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wouldn't. Ef he dropped in his tracks the next minit, he would be ahead; and he allus got ahead.

"So the fellers all got their blood up and there was racin' in all the parishes; and it got so they even raced on Sunday.

“Wal, of course, they never got the doctor's hoss out on Sunday. Cuff wouldn't durst do that-Lord massy, no. He was allers there in church, settin' up in the doctor's clothes, rollin' his eyes, and lookin' as pious as if he never thought of racin' horses. He was an awful solemn nigger in church, Cuff was. But there was a lot of them fellers out to Pequot Holler, Bill Atkins and Tom Peters, and Ike Sanders and the Hokiem

used to go out ev'ry Sunday arter meetin' and race hosses. You see it was close to the State line, and if the s'lectmen was to come down on 'em they could just whip up their hosses over the State line, and they couldn't take 'em.

"Wal, it got to be a great scandal. The fellers talked about it up to the tavern and the deacons and tithingsman, they took it up and went to Parson Williams about it; and the parson he told 'em jest to keep still, not let the fellars know they was bein' watched, and next Sunday he and the tithingsman and the constable, they'd ride over and ketch 'em in the very act. So next Sunday afternoon Parson Williams and deacon Popkins and Ben Bradley (he was the constable that year) they got on their hosses and rode over to Pequot Holler.

The doctor's blood was up, and he meant to come down on 'em strong; for that was his way o' doin' in his parish. And they was in a sort o' day-a-judgment frame o' mind, and jogged along silent as a hearse, till, come to a rise the hill above to holler, they see three or four fellers with their hosses gettin' ready to race; and the parsons, says he, 'Let's go up quiet and get behind these bushes and we'll see what th're up to and catch 'em in the act.' But the mischief on it was that Ike Sanders see 'em comin' and he knowed Tam in a minit-Ike know'd Tam of old-and he just tipped the wink to the rest o' the boys. "Wait,' says he, 'let 'em git close up, and then I'll give the word, and the doctor's hoss 'll be racin' ahead like thunder.'

"Wal, so the doctor and his folks, they drew up behind the bushes and saw 'em a-gittin'ready to start. Tam

he begun to snuffle and paw; but the doctor never mistrusted what he was up to until Ike sung out, 'Go it, boys.' Tam give one fly, and was over the bushes, and in among 'em, a-goin' it like chain lightening, ahead of 'em all.

"Deacon Popkins and Ben Bradley jest stood and held their breath to see 'em all goin' it so like thunder; And the doctor he was took so sudden it was all he could do to jest hold on anyway; so away he went, and trees and bushes and fences streaked by him like ribbons. His hat flew off behind him, and his wig arter and got ketched in a barberry bush; but Lord massy, he couldn't stop to think of them. He jest leaned and caught Tam 'round the neck, and held on for dear life til they come to the stoppin' place. Wal, Tam was ahead of 'em all, sure enough, and was snortin' and snuffin' as if he'd got the very old boy in him, and was up to racin' some more on the spot.

“And then Ben and Ike and Tom and the two Hokium boys, they jest roared and danced around like wild critters. There's times, boys, when a minister must be tempted to swear if there ain't preventin' grace, and this must have been one of them times to Parson Williams. He didn't say nothin', but let 'em have their say. But when they'd got through and Ben had brought his hat and wig and brushed and settled him agin, the parson he says, 'Well, boys, you've had your say and your laugh; but I warn you now, I won't have this thing going on any more,' says he, 'so mind yourselves.'

“Wal, the boys see that the doctor's blood was up, and they rode off purty quiet, and I believe they never raced no more on that spot.”

O pusillanimous heart, be comforted,

And like a cheerful traveler, take the road,
Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread

Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod
To meet the flints? At least it may be said,
Because the way is short, I thank thee, God."

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

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The Ivy Green


Oh! a dainty plant is the Ivy green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, ,

In his cell so lone and cold.
The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed,

To pleasure his dainty whim;
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,

And a staunch old heart has he!
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings

To his friend, the huge oak tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves,
And he joyously twines and hugs around
The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,

And nations scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade

From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days

Shall fatten upon the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

The Origin of Roast Pig



ANKIND, says a Chinese manuscript, for

the first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, clawing it or biting it from the living animal.

The art of roasting, or rather broiling

(which I take to be the elder brother), was accidently discovered in the manner following:

The swineherd, Ho-ti, having gone out into the wood one morning, as his manner was, to collect food for his hogs, left his cottage in the care of his eldest son, Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who, being fond of playing with fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, let some sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which, kindling quickly, spread the conflagration over every part of their poor mansion, till it was reduced to ashes. Together with the cottage, what was of much more importance, a fine litter of new-farrowed pigs, no less than nine in number, perished.

While he was thinking what he should say to his father, and wringing his hands over the smoking remnants of one of those untimely sufferers; an odor assailed his nostrils unlike any scent which he had before experienced. What could it proceed from? Not from the burnt cottage—he had smelt that smell before; indeed, this was by no means the first accident of the kind which had occurred through the negligence of this unlucky young firebrand-much less did it resemble that of any known herb, weed, or flower. A premonitory moistening at the same time overflowed his nether lip. He knew not what to think. He next stooped down to feel the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. He burnt his fingers, and to cool them he applied them, in his booby fashion, to his mouth. Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had come away with his fingers, and for the first time in his life (in the world's life, indeed, for before him no man had known it) he tasted -crackling!

Again he felt and fumbled the pig. It did not burn him so much now, still he licked his fingers from a sort of habit. The truth at length broke into his slow understanding that it was the pig that smelt so, and the pig that tasted so delicious; and, surrendering himself up to the new-born pleasure, he fell to tearing up whole handfuls of the scorched skin with the flesh next it, and was cramming it down his throat in his beastly fashion, when his sire entered amid the smoking rafters, armed with retributory cudgel; and, finding how matters stood, began to rain blows upon the young rogue's shoulders as thick as hailstones.

"You graceless 'whelp! What have you got there devouring? Is it not enough that you have burnt me down three houses with your dog's tricks, and be hanged to you, but you must be eating fire, and I know not what? What have you got there, I say?"

“O father, the pig—the pig! Do come and taste how nice the burnt pig eats !"

Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon raked out another pig, and fairly rending it asunder, thrust the lesser half by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, “Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig, father; only taste! O Lord!" with such-like barbarous ejaculations, cramming all the while as if he would choke.

Ho-ti trembled in every joint while he grasped the abominable thing, wavering whether he should not put his son to death for an unnatural monster, when the crackling scorching his fingers as it had done his son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he in his turn tasted some of its flavor. În conclusion both father and son fairly sat down to the mess, and never left off till they had despatched all that remained of the litter.

It was observed that Ho-ti's cottage was burnt down now more frequently than ever. Nothing but fires from this time forward. Some would break out in broad day, others in the night time. As often as the sow farrowed, so sure was the house of Ho-ti to be in a blaze, and Ho-ti himself, which was the more remarkable, instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow more indulgent to him than ever.

At length they were watched, the terrible mystery discovered, and father and son summoned to take their trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable assize-town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself produced in

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