a barrel-shaped receptacle. In the barrel was a clumsy machine turned round at its axis by a great bent beam, like a well-sweep, only it was horizontal; to this beam, at its outer end, a spavined old horse was attached. The muddy mixture was shovelled into the hopper by spavined-looking old men; while trudging wearily round and round the spavined old horse ground it all up till it slowly squashed out at the bottom of the barrel, in a doughy compound, all ready for the moulds. Where the dough squeezed out of the barrel, a pit was sunken, so as to bring the moulder here stationed down to a level with the trough, into which the dough fell. Israel was assigned to this pit. Men came to him continually, reaching down rude wooden trays, divided into compartments, each of the size and shape of a brick. With a flat sort of big ladle, Israel slapped the dough into the trays from the trough; then, with a bit of smooth board scraped the top even, and handed it up. Half buried there in the pit, all the time handing those desolate trays, poor Israel seemed some gravedigger, or church-yard man, tucking away dead little innocents in their coffins on one side, and cunningly disintering them again to resurrectionists stationed on the other. Twenty of these melancholy old mills were in operation. Twenty heart-broken old horses, rigged out deplorably in castoff old cart harness, incessantly tugged at twenty great shaggy beams; while from twenty half-burst old barrels, twenty wads of mud, with a lava-like course, gouged out into twenty old troughs, to be slapped by twenty tattered men, into the twenty-times-twenty battered old trays. Ere entering his pit for the first, Israel had been struck by the dismally devil-may-care gestures of the moulders. But hardly had he himself been a moulder three days, when his previous sedateness of concern at his unfortunate lot, began to conform to the reckless sort of half jolly despair expressed by the others. The truth indeed was, that this continual, violent, helter-skelter slapping of the dough into the moulds, begat a corresponding disposition in the moulder; who, by heedlessly slapping that sad dough, as stuff of little worth, was thereby taught, in his meditations, to slap, with similar heedlessness, his own sadder fortunes, as of still less vital consideration. To these muddy philosophers, men and bricks were equally of clay. What signifies who we be-dukes or ditchers? thought the moulders; all is vanity and clay. So slap, slap, slap; care-free and negligent; with bitter unconcern, these dismal desperadoes flapped down the dough. If this recklessness were vicious of them, be it so; but their vice was like that weed which but grows on barren ground; enrich the soil, and it disappears. For thirteen weary weeks, lorded over by the taskmasters, Israel toiled in his pit. Though this condemned him to a sort of earthy dungeon, or grave-digger's hole while he worked; yet even when liberated to his meals, naught of a cheery nature greeted him. The yard was encamped, with all its endless rows of tented sheds, and kilns, and mills, upon a wild waste moor, belted round by bogs and fens. The blank horizon, like a rope, coiled round the whole. Sometimes the air was harsh and bleak; the ridged and mottled sky looked scourged; or cramping fogs set in from sea, for leagues around, ferreting out each rheumatic human bone, and racking it; the sciatic limpers shivered; their aguish rags sponged up the mists. No shelter, though it hailed. The sheds were for the bricks. Unless, indeed, according to the phrase, each man was a "brick," which, in sober scripture, was the case; brick is no bad name for any son of Adam; Eden was but a brickyard; what is a mortal but a few luckless shovelfuls of clay, moulded in a mould, laid out on a sheet to dry, and ere long quickened into his queer caprices by the sun? Are not men built into communities just like bricks into a wall? Consider the great wall of China: ponder the great populace of Pekin. As man serves bricks, so God him; building him up by billions into the edifices of his purposes. Man attains not to the nobility of a brick, unless taken in the aggregate. Yet is there a difference in brick, whether quick or dead; which, for the last, we now shall see. To be concluded in our next.) THE OLD WOMAN WHO DRIED UP AND BLEW AWAY. "There be many witches at this day in Lapland who sell winds to mariners, and they must needs go whom the devil drives."-Fuller's Holy and Profane State. "Old woman, old woman, whither so high?" MANY years ago, on the old stage road leading from Boston to Plymouth, just out of Weymouth into Hingham, there lived an old woman who went by the name of Sue Ward. Where she came from no one knew. Some years before the time of which we write, she had taken up her abode in an old house which had been deserted by its former owner, and there she dweltall alone, a perfect mystery to the gossips of the neighborhood. She managed to get a living by doing all sorts of odd jobs for the people of the village; by knitting now and then a pair of stockings; by spinning a few knots of yarn, or going out as nurse for the sick. The villagers also, at first, were quite kind to her. But after a while they began to weary of being benevolent to so mysterious a being. All plotting and questioning to ascertain her former life failed to produce any effect, save a stubborn refusal to gratify curiosity, and slight flashes of anger, which all inquirers agreed boded no good. Although the time of which we write was after the excitement concerning the Salem witches, yet belief in such beings had not wholly died away, especially among the older portion of the community. Could they not quote the Bible and the godly Mr. Mather in support of their doctrine? By-and-by strange stories began to be circulated concerning old Sue Ward. It was said, that being vexed by Deacon Burr, she gave utterance to a muttered curse, and the next morning the deacon's best heifer was found dead, in such a strange