120 
MISCELLANEA. 
just at mounting observed an unusual running from one of her 
nostrils. He had not proceeded half a mile when the animal 
stopped short, sneezed twice, and out fell from its nose a live 
mouse ! Before the coachman could dismount, the little creature 
picked itself up and ran away into the hedge. How long it 
could have been in so singular a domicile, and, moreover, how 
it could have secured itself there, must be left to the decision of 
the natural historians, your general readers. I can vouch for 
the little incident being a positive fact. — Delgany, Ireland, 
Nov. 5, 1850. 
THE VILLAGE 
Under a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 
With large and sinewy hands, 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 
His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 
His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 
He earns whate’er he can ; 
And looks the whole world in the 
face, 
For he owes not any man. 
Week in, week out, from morn till 
night 
You can hear his bellows blow; 
You can hear him swing his heavy 
sledge, 
With measur’d beat and slow, 
Like a sexton ringing the village bell 
When the evening sun is low. 
And children, coming home from 
school, 
Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 
And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that 
fly 
Like chaff from a threshing floor. 
BLACKSMITH. 
He goes on Sunday to the church, 
And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 
He hears his daughter’s voice 
Singing in the village choir, 
And it makes his heart rejoice. 
It sounds to him like her mother’s 
voice, 
Singing in Paradise ; 
He needs must think of her once 
more, 
How in the grave she lies; 
And with his hard, rough hand he 
wipes 
A tear out of his eyes. 
Toiling — rejoicing — sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes ; 
Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close : 
Something attempted, something 
done, 
Has earn’d a night’s repose. 
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy 
friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought ; 
Thus on its rounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought ! 
Professor Longfeleoav. 
