But--lawzee-me!--w'y, I won't care. I'm jest so glad they're comin', I have to whistle to the tune That my ol' heart's a-hummin'. An' me an' Mammy--well, we think It's good to be a-livin', Sence all the children's comin' home To spend the day Thanksgivin'. PRAISE-GOD BAREBONES BY ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON CORTISSOZ I and my cousin Wildair met And tossed a pot together-- Burnt sack it was that Molly brewed, For it was nipping weather. 'Fore George! To see Dick buss the wench Set all the inn folk laughing! They dubbed him pearl of cavaliers At kissing and at quaffing. "Oddsfish!" says Dick, "the sack is rare, And rarely burnt, fair Molly; 'Twould cure the sourest Crop-ear yet Of Pious Melancholy." "Egad!" says I, "here cometh one Hath been at 's prayers but lately." --Sooth, Master Praise-God Barebones stepped Along the street sedately. Dick Wildair, with a swashing bow, And touch of his Toledo, Gave Merry Xmas to the rogue And bade him say his Credo; Next crush a cup to the King's health, And eke to pretty Molly; "'T will cure your saintliness," says Dick, "Of Pious Melancholy." Then Master Barebones stopped and frowned; My heart stood still a minute; Thinks I, both Dick and I will hang, Or else the devil's in it! For me, I care not for old Noll, Nor all the Rump together. Yet, faith! 't is best to be alive In pleasant Xmas weather. His worship, Barebones, grimly smiled; "I love not blows nor brawling; Yet will I give thee, fool, a pledge!" And, zooks! he sent Dick sprawling! When Moll and I helped Wildair up, No longer trim and jolly-- "Feelst not, Sir Dick," says saucy Moll, "A Pious Melancholy?" THE LOAFER AND THE SQUIRE BY PORTE CRAYON The squire himself was the type of a class found only among the rural population of our Southern States--a class, the individuals of which are connected by a general similarity of position and circumstance, but present a field to the student of man infinite in variety, rich in originality.