position, that nobody but the devil could have brought her there. Then, as Mistress Ward was walking home one cold night, uncle Joshua overtook her in his nice new wagon. She asked him to carry her home, as she was tired. But he replied he could not, as it was rather off his road, and he was in a hurry. May you be longer reaching home than I am," exclaimed she, and but a moment afterwards his horse fell, broke both shafts to the wagon, and what was worse, his own leg. 66 These stories, somewhat magnified, perhaps, in the telling, were soon in the mouth of every one in the village. Soon they spoke of her no longer as Mistress Ward, or old Sue Ward. She possessed the three great requisites for a witch of that time. I. She was old. III. She was poor. With such an evil suspicion hanging about her, it is no wonder that many who had formerly befriended, now avoided her. Even the little children, having heard the mysterious talk of their parents, as they passed her in the streets, clasped one another's hands more tightly, and, gazing at her with halffrightened looks, went hurriedly on, though some of the larger boys would sometimes shout after her. But Matters were thus, as one wild windy November night, old Sue sat by her fire in her lonely hut. She had been out to gather the faggots of which the fire was built, and meeting some rude boys on her return, they had taunted her with unseemly words. Not often would such words have affected her so much. as the screaming wind howled through the branches of the forest, and she heard the moanings of the dying autumn, thinking all the while that she knew not where to look for help through the coming winter, what wonder that she felt like cursing the day in which she was born? She did curse it most bitterly. Her wicked, withered old heart was lifting itself up in blasphemy, as she sat by her fire that night, and gazed intently into its flames as they lightened up her miserable room. "Why can't I die?" muttered she to herself. "As if seventy years of sorrow, seventy years of sin, wasn't enough for one mortal! Doesn't the Bible say that three score years and ten are the limits of life? Why should I live longer? I, without friends, with none of the comforts which belong to age, old, poor miserable, half-starved and cold?" and she drew up closer to the fire, and continued. "I would drown myself, but the water is so cold. I have not strength enough to kill myself any other way. Why is there no other way but dying to be rid of the world? If folks could cast off life as they do an old garment! I've heard of old women that dried up and blew away. The Lord knows I'm dry enough. Why, if he will not let me die, will he not blow me away? I should not care if it was to a place warmer than this, where old women don't have to go out after faggots." And she grinned a most wicked grin, showing one worn yellow stump of a tooth. "Good evening, Mother Ward," said a voice at her elbow. She turned and saw just at her side a little old man dressed in black. A quick active old fellow he seemed, as, without being asked, he drew the other of the two rush-bottomed chairs-all the seats the room contained-up to the fire. "Who are you? What do you want?" asked old Sue, as soon as she had a little recovered from her astonishment at this sudden interruption. "A poor cold traveller who wishes to warm himself at your fire," replied he, just glancing at her with his keen black eye. Oh it was the wickedest eye you ever saw, so full of malice and deviltry, so glittering and snake-like. "You are welcome to the little warmth a wretched old woman's fire can give. But you have not told me your name, though I ought to know it, as you seem to know mine." "I go under different names," replied he; "those most familiar with me, call me by a nickname, but my proper title is Beel Z. Bubb. But why do you call yourself wretched?" "Have you not lived long enough in the world to know?" replied she almost fiercely. "There are grey hairs on your brow, and the wrinkles on your face will number almost as many as mine. Is it not always wretched to be old? But perhaps you have warm friends who cheer you with their presence, and sustain you by their love?" She paused a moment, as if waiting for a reply. But the old man sat with his elbows resting on his knees, looking steadfastly into the fire with his cunning eyes. The old woman continued Perhaps you do not know what it is to outlive all the friends of your youth, to wander away among strangers, and to be shunned and despised by them, to be treated and hooted at as a witch, as one who has dealings with the devil, when I know no more of the devil than you do." "Not perhaps as much," said he, in an undertone. "She went on, not hearing or not heeding him. "You may not have felt all the wickedness of your soul rise up against your persecutors, prompting you to curse them as I have cursed them time and again, and curse them now. Oh, the good Christian souls! who pretend to be so pious and holy, who roll up their eyes at the very sight of me! I should not wonder if some of them had more dealings with Satan than myself." "No doubt of it," rejoined the old man. Old Sue went on, feeling a strange thrilling pleasure in telling her wicked thoughts to the one at her side, whose eyes gleamed brighter, and looked more evil, the more wicked she grew. "And I was thinking what a mockery it would be for me to say the Lord's Prayer. Our Father' "Why do you not kill yourself, then ?" asked the old man softly. "I was thinking of that just as you came in. But it is an ugly, horrible business to take one's own life. If there were only some easier way to rid one's self of the world! Did you ever hear," continued she, speaking in a low, confidential tone, "did ever you hear of any old women that dried up and blew away?" The cunning-eyed one for a while spoke not a word. He sat there still and quiet, looking fixedly into the fire. But all at once he burst out with a wild stave of a song. The words so wrought upon the imagination of mother Ward, thatshe knew not why-she began to stamp her feet in accompaniment, and when he came to the chorus, she joined her shrill treble to his cracked bass, and the strange melody rang out clear and piercingly: I walked me out the other night, I clasped my cloak about me tight, Chorus.