The boys and girls in a double row
Wait face to face till the magic bow
Shall whip the tune from the violin,
And the merry pulse of the feet begin.
In shirt of check, and tallowed hair,
The fiddler sits in the bulrush chair
Like Moses' basket stranded there
On the brink of Father Nile.
He feels the fiddle's slender neck,
Picks out the notes with thrum and check,
And times the tune, with nod and beck,
And thinks it a weary while.
All ready! Now he gives the call,
Cries, "Honor to the ladies!" All
The jolly tides of laughter fall
And ebb in a happy smile.
D-o-w-n comes the bow on every string, "First couple join right hands and swing!” As light as any blue-bird's wing
"Swing once and a half times round." Whirls Mary Martin all in blueCalico gown and stockings new, And tinted eyes that tell you true,
Dance all to the dancing sound.
She flits about big Moses Brown,
Who holds her hands to keep her down,
And thinks her hair a golden crown
And his heart turns over once!
His cheek with Mary's breath is wet,
He gives a second somerset !
He means to win the maiden yet,
Alas, for the awkward dunce!
"Your stoga boot has crushed my toe!"
"I'd rather dance with one-legged Joe!"
"You clumsy fellow!" "Pass below!”
And the first pair dance apart.
Then "Forward six !" advance, retreat,
Like midges gay in sunbeam street.
'Tis Money Musk by merry feet
And the Money Musk by heart!
"Three quarters round your partner swing!" "Across the set !" The rafters ring, The girls and boys have taken wing
And have brought their roses out! "Tis "Forward six!" with rustic grace, Ah, rarer far than-" Swing to place!" Than golden clouds of old point-lace, They bring the dance about.
Then clasping hands all—" Right and left !”
All swiftly weave the measure deft
Across the woof in loving weft,
And the Money Musk is done!
Oh, dancers of the rustling husk,
Good-night, sweethearts, 'tis growing dusk, Good-night for aye to Money Musk,
For the heavy march begun!
Benjamin F. Taylor.
THE BELL OF ATRI.
AT Atri in Abruzzo, a small town
Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown,
The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame,
So many monarchs since have borne the name,
Had a great bell hung in the market-place
Beneath a roof, projecting some small space,
By way of shelter from the sun and rain.
Then rode he through the streets with all his train,
And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long,
Made proclamation, that whenever wrong
Was done to any man, he should but ring
The great bell in the square, and he, the King,
Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon.
Such was the proclamation of King John.
How swift the happy days in Atri sped,
What wrongs were righted need not here be said.
Suffice it that, as all things must decay,
The hempen rope at length was worn away,
Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand,
Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand,
Till one, who noted this in passing by,
Mended the rope with braids of briony,
So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine-
Hung like a votive garland at a shrine.
By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt
A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt,
Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods,
Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods,
Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports
And prodigalities of camps and courts;-
Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old,
His only passion was the love of gold.
He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds,
Rented his vineyards and his garden grounds,
Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all,
To starve and shiver in a naked stall,
And day by day sat brooding in his chair,
Devising plans how best to hoard and spare.
At length he said: "What is the use or need
To keep at my own cost this lazy steed,
Eating his head off in my stables here,
When rents are low and provender is dear?
Let him go feed upon the public ways;
I want him only for the holidays."
So the old steed was turned into the heat
Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street;
And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn,
Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn.
One afternoon, as in that sultry clime
It is the custom in the summer time,
With bolted doors and window-shutters closed,
The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed;
When suddenly upon their senses fell
The loud alarum of the accusing bell!
The Syndic started from his deep repose,
Turned on his couch, and listened, and then rose
And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace
Went panting forth into the market-place,
Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung,
Reiterating with persistent tongue,
In half-articulate jargon, the old song:
"Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!"
But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade
He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade,
No shape of human form of woman born,
But a poor steed dejected and forlorn,
Who with uplifted head and eager eye
Was tugging at the vines of briony.
"Domeneddio!" cried the Syndic straight,
"This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state!
He calls for justice, being sore distressed,
And pleads his cause as loudly as the best."
Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd
Had rolled together like a summer cloud,
And told the story of the wretched beast
In five-and-twenty different ways at least,
With much gesticulation and appeal
To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal.
The Knight was called and questioned; in reply
Did not confess the fact, did not deny;
Treated the matter as a pleasant jest,
And set at naught the Syndic and the rest,
Maintaining, in an angry undertone,
That he should do what pleased him with his
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