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coveries which will reward the student who contemplates life diligently through a pocket lens. But, after all, it sometimes seems as if the smaller a man's nature is the more self-conscious and artificial—the more he runs to pocket. The more pocket, in other words, the less man. He who despises pockets avouches the depth and richness of his internal resources. Heroes make little account of pockets, or put their hands in them only for the purpose of taking something out of them to do good with. The hands of simple, great, preoccupied men commonly hang down by their sides; awkwardly, perhaps, but respectably. Pockets, it may be, are agnostic, if not atheistic. At all events, the Christian apostles could have needed none; and so all devout souls must believe that they will be looked for in vain in the good time coming. It is a tremendous thought—but as likely as not to be true that the Ideal is pocketless!



ONCE, in a good old college town,

and gown

a ,
Where learned doctors in cap
Taught unfledged theologues how to preach, -
Youths of many a land and speech, -
There was a student, studious ever,
Whom fellows and townsfolk counted clever;

Despite red hair and an awkard gait,
“He'll be a great man,” they said, “just wait !”

So it chanced, on a chill September day,
When the wind was sharp and the sky was gray,

This student, deep in a study brown,
Was striding along on the edge of the town.
A tiny cottage he neared and passed,
When the sound of footsteps approaching fast,
And his own name called, as in urgent need,
Made him abruptly slacken his speed.
As he turned, a woman had reached his side.

Oh, sir! you are learned and good," she cried, “ And my cow is dying, my own cow Pink ;

There's nothing she'll eat and nothing she'll drink, She seems to be moaning her life away ;

Oh, lose not a moment, but come, I pray !" “Good madam,” he said, with a puckered brow,

My knowledge, I fear, would not help your cow • On cattle diseases I'm all unread,

You'd better consult a physician instead." “ Why, sir,” said the woman, with pleading eyes, “They told me you were uncommonly wise,

And for hours I've waited and watched for you, In hopes you would pass, as you often do."

So the student suffered himself to be led
To the poor old cow, in the rickety shed.

And he thought, as he looked her carefully over, “How I wish you were out among the clover !

But I must do something, right or wrong,
Better than all this talk prolong.'
Now, this quiet student loved a joke
As well as many merrier folk;
So, pausing a moment, as if in doubt,
He traced a circle the cow about,

Which thrice he reversed, with measured tread,
Stopping thrice at the creature's head,
While with solemn face, besuiting the time,
Thrice he intoned this impromptu rhyme:
“Here a suffering animal lies,

Faithful, trusty, and true;
If she lives, she lives,-if she dies, she dies;

And nothing more can I do.'
Then he said, in the tone of an ardent lover,
“I heartily trust this cow will recover!"

While the woman, watching with wide-open eyes
And awe-struck face, was dumb with surprise ;
Till the student, with, “Madam, a very good day!"
Was out of the shed, up the road, and away

Had the woman heard the laugh ring out
When the story was told that night, no doubt
Her faith in the charm she would hardly have kept;
But, hearing naught, she believed and slept.

Years afterward in that same town
There lived a bishop of much renown;
Wise theologians spoke his fame,
And the little children loved his name.
But one sad day the bishop fell ill,
And the news spread broad, as such news will;
One said to another, with tear or sigh,
Nothing can save him—our bishop must die!"
In his sunlit chamber, smiling and calm
As a child unconscious of aught to harm,
The sufferer waited with heart of peace,-
Patiently waited for Death's release.

The fearful swelling that stopped his speech
The skill of the doctors could not reach,
And now it was sucking his breath away,
And the shadows were falling, still and gray.

Of a sudden, a voice outside was heard
And the sick man's memory strangely stirred
As a woman entered, bent and old,
Making her way with assurance bold.
She paused a moment, then stooping low
She marked a circle, with finger slow,
Across the carpet, around the bed,
From head to foot, and from foot to head ;
And then, in the circle she had traced
She hobbled around with eager haste ;
And why, ʼmid servitors strong and stout,
Did nobody venture to put her out ?
Ah, why, no man of them ever could tell,
But each seemed holden, as by a spell,-
While the woman, in voice, now high, now low,
Sang the student's rhyme of long ago :
“Here a suffering animal lies,

Faithful, trusty, and true;
If he lives, he lives,-if he dies, he dies;

And nothing more can I do!" Then she piped, in the tone of an old cracked hell, "I hope the bishop will now get well !”

But the words her lips had scarcely left,
When the air with a quick, sharp cry was clet:,-
It rang throu

through the chamber, it rang through the


Up sprang the attendants, one and all;

They stared at the sick man, perplexed, amazed
Was the dying bishop suddenly crazed ?
He laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks,
And, wonder of wonders,-" He speaks! he speaks!"
Ah, the woman had reached with her charm and

What the surgeon's lancet failed to touch!
“The swelling is broken !" the doctors avowed,

As they clustered together, a joyous crowd.

In a tiny cot on the edge of the town,
A little old woman, in kerchief and gown,
Recounts, for the hundredth time, the tale
Which never to her grows old or stale,
With many a flourish of withered arm,

Of the cow, and the bishop, and potent charm.
“ To think,” she says to the aged crones,
“ At last I can rest my poor old bones,
And never a thought to the future give,
But know that in plenty I ever shall live!
A wonderful man, you must allow ;-
God bless the bishop, and my new cow!"



From “ David Copperfield.”


street. The sand, the seaweed, and the flakes of foam were driving by, and I was obliged to call for assistance before I could shut the gate again, and make it fast against the wind.

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