"I'm not an agent," he said, trying to smile. "I'm the new--"
"Yes, I know you--you are the new man with the patent flat-iron, but we don't want any, and you'd better go before I call the dog."
"Will you give the lady my card, and say that I called?"
"No, I won't; we are bored to death with cards and handbills and circulars. Come, I can't stand here all day."
"Didn't you know that I was a minister?" he asked as he backed off.
"No, nor I don't know it now; you look like the man who sold the woman next door a dollar chromo for eighteen shillings."
"I don't care for cards, I tell you! If you leave that gate open I will have to fling a flower-pot at you!"
"I will call again," he said, as he went through the gate.
"It won't do any good!" she shouted after him; "we don't want no prepared food for infants--no piano music--no stuffed birds! I know the policemen on this beat, and if you come around here again, he'll soon find out whether you are a confidence man or a vagrant!"
And she took unusual care to lock the door.
Toll, toll, toll! Thou bell by billows swung, And, night and day, thy warning words Repeat with mournful tongue! Toll for the queenly boat, Wrecked on yon rocky-shore! Sea-weed is in her palace halls-- She rides the surge no more.
Toll for the master bold, The high-souled and the brave, Who ruled her like a thing of life Amid the crested wave! Toll for the hardy crew, Sons of the storm and blast, Who long the tyrant ocean dared; But it vanquished them at last.
Toll for the man of God, Whose hallowed voice of prayer Rose calm above the stifled groan Of that intense despair! How precious were those tones, On that sad verge of life, Amid the fierce and freezing storm, And the mountain billows strife!
Toll for the lover, lost To the summoned bridal train Bright glows a picture on his breast, Beneath th' unfathomed main. One from her casement gazeth Long o'er the misty sea: He cometh not, pale maiden-- His heart is cold to thee?
Toll for the absent sire, Who to his home drew near, To bless a glad, expecting group-- Fond wife, and children dear! They heap the blazing hearth, The festal board is spread, But a fearful guest is at the gate:-- Room for the sheeted dead!
Toll for the loved and fair, The whelmed beneath the tide-- The broken harps around whose strings The dull sea-monsters glide! Mother and nursling sweet, Reft from the household throng; There's bitter weeping in the nest Where breathed their soul of song.