POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2221, 9 April 1881, Page 3

POETRY.

KIZPAH. [Tbnnysow.] Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea— And Willy’s voice in the wind, ‘‘O mother, come out to me.” Why should ho call mo to-night, when he knows that I cannot go ? For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon stares at the snow. We should bo seen, my dear; they would spy us out of the town. The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing over the down, When X cannot see my own hand, but am led by the creak of the chain, And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself drenched with the rain. Anything fallen again ? nay—what was there left to fall ? I have taken them home, I have number’d the bones, I have hidden them all. What am I saying ? and what are you ? do you come as a spy ? Falls ? what falls ? who knows ? As the tree falls so must it lie. Who let her in ? how long has she been ? you —what have you heard P Why did you sit so quiet ? you never have spoken a word. O—to pray with me—yes —a’lady—none of their spies— But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to darken my eyes. Ah—you, that have lived so soft, what should you know of the night, The blast and the burning shame and the ' bitter frost and the fright P I have done it, while you were asleep—you were only made for the day. I have gather’d my baby together—and now

you may go your way. Nay—for it’s kind of you, madam, to ait by an old dying wife ; But say nothing of my boy, 1 have only an hour of life. I kiss’d my boy in the prison, before he went out to die. “ They dared me to do it,” he said, and he

has never told me a he, I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he. was but a child—- “ The farmer dared me to do it,” he said 5 he was always so wild— And idle—and couldn’t be idle—my Willy—

be never could rest. The King should have made him a soldier, he would have been one of his best. But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never would let him be good 5 They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he swore that he would; And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when all was done He flung it among bis fellows—l’ll none of it, said my eon.

I same into court, to the Judge and the lawyers I told them my tale, God’s own truth—out they kill’d him, they killed him for robbing the mail. They hang’d him in chains for a show—we had always borne a good name— To be hang’d for a thief—and then put away —isn’t that enough shame ? Dust to dust—low down—let us hide! but they set him so high That all the ships of the world could stare at him, passing by. God ’ill pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls of the air, But not the black heart of the lawyer who kill’d him and hanged him there. And the gaoler forced me away. 1 had bid him my last good-bye ; The had fastened they door of his cell. " O mother!” I heard him cry. I couldn’t get back tho’ I tried, he had something farther to say, And now 1 never shall know it. The gaoler forced me away. Then since I couldn't but hear that cry of my boy that was dead, They seized mo and shut me up ; they fastened me down on my bed. II Mother, O mother!” he called in the dark to mo year by year— They beat me for that, they beat me—you know that I couldn’t but hear; And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid and still They let me abroad again—but the creatures had worked their will.

Flesh of my flesh was gone, bnt bone of my bone was left— I stole them all from the lawyers—and you, will you call it a theft ? My baby, the bones that had suck’d me, the bones that had laughed and had cried— Theirs ? Ono ! they are mine—not theirs—they had moved in my side.

Do yon think I was scared by the bones P I kiss’d ’em, I buried ’em all— I can’t dig deep, 1 am old—in the night by the churchyard wall, My Willy ’ill rise up whole when the trumpet of judgment ’ill sound, But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy ground.

They would soratoh him up—they would bang him again on the cursed tree. Sin P O yes—we are sinners, I know—let all that be, And read me a Bible verse of the Lord’s good •will toward men—- “ Fall of compassion and mercy, the Lord ” let mo hear it again ; “ Full of compassion and mercy—long suffering,” Yes, O yes I For the lawyer is born but to murder—the Saviour lives but to bless. He’ll never put on the black cap except for the worst of the worst, And the first may be last—l have heard it in church—and the last may be first. Suffering O long-suffering—yes, as the Lord must know, Year after year in the mist and the wind and the shower and the snow.

Heard, have you ? what ? they have told you he never repented his sin. How do they know it ? are they his mother ? are you of his kin ? Heard P have you ever heard, when the storm on the downs began, The wind that ’ill wail like a child and the sea that ’ill moan like a man ?

THE COTTAGER’S PIG—HOW TO KEEP IT.

A large number of our village subscribers keep a cow, and one or more pigs, just to save the waste from the table, and to help in support of the family. Both are important sources of income when properly managed. The inevitable waste from the kitchen in an ordinary American family amounts to a good deal in the course of a year. It may as well be turned into pork, sausages, head-cheese, spare ribs, and lard, as to be thrown away. A neighbor, who has a vegetable garden, and studies thrift, has just slaughtered two pigs, weighing 59Slb, and worth 35.88d0l at the market price. The manure made from them is worth lOdol at least. Two small pigs were put into the pen on April 6th, and came out well fattened on November 21st, about seven months and a half. The food consumed consisted mainly of sour and butter-milk, kitchen waste, small potatoes, cabbage, turnips, sweet corn, windfall apples, and other wastes from the garden. To this was added enough Indian meal to keep them Constantly full fed from srping to fall. A good pen is an important item in feeding pigs. The sleeping apartment should be dry, and kept well littered with straw, loaves, or seaweed. From one-half to two-thirds of a pig's life is to be spent in sleep, if it is well treated. Giya the pig the materials, and he will make a nice bod'and keep jt clean. The remainder of the stye is of less importance. There should be room enough to compost the manure, liquid and solid, with garden soil, corn stalks, weeds, and other refuse matter. The pig is unrivalled as a manufacturer of compost. Its good effects will be seen in all parts of the garden, whore it is spread the following season. Regularity of feeding, three times a day, is one of the secrets of success. This may bo at your own meal times, if your wife is a good housekeeper and keeps a clock in the kitchen. Good digestion depends upon regular meal hours for man and beast. There is then very little temptation to over eating, no cloying, and no spells of refusing food. A pig should never lose a meal after be is put into the pen, and should never be hungry enough to squeal. It requires some judgment in equalising the rations, as well as in regulating their time. Much leas of maize meal is required for a ration than of cooked potatoes, and less of potatoes than of kitchen waste. If anything

| is left in the feed trough, the ration has been | a little too large, or not quite good enough. A pig should have all ho can eat up and digest. A variety of food should also receive attention. The raw vegetables and fruils from the garden are excellent appetizers, and enable the pig to consume more meal. The meal may be mixed with cold or boiling water, with milk, or boiled fruits and vegetables, as suits convenience. It may be varied with unground corn, buckwheat, or a mixture of ground grains. The time spent in oaring for a pig usually comes at meal hours, and may be balanced by what we learn in the school of economy. There is perhaps no animal that will exhibit more satisfaction, and give greater returns for good care and feeding than a pig ; and en the other hand a hungry one, without a warm homo—one that has not had a proper bringing up—can make itself exceedingly disagreeable, both as to general appearance and the noise that it will produce; besides, such an animal is without profit. As a rule, it pays the villager to raise bis own pork, and it pays him the greatest profit when he takes the beat care of his pig.—“ American Agriculturist.”