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النشر الإلكتروني

40

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

the same night or the next morning in Stonington, and supplied from fifty to one hundred different tables, as we threw them up on the dock for any one to help himself. I am unable to perceive that I committed any sin in taking them, or any sin in the excitement and pleasure of taking them.

It is time moralists had done with this mistaken morality. If you eschew aninial food entirely, then you may argue against killing animals,

and I will not argue with you. But the logic of this business is simply this: The Creator made fish and flesh for the food of man, and as we can't eat them alive, or if we do, we can't digest them alive, the result is we must kill them first, and (see the old rule of cooking a dolphin) it is sometimes a further necessity, since they won't come to be killed when we call them, that we must first catch them. Show first, then, that it is a painful necessity, a necessity to be avoided if possible, which a good man must shrink from and abhor, unless starved into it, to take fish or birds, and which he must do when he does it with regret, and with sobriety and

seriousness, as he would whip his child, or shave himself when his beard is three days old, and you have your case.

But till you show this, I will continue to think it great sport to supply my market with fish.

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THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

OMEWHAT back from the village Half-way up the stairs it stands,
street

And points and beckons with its hands,
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; From its case of massive oak,
Across its antique portico

Like a monk who, under his cloak,
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw; Crosses himself, and sighs, alas !
And, from its station in the hall,

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,
An ancient timepiece says to all,

“ Forever-never!
“Forever-never!
Never-forever!"

Never-forever!"

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ZAMARRA is a dainty steed,

And the red blood gallops through his veins
Strong, black, and of noble breed, Richer, redder, never ran
Full of fire, and full of bone, Through the boasting heart of man.
With all his line of fathers known; He can trace his lineage higher
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, Than the Bourbon dare aspire, -

But blown abroad by the pride within! Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,
His mane is like a river flowing,

Or O'Brien's blood itself !
And his eyes like embers glowing
In the darkness of the night,

He, who hath no peer, was born
And his pace as swift as light.

Here, upon a red March morn;

But his famous fathers dead Look,-how round his straining throat Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred, Grace and shifting beauty float;

And the last of that great line Sinewy strength is in his reins,

Trod like one of a race divine!

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