Butchers, and deserted it in a body. But what were they to do next? There was not so much as a beerhouse in the village. The Jolly Butchers had had it their own way, and that it was which made Dame Faucet so independent. However, these youths were not going to be "put upon." There was no other public, and of course it was out of the question for such choice spirits to spend their evenings rationally and quietly at home. Accordingly, as it was almost too early for poaching, they agreed to amuse themselves with bat-fowling. And this having brought them into the churchyard, the bright thought suggested itself to the mind of one of the party, that the church would be a famous place for musical practice. And as there were several musicians among them, the notion took exceedingly. Application was made to the churchwarden. The view he took was that it was far better that the young men should be fiddling in the church than getting drunk at the Jolly Butchers. And so he gave a ready consent: and for the remainder of that year the clarionet, and the bassoon, and the fiddles great and small, and the big drum were employed in teaching the echoing aisles to resound with "The bottle's the sun of our table,”- Begone, dull care," "O Nanny, wilt thou gang with me?" and such-like melodies. What a wonderful thinglet me say in passing-does it seem to us owls, that the reasoning bipeds should profess a reverence for their churches, and use them as they do.

It was not to be expected that such an unwonted amount of light and noise should exist in a building which was always closely locked up except for two or three hours on Sundays, without creating some considerable astonishment and confusion among the usual inhabitants of the dwelling, whose long-undisturbed occupancy had given them a fair title to look upon the building as their own.

But folks are so thoughtless! A bat who had never seen a candle before, wanted to ascertain what

flame was made of, and so must needs go bounce against it, and upset the candlestick. Stupid fellow! It was the signal for the musicians to lay aside their instruments, and to commence a bat-hunt and an owlhunt through the church. Such whooping and tearing about! such throwing of books and hassocks at our poor persecuted race! I have heard that a score or two of helpless, unoffending creatures were slaughtered that night.

And in the thick of the tumult, in came old Fitchett, the gamekeeper, and declaring his solemn conviction of his ignorance that such a number of owls existed in the parish (why should they not?), and his resolution to clear the church of them (if he himself had been to be seen in church as often as the illused owls, it would have been well for him!), he actually proceeded to his lodge, and having brought back a trap, baited it, and set it under the seat of Farmer Snorter's pew.

As ill luck would have it, my poor mother, who had been out to a considerable distance on that eventful night, returned weary and exhausted and extremely hungry. Finding none of her neighbours in the belfry, and wondering where they could be, she flew into the body of the Church, and while much marvelling from the top of the sounding-board, as to the causes of the confusion which reigned among the books and hassocks, she unhappily sniffed the odour of Fitchett's bait, and in another moment the iron teeth of the relentless trap had closed upon her venerable leg.

Horrible were the screams she uttered in her vain attempts to release herself. My father, in spite of the strong instinct of self-preservation, came at once to her rescue, and when he found he could do nothing (for the infernal secret of the trap was beyond even his sagacity), he united his dolorous screechings to those of his unhappy mate.

Hour after hour the outcry continued, nor ceased

till they had brought Beatrix Aston, the old parson's pretty daughter, to the rescue. The noise in the church awakened her, and being an early riser, she sallied forth at dawn to the scene of woe. Little, poor soul! did she know of the management of traps, and horribly, in her fright and awkwardness, did she augment my suffering parent's agonies. In fact my poor mother was so maddened with pain, that she clawed and pecked with all her might at the hand which was striving to release her. I have, indeed, to confess with sorrow that Beatrix's hands were torn and streaming with blood before my distracted parent could realize the notion that her actual tormentor was, in will, her liberator. The brave girl, however, persevered, and eventually succeeded in forcing down the spring, and thereby in relaxing the fast-closed teeth of the gin.

With a piercing screech, my mother rose into the air, and, leaving a trail of blood behind her, flew through the open door, leaving poor Beatrix in dismay at the consequences of her thankless exertions.

Before that year ended, there was a new parson at Consall S. Michael, for the old one was in his grave: and the old church was being pulled down, and the old Manor House had been sold. Old faces and old scenes were changed, and my parents had a new home on Owlstone Edge.

But as soon as I was old enough to understand anything, my mother taught me to love the parson's daughter, and for her sake to have a kindly thought of parsons' wives too.

ON RECEIVING HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE.

WILLIAM COWPER.

H that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same.

away Į "

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour, with an artless song
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief;
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone,

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting sound shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of a quick return:
What ardently I wish'd I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By disappointment every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot,

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd

By thine own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd :

All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,

Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay