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While she noticed and marked every furrow that crossed
O'er the tracings of destiny's line;
“ For this Child is of lineage Divine.”
“ From the village of Nazareth,” Joseph replied,
“ Where we dwelt in the land of the Jew,
In the gore of the children he slew;
Shall appoint us the hour to return;
And in Egypt we make our sojourn."
“And ye make of my dwelling your home;
(Blessed hope of the Gentiles) would come.”
And adored him at once ;—then a smile
With her host on the banks of the Nile.
PUTTING UP STOVES. M HE first step a person takes is to put on a very old and
I ragged coat, under the impression that when he gets his mouth full of plaster it will keep his shirt-bosom clean. Next he gets his hands inside the place where the pipe ought to go, and blacks his fingers, and then he carefully makes a black mark down the side of his nose. It is impossible to make any headway in doing this work, until this mark is made. Having got his face properly marked, the victim is ready to begin the ceremony. The head of the family—who is the big goose of the sacrifice-grasps one side of the bottom of the stove, and his wife and the hired girl take hold of the other side. In this way the load is started from the woodshed toward the parlor. Going through the door, the head of the family will carefully swing his side of the stove around, and jam his thumb-nail against the door-post. This part
of the ceremony is never omitted. Having got the stove comfortably in place, the next thing is to find the legs. Two of them are left inside the stove since the Spring before; the other two must be hunted after for twenty-five minutes. They are usually found under the coal. Then the head of the family holds up one side of the stove while his wife puts two of the legs in place, and next he holds up the other side while the other two are fixed, and one of the first two falls out. By the time the stove is on its legs he gets reckless, and takes off his old coat, regardless of his linen. Then he goes off for the pipe, and gets a cinder in his eye. It don't make any difference how well the pipe was put up last year, it will be found a little too short or a little too long. The head of the family jams his hat over his eyes, and, taking a pipe under each arm, goes to the tin-shop to have it fixed. When he gets back he steps upon one of the best parlor chairs to see if the pipe fits, and his wife makes him get down for fear he will scratch the varnish off the chair with the nails in his boot-heel. In getting down he will surely step on the cat, and may thank his stars if it is not the baby. Then he gets an old chair, and climbs up to the chimney again, to find that in cutting the pipe off the end has been left too big for the hole in the chimney. So he goes to the woodshed, and splits on one side of the end of the pipe with an old axe, and squeezes it in his hands to make it smaller. Finally he gets the pipe in shape, and finds that the stove does not stand true. Then himself and wife and the hired girl move the stove to the left, and the legs fall out again. The next move is to the right. More difficulty with the legs. Moved to the front a little. Elbow not even with the hole in the chimney, and he goes to the woodshed after some little blocks. While putting the blocks under the legs, the pipe comes out of the chimney. That remedied, the elbow keeps tipping over, to the great alarm of his wife. He then gets the dinner-table out, puts the old chair on it, gets his wife to hold the chair, and balances himself on it to drive some nails into the ceiling. Drops the hammer on his wife's head. At last gets the nails driven, makes a wire-swing to hold the pipe, hammers a little here, pulls a little there, takes a long breath, and announces the ceremony completed.
Job never put up any stoves. It would have ruined his reputation if he had.
THE DYING ALCHEMIST.
THE DYING ALCHEMIST.–N. P. WILLIS.
1 And the old shutters of the turret swung
The silent room,
“I did not think to die
With this my mortal eye;
“And yet it is,—I feel, Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid; And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade;
“And this is death! But why
Would it not leap to fly,
“Yet thus to pass away!
To waste the light of day,
“Grant me another year,
I would know something here!
“ Vain,—vain !—my brain is turning
And I am freezing,—burning,
“Aye,—were not man to die,
Could he but train his eye,-
THE DYING ALCHEMIST.
“ Earth has no mineral strange,
And fire no power to change,-
“Oh, but for time to track
To hurl the lightning back,-
“And more, much more,-for now
To clear the God-like brow
'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone.
The storm was raging still. The shutter swung,