yesterday, are they below?"-"They galloped off an hour ago."-"Oh, dose me? blister! shave! and bleed! for, hang the knaves, I'm mad indeed !''

*(

XXXIV.-HANS AND FRITZ.

CHAS. F. ADAMS.

ANS and Fritz were two Deutschers who lived side by side,
Remote from the world, its deceit and its pride;

With their pretzels and beer their spare moments were spent,
And the fruit of their labor were peace and content.

Hans purchased a horse of a neighbor one day,
And, lacking a part of the Geld-as they say—
Made a call upon Fritz to solicit a loan,
To help him to pay for his beautiful roan.

Fritz kindly consented the money to lend,
And gave the required amount to his friend ;
Remarking his own simple language to quote—
"Berhaps it vas better ve make us a note.'

The note was drawn up in their primitive way—
"I, Hans, gets from Fritz feefty tollars to day"-
When the question arose, the note being made,
"Vich von holds dot baper until it vas baid ?"

"You geeps dot," says Fritz, "und den you vill know
You owes me dot money." Says Hans; "Dot ish so:
Dot makes me remempers I haf dot to bay,

Und I prings you der note und der money some day."

A month has expired, when Hans, as agreed,
Paid back the amount, and from debt he was freed.
Says Fritz, "Now dot settles us."

Hans replies, "Yaw :
Now who dakes dot baper accordings by law?"

"I geeps dot, now, ain't it?" says Fritz; "den you see

I alvays remempers you baid dot to me

Says Hans, "Dot ish so, it vos now shust so blain

Dot I knows vot to do ven I porrows again."

XXXV. “DER GRAFEN."

CHARLEY RUSSELL,

VONCE ubon a midnight drary, I vas feeling gold and beery,

So I vent indo a saloon vhere I'd ofden peen pefore.

Und I sad down py der dable, drinking long as I vas able,
Dhen I shmoked dill I vas sleeby, and I soon pegan to shnore,
'Dwas der beer, und noding more.

Und I dreamed dot I vas sober (Id vas in der gold Ogdober.)
Und I saw a silfer dollar in der sawdust on der floor ;

I had dried all day to porrow fifty cents, but do my sorrow
Dhey all said: "I vill do-morrow-I haf lend you some pefore,
Und you baid me nefermore.'

Und der beer I had peen drinking sed me quickly dhen do dhinking
Of I dake dot dollar I can get my bants vrom Simbson's shdore,
Und I'll puy my gal so doney half a bound of nice Bologna—

Dhen I reached do dake der dollar, und I'll bed you dot I shwore—
'Dwas some shpit, and noding more.

Bresently my head felt shdronger, and I dought I'll shday no longer,
So I bicked myself ub slowly, und I shdarded for der door;
But der shdillness soon vas proken py some words guite ioutly shpoken;
Vhere's der money for dot lager, dat you in your mout did pour ?"
Merely dot, und noding more.

Pack indo der saloon durning, all der beer mitin me purning,

Soon I heard my dot same gwesdion somewhat louder dan pefore.
“Vell,” I said, "I dhought you drusted, when der bocketpook vas pusted."
Dhen he grobbed me by der goat-dails, und my bockets did exblore—
Found some sheese, and noding more.

Dhen he valked oud do der gutter, und pegun do shwear und mutter,
Vhen in shdepped a pig policemans who pelonged to Shdation Four,
And he nefer said "Oxcuse me," but pegan to gick und pruise me me;
Den he berched upon my gollar, and he gicked dill I was sore—
Berched und gicked, und noding more.

Und he looked so habby, shmiling all der vhile dot he vos biling

On my nose his fists und bood-heels, dill it soon vos red mit gore; I pegun to feel quite sickly; dhen he said: "Now, dell me gwickly - Vhat your name is at der shdation-house, vhere you haf pen pefore?" "Snigglefritz!" I loud did roar.

V-h-a-t!" he shouted.

"Dell me, Grafen, vas you efer in New Hafen? Vonce I lofed a leetle Deitch gale, und dot vas der name she bore ; Und she run off mit a feller, gashier in an oysder-celler,

Und dhey say she's in New Hafen in a ninedy-nine cend shdore."
Dhen I said: "Vell-nefermore.'