-O for those rare, good times of old, When women, I've heard say, Quoth I, O, wind! O, bitter wind! Why blow so chill on me? O for those rare good times of old, &c. Yet still the cold, cold wind blew on, It said to me, in quiet scorn, O for those rare good times of old, &c. I curse thee, wind, with all my might,- I'll curse thee till my death. O for those rare good times of old, &c. "Chorus again !" shouted the old man, stamping his foot. And they sang it through again, till the old walls of the room echoed with the wild scream of their voices. "Those good old times may come again," said the old man, after they had finished the singing. "But there is a certain state of feeling to which every one must arrive, before they can vanish from earth. People in the old times oftener reached it, than at present." "What is that state? I will attain unto it," said mother Ward. "I think you will; perhaps, you have. Know then, good mother, that all things here on the earth are vanity. What is lighter than vanity? Doth not the slightest breath stir the leaf of the willow? But vanity is lighter than even the willow's leaf. I said all things were vanity; all things but love are so. It is this which binds men to earth. Were it not for the love which human beings bear to one another-puff--and away they would go, mine for ever. Now, mother Ward, tell me, have you rid yourself altogether of love? I find many who declare they have done thus, and when I wonder they do not blow away, lo! down deep in their heart, covered over it may be with the glitter of mammon, with the dross of selfishness, one little particle of love, which keeps them from being altogether vanity. But I am preaching! Tell me, I say, have you rid yourself altogether of love?" Old Sue sat still and thought. Her mind went back through the path of weary years, to the days when a happy child she had clung with affection to those who cherished her under their roof, who called her their darling; she traced her own life as she grew up a wayward beauty; her love poured out in its wealth and tenderness upon one her parents deemed unworthy; her rebellion and forsaking of all for love of him who was to be father and mother to her: her few short months of happiness and a terrible awakening as the earth received to its boscm her love, her only joy, save an infant life which only kept her grief from laying herself by his side in the grave. Old Sue buried her face in her hands and wept as the memory of these times came so vividly upon her. The evileyed looked gloomily. But memory would not stop hereas his death and as her treasure's birth. It told over her wrongs. The consciousness of finding herself without money, and consequently without friends, in a great city; the long days of travel, with the precious little one in her arms, to the home of her childhood; the winter's night that heard her timorous knock at the door and The one at her side looked smilingly. The tears had dried, and foulest hate scowled forth from her face. And the same wild night heard a father's curse upon his offspring; it saw a woman faint and foot-worn go forth; with its winds and storms it hushed a child's cry for ever, and wrought long months of disease upon the mother. From that bed of sickness, Memory told her how she rose with vows of vengeance, but it did not dare to dwell upon the unnatural crimes which followed, of vain endeavors to escape remorse, of her flight over the sea, of the years she had wished to die. She rose from her seat-trembling and pale-for she had dared to think upon her sinful past. She had a parent's love and it had cursed instead of blessed her; she won a dearer love, and it died from her; a child's love had blossomed in her heart, but it was rudely killed and its death terribly avenged. She had no other love-all was unfriendliness and hate. "Are you ready to go?" said the old man calmly. He knew that she was his. "Let me first warm myself before my journey," replied she. Then she gathered all the faggots into the middle of the room, and kindled them. The room blazed in a moment. As the flames leaped fierce and hot. "I am ready" said she. That night good John Benton came riding from Plymouth. As he approached old Sue's hut he saw the fire burst forth from its windows, and strangest of all, two shadowy forms glided far away above the burning flames, flying into the darkness of the night, while a gust of wind mightier than ever he had before. felt, almost blew him from his horse. These things he averred to the crowd who collected around the burning dwell ing. And what confirmed the narration was, that no bones could be found among the ruins-neither was old Sue Ward seen any more. This is a story believed by many persons to the present day, and on account of which, every old house thereabouts has a horse-shoe nailed to its door, and this maxim prevails: CHERISH LOVE LEST YOU BECOME VANITY. A OTTILIA. LOW, sad brow with folded hair, White moonlight through the darkness throws; A head, whose lordly, only crown Of pride, Olympian Juno might Have worn for the great god's delight; Deep eyes, immixed of night and fire, Unstained by any earthly soil, And only caring to walk straight Her jewelled hands across the keys, Still, while she played, you saw that hand The firelight flickered on the wall, Yet now she played some liquid song A happy lover would have sung, If once he could have found a tongue; And now the sparkling octaves ran Through the quick dance, whose tangled braid And now the boatman's evening song, Yet, howsoe'er her music ran, A sigh was in it, and a sense Of some dread voice that called us hence; A voice that even now I hear Although the hand that touched those keys, |