espect has great capacity; that he is
not over-nice in his diet; is plain and unassuming; is not puffed up,
seeing that his hide will not much admit of it; and if he resemble himself
to a log adrift, he considereth not what foolish creatures may alight upon
his back, or swim within his jaws; he barks no invitation, nor does he
flourish with his tail to excite their curiosity; and if they happen in
his way when he has done yawning, it is _their_ business, not his.

Lastly, what do I say to the prevalent notion that the waters of the St.
Johns, which resemble brandy and water, half-and-half, are colored by the
blood of his victims? Answer--_it is not so_. I have drank of those waters
for weeks together (stopping occasionally) and even deepened the color, in
a manner peculiar to those who travel in those parts, without feeling half
as sanguinary as I do at this moment, from the bare thought of that foul
and malicious slander.

These are the matters of faith; the facts, I give you are but two, and
perhaps only true of his younger days; that he eateth fiddlers in secret,
and dies in a temperature of twenty-six Fahrenheit.

AN EPITAPH.

This shell of stone within it keepeth
One who died not, but sleepeth;
And in her quiet slumber seemeth
As if of heaven alone she dreameth.
Her form it was so fair in seeming,
Her eyes so heavenly in their beaming,
So pure her heart in every feeling,
So high her mind in each revealing,
A band of angels thought that she
Was one of their bright company;
And on some homeward errand driven,
Hurried her too away to Heaven.

THE CHURCH BELL.

I.

That old church bell is dear to me,
When from its ancient tower
Its silvery tones sound solemnly,
To tell the service-hour;
It seems as if it almost spoke
The words of trustful prayer,
And promised to the spirit broke
With sin, a pardon there.

II.

I love it when it sadly tolls
The knell of life departed,
And gently murmurs sympathy
To mourners broken-hearted;
It whispers of a spirit passed
From doubt and pain and care,
And tells of heaven, and bids them hope
To meet the lost one there.

III.

I love it when its merry peal
Welcomes the coming day,
And rouses me from peaceful sleep
My gratitude to pay;
It bids me pray for strength to do
My daily duty given;
To hope that each successive morn
May find me nearer