Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed mother,
Well, she'll wash no more in this world, whatever she does in t'other.
So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute,
Lawk, sich a shirt! thinks I, it's well my master wasn't in it;
Oh! I never, never, never, never, never, see a sight so shockin;
Here lays a leg, and there a leg--I mean, you know, a stockin--
Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt,
And arms burnt off and sides and backs all scotched and black with dirt;
But as nobody was in 'em--none but--nobody was hurt!
Well, there I am, a scrambling up the things, all in a lump.
When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump.
And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye,
A staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky:
Then she beckons with a finger, and so down to her I reaches,
And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches,
For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew;
Well, Ma'am, you won't believe it, but it's Gospel fact and true,
But these words is all she whispered--'Why, where _is_ the powder blew'"

* * * * *




THE NATURALIST.

* * * * *


MODE OF DESTROYING EAGLES.