douglas Wiủiam Jerrold 260
Voiceless, The

Oliver Wendell Holmes 32
Voyage, The

Heinrich Heine 12
When Sparrows Build

Jean Ingelow 152


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JOHN HAY, statesman, diplomat, soldier, and author, born at Salem, Indiana, in 1838, died in 1905. He graduated from Brown University, and later became secretary to President Lincoln; served in the Civil War and was brevetted colonel. He distinguished himself as ambassador to England, and as Secretary of State. Among his works are Castilian Days," “ Pike County Ballads,” and Abraham Lincoln," written in collaboration with John G. Nicolay.

(From “Pike County Ballads.” Copyright by Houghton,

Miffin & Co., published by permission)
TALL, no! I can't tell whar he lives,

Becase he don't live, you see;
Leastways, he's got out of the habit

Of livin' like you and me.
Whar have you been for the last three year,

That you haven't heard folks tell
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks

The night of the Prairie Belle?


He weren't no saint,-them engineers

Is pretty much all alike,
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill,

And another one here, in Pike;
A keerless man in his talk was Jim,

And an awkward hand in a row;
But he never flunked, and he never lied, -
I reckon he never knowed how.



And this was all the religion he had,

To treat his engine well,
Never be passed on the river,

To mind the pilot's bell;
And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire-

A thousand times he swore-
He'd hold her nozzle ag'in the bank

Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their days on the Mississippi,

And her day come at last:
The Movastar was a better boat,

But the Belle she wouldn't be passed.
And so she come tearin' along that night,

The oldest craft on the line-
With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,

And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

The bar bust out as she clared the bar,

And burnt a hole in the night,
And quick as a flash she turned, and made

For that willer-bank on the right.
There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled

Over all the infernal roar,
“I'll hold her nozzle ag’in' the bank

Till the last galoot's ashore.”

Through the hot, black breath of the burnin'

boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness

And knowed he would keep his word. And, sure's you're born, they all got off

Afore the smoke-stacks fell,And Bludso's ghost went up alone

In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren't no saint,—but at jedgment

I'd run my chance with Jim
'Longside of some pious gentlemen

That wouldn't shook hands with him.
He seen his duty, a dead sure thing,

And went for it thar and then;
And Christ ain't a-going to be too hard

On a man that died for men.


(From "Pike County Ballads." Copyright by Houghton,

MiMin & Co., Published by permission)
DON'T go much on religion,

I never ain't had no show;
But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir,

On the handful o' things I know. I don't pan out on the prophets

And free will, and that sort of thing, But I b’lieve in God and the Angels,

Ever sence one night last spring. I come into town with some turnips,

And my little Gabe come along, No four-year-old in the county

Could beat him for pretty and strong, Pert and chipper and sassy,

Always ready to swear and fight,And I'd larnt him ter chaw terbacker,

Jest to keep his milk teeth white. The snow come down like a blanket

As I passed by Taggert's store: I went in for a jug of molasses

And left the team at the door.
They scared at something and started,

I heard one little squall,
And hell-to-split over the prairie
Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie!

I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches,

And sarched for 'em far and near. At last we struck hosses and wagon,

Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat,—but of little Gabe

No hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me

Of my fellow critter's aid,
I just flopped on my marrow bones,

Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

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By this, the torches was played out.

And me and Isrul Parr
Went off for some wood to a sheep fold

That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed

Where they shut up the lambs at night. We looked in, and seen them huddled thar,

So warm and sleepy and white; And THAR sot Little Breeches and chirped,

As pert as ever you see, “I want a chaw of terbacker,

And that's what's the matter of me.”

How did he git thar? Angels.

He could never have walked in that storm, They jest scooped down and toted him

To whar it was safe and warm. And I think that saving a little child,

And bringing him to his own, Is a derned sight better business

Than loafing around The Throne.

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