,'Her front name vas Katharinar; dell me, Grafen, haf you seen her?
Py der lager-beer and pretzels, und der sheeks we both adore-
For my heart is almost proken vhen I hear dot sweet name sboken—
Dell me gwickly of you know her, or your plood I vill outbour."
"Nix. Vell, hardly efermore.

Dhen he said: "You are a liar, and you gwickly will exbire

Of you don't get out dis saloon vhile I'm gounting dwendy-four."
Do der sidevalk I vas greeping vhen I voke ub vrom my shleebing,
Und I saw no big policemans dhere do gick me out der door—
'Dwas der nightmare, noding more.

S

XXXV.-METAPHORICAL PAPERS

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

OME wit of old,—such wits of old there were,,

Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions care,

By one brave stroke to mark all human kind,
Called clear blank paper every infant mind;

Then still, as opening sense her dictates wrote,
Fair virtue put a seal or vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.
I (can you pardon my presumption), I—
No wit, no genius-yet for once will try.

Various the paprrs various wants produce.
The wants of fashion, elegance, and use.
Men are as various; and if right I scan,
Each sort of paper represents some man.

Pray note the fop,-half powder and half lace,-
Nice as a bandbox were his dwelling-place;
He's the gilt paper, which apart you store,
And lock from vulgar hands in th'escritoire.

Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,
Are copy paper of inferior worth :

Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed,
Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.

The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare,
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is coarse brown paper, such as pedlars choose
To wrap up wares, which better men will use.

Take next the spend-thrift's contrast, who destroys
Health, fame, and fortune in a round of joys.
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout,
He's a true sinking paper, past all doubt.

The retail politician's anxious thought

Deems this side always right, and that stark naught :
He foams with censure; with applause he raves,—

A dupe to rumors, and a tool of knaves ;
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,
While such a thing as foolscap has a name.

The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high,
Who picks a quarrel if you step awry,
Who can't a jest, or hint, or look endure,
What's he? What? Touch-paper, to be sure.

What are our poets,-take them as they fall,-
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?
Them and their works in the same class you'll find;
They are the mere waste-paper of mankind.

Observe the maiden, innocently sweet;
She's fair white paper, an unsullied sheet;
On which the happy man, whom fate ordains,
My write his name, and take her for his pains.

One instance more, and only one I'll bring;
'Tis the great man who scorns a little thing,
Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are his own,
Formed on the feelings of his heart alone;
True genuine royal paper is his breast;
Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.

XXXVI.—THE BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY.

O wed, or not to wed;—that is the question :
Whether it is nobler in a man to suffer
The slings and sorrows of that blind young archer;
Or fly to arms against a host of troubles,

And at the altar end them. To woo-to wed-
No more; and by this step to say we end
The heartache and the thousand hopes and fears
The single suffer-'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To woo-to wed ;-
To wed-perchance repent !-ay, there's the rub;
For in that wedded state, what woes may come
When we have launched upon that untried sea
Must give us pause. There's the respect

That makes celibacy of so long life;

For who would bear the quips and jeers of friends,
The husband's pity, und coquette's scorn,
The vacant hearth, the solitary cell,

The unshared sorrow and the void within,
When he himself might his redemption gain
With a fair damsel. Who would beauty shun
To toil and plod over a barren heath ;
But that the dread of something yet beyond-
The undiscovered country, fron whose bourne
No Bachelor returns-puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of!
Thus forethought does make cowards of us all,
And the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And numberless flirtations, long pursued,
With this regard, their currents turn awry
And lose the name of marriage.

XXXVII.—A LAY OF REAL LIFE.
THOMAS HOOD.

WHO ruined me ere I was born,

Sold every acre, grass or corn,

And left the next heir all forlorn?

My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse,

And physicked me, and made me worse,

'Till infancy became a curse?

My Grandmother.

Who stroked the head, and said, "Good lad,"

And gave me sixpence, "all he had ;"

But at the stall the coin was bad?

My Godfather.

Who, gratus, shared my social glass,
But when misfortune came to pass,
Referred me to the pump? Alas!

My Friend.

Through all this weary world, in brief,
Who ever sympathized with grief,
Or shared my joy, my sole relief?

Myself.