"Well, I'm surprised, Hester," said John Darling, after his wife had given him a circumstantial account of her visit. "And I'm right sorry, too, to have my good opinion of a man knocked in the head so, for I did think well of Col. Philpot. I really believed we couldn't send a better man to Congress. But it won't do. A man that can stoop to such conduct isn't fit to go there. I can't vote for him, and my influence, what little I have, must go against him. If he gets there, it must be without any help from John Darling!" Col. Philpot did _not_ go to Congress, and what made his defeat the more aggravating was the fact that his opponent was elected by the small majority of three votes. And so Col. Philpot lost his election; and Mrs. Philpot lost her cook; and Mr. Darling lost his esteem for Col. Philpot, and all through the over-politeness of the latter. And was there nothing gained? Oh, yes; Mrs. Darling gained something. Not much information in regard to the potato pudding, certainly; but she gained some knowledge of the internal arrangements of Mrs. Philpot's household, which proved of great service to her, for she confesses to John that she was never so contented with her own home and her own husband as she has been since she made that memorable call at Col. Philpot's. Poetry. THE DYING WIFE. BY PHILA EARLE. You'll think of me sometimes, beloved, When I am gone from sight? When you can see me nevermore, You'll not forget me quite? You'll miss sometimes, at twilight hour My low and loving tone; Your heart will sometimes feel a pang, When beating all alone. You'll think of days forever gone, And grief may wring a tear From eyes that have but seldom wept, But I shall not be here; You'll come and go; and yet the smile That once your fond eyes met, Will faded be--forever fled, But oh, do not forget! When cold and lifeless is the form That's nestled on thy breast, When chill and marble-like the lips That once thine own have pressed, Oh, sometimes think of me, and come Unto the quiet spot Where I shall slumber lone and still, But oh not quite forgot! You'll think of me when sitting 'side My lone and vacant chair; And sometimes, love, oh! gaze upon This golden tress of hair! And think that with its sister curls It floated o'er the brow That rests within the lowly grave, So damp and pallid now. But yet your grief will pass away Like dusky shades of night; The cypress wreath you'll change, beloved, For one with flowers white; You'll fondly love another one, And call her thine--but yet Your _lost_ young bride--your first beloved, Oh, do not quite forget!