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offer that made Jane take time to reflect.
Every one said it was an opportunity not to
be neglected: but Jane weighed in her mind,
'Will he keep faith in my compact with
Nancy?' Though her admirer made every
vow on the subject, Jane paused and
determined to take the opinion of Nancy. Nancy
thought for a day, and then said, ' Dearest
sister, I don't feel easy; I fear that from
some cause it would not do in the end.'

Jane from that moment gave up the idea of
the connection. There might be those who
would suspect Nancy of a selfish bias in the
advice she gave; but Jane knew that no
such feeling influenced her pure soul. For
one long year the two sisters traversed
the hills between Cressbrook and Tideswell.
But they had companions, and it was pleasant
in the summer months. But winter came,
and then it was a severe trial. To rise in the
dark, and traverse those wild and bleak hills;
to go through snow and drizzle, and face the
sharpest winds in winter, was no trifling
matter. Before winter was over, the two young
women began seriously to revolve the chances
of a nearer residence, or a change of employ.
There were no few who blamed Jane excessively
for the folly of refusing the last good
offer. There were even more than one who,
in the hearing of Nancy, blamed her. Nancy
was thoughtful, agitated, and wept. 'If I can,
dear sister,' she said, 'have advised you to
your injury, how shall I forgive myself? What
shall become of me?'

But Jane clasped her sister to her heart,
and said, 'No! no! dearest sister, you are not
to blame. I feel you are right; let us wait,
and we shall see!'


OH, grieve not for the early dead,
    Whom God himself hath taken;
But deck with flowers each holy bed
    Nor deem thyself forsaken,
When, one by one, they fall away,
Who were to thee as summer day.

Weep for the babes of guilt, who sleep
    With scanty rags stretch'd o'er them,
On the dark road, the downward steep
    Of misery; while before them
Looms out afar the dreadful tree,
And solemn, sad Eternity!

Nor weep alone; but when to Heaven
    The cords of sorrow bind thee,
Let kindest help to such be given,
    As God shall teach to find thee;
And, for the sake of those above,
Do deeds of Wisdom, Mercy, Love.

The child that sicken'd on thy knee,
    Thou weeping Christian mother,
Had learn'd in this world, lispingly,
    Words suited for another.
Oh, dost thou think, with pitying mind,
On untaught infants left behind?


I WON'T bear it, and I don't see why I

Having begun to commit my grievances to
writing, I have made up my mind to go on.
You men have a saying, ' I may as well be
hung for a sheep as a lamb.' Very good.
I may as well get into a false position with
our proprietor for a ream of manuscript as a
quire. Here goes!

I want to know who BUFFON was. I'll
take my oath he wasn't a bird. Then what
did he know about birdsespecially about
Ravens? He pretends to know all about
Ravens. Who told him? Was his authority
a Raven? I should think not. There never
was a Raven yet, who committed himself,
you 'll find, if you look into the precedents.

There's a schoolmaster in dusty black
knee-breeches and stockings, who comes and
stares at our establishment every Saturday,
and brings a lot of boys with him. He is
always bothering the boys about BUFFON.
That's the way I know what BUFFON says.
He is a nice man, BUFFON; and you 're all nice
men together, ain't you?

What do you mean by saying that I am
inquisitive and impudent, that I go everywhere,
that I affront and drive off the dogs, that
I play pranks on the poultry, and that I am
particularly assiduous in cultivating the good-will
of the cook? That's what your friend
BUFFON says, and you adopt him it appears.
And what do you mean by calling me 'a
glutton by nature, and a thief by habit?'
Why, the identical boy who was being told
this, on the strength of BUFFON, as he looked
through our wires last Saturday, was almost
out of his mind with pudding, and had got
another boy's top in his pocket!

I tell you what. I like the idea of you
men, writing histories of us, and settling what
we are, and what we are not, and calling us
any names you like best. What colors do
you think you would show in, yourselves, if
some of us were to take it into our heads to
write histories of you? I know something
of Astley's Theatre, I hope; I was about
the stables there, a few years. Ecod! if you
heard the observations of the Horses after the
performance, you 'd have some of the conceit
taken out of you!

I don't mean to say that I admire the Cat.
I don't admire her. On the whole, I have a
personal animosity towards her. But, being
obliged to lead this life, I condescend to hold
communication with her, and I have asked her
what her opinion is. She lived with an old
lady of property before she came here, who
had a number of nephews and nieces. She
says she could show you up to that extent,
after her experience in that situation, that even
you would be hardly brazen enough to talk of
cats being sly and selfish any more.

I am particularly assiduous in cultivating