2
DESPAIR—A MORNING ON A MOWER.
LITERARY.
DESPAIR.
I stood alone on a desolate plain, A wind-swept plain, where the moon shone cold : I was spent with toil and my weary brain Swift whirled under burdens manifold.
I gazed, nor saw one living form:
I listened, nor heard the faintest sound,
Save the rush of the piercing, pitiless storm,
As it swept the snow o'er the frozen ground.
I strove to stir, but reeled and fell,
And strengthless lay, with shortening breath;
Some demon, then, methinks, did quell
My soul. I laughed, as I thought, "'Tis Death.'"
A MORNING ON A MOWER.
I suppose I might as well say in the first place that I am a book-agent. I'm not ashamed of it, either, but I don't make an unnecessary parade of my business.
I had the misfortune to receive a favor from the editor of the Courier, and now he wants me to write out some of my experiences for his paper. I suppose he wants some of my adventures as an agent, how I got run out of this yard with a broom-stick, and ran a race with a bull-dog down that one, but I don't propose to give myself away to that extent. However, I don't mind telling about my one solitary attempt at farm work.
ing season I breakfasted at the house of a farmer who had hay to cut, and millet to stack, and was short of hands. Of course I found out all about it in five minutes-I always do. Now for reasons best known to myself I was little short of cash, so I thought that here was a good chance to make a slight raise, and also see some of the true inwardness of farm life. Then, perhaps, being with him all the time, I could sell my employer a whole case of books to give to the widows and orphans of the neighborhood.
It was last summer, in Howard county, near the village of Quito, that this sad affair took place. One day in the late hay-
After selling him a book, and vainly endeavoring to get him to have it bound in hand-painted satin with gold clasps, I proposed to hire out to my son of the soil. Surveying my stalwart frame for a few mo-