I've no muscle to weary, no frame to decay,
No bones to be laid on the shelf;
And soon I intend you shall go and play,
While I manage the world myself.
But harness me down with your iron bands,
Be sure of your curb and rein,
For I scorn the strength of your puny hands,
As the tempest scorns a chain.
--G. W. CUTTER
THE GENTLE HAND.
BY TIMOTHY S. ARTHUR.
When and where, it matters not now to relate--but once upon a
time, as I was passing through a thinly peopled district of
country, night came down upon me almost unawares. Being on foot,
I could not hope to gain the village toward which my steps were
directed until a late hour; and I therefore preferred seeking
shelter and a night's lodging at the first humble dwelling that
presented itself.
Dusky twilight was giving place to deeper shadows, when I found
myself in the vicinity of a dwelling, from the small uncurtained
windows of which the light shone with a pleasant promise of good
cheer and comfort. The house stood within an inclosure, and a
short distance from the road along which I was moving with
wearied feet.
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