a welcome glad,--
A jovial coaxing way she had;
And,--what was more her fate than blame,--
A nine months' widow was our dame.
But toil was hard, for trade was good,
And gallants sometimes will be rude.
"And what can a lone woman do?
The nights are long and eerie too.
Now, Guillot there's a likely man,
None better draws or taps a can;
He's just the man, I think, to suit,
If I could bring my courage to't."
With thoughts like these her mind is crossed:
The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost.
"But then the risk? I'll beg a slice
Of Father Haulin's good advice."

Prankt in her best, with looks demure,
She seeks the priest; and, to be sure,
Asks if he thinks she ought to wed:
"With such a business on my head,
I'm worried off my legs with care,
And need some help to keep things square.
I've thought of Guillot, truth to tell!
He's steady, knows his business well.
What do you think?" When thus he met her:
"Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!"
"But then the danger, my good pastor,
If of the man I make the master.
There is no trusting to these men."
"Well, well, my dear, don't have him, then!"
"But help I must have; there's the curse.
I may go farther and fare worse."
"Why, take him, then!" "But if he should
Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good--
In drink and riot waste my all,
And rout me out of house and hall?"
"Don't have him, then! But I've a plan
To clear your doubts, if any can.
The bells a peal are ringing,--hark!
Go straight, and what they tell you mark.
If they say 'Yes!' wed, and be blest--
If 'No,' why--do as you think best."

The bells rang out a triple bob:
Oh, how our widow's heart did throb,
As thus she heard their burden go,
"Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!"
Bells were not then left to hang idle:
A week,--and they rang for her bridal.
But, woe the while, they might as well
Have rung the poor dame's parting knell.
The rosy dimples left her cheek,
She lost her beauties plump and sleek;
For Guillot oftener kicked than kissed,
And backed his orders with his fist,
Proving by deeds as well as words
That servants make the worst of lords.

She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak,
And speaks as angry women speak,
With tiger looks and bosom swelling,
Cursing the hour she took his telling.
To all, his calm reply was this,--
"I fear you've read the bells amiss:
If they have lead you wrong in aught,
Your wish, not they, inspired the thought.
Just go, and mark well what they say."
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