MORAL.

So, oft in theologic wars

The disputants, I ween,

Rail on in utter ignorance

Of what each other mean, And prate about an elephant Not one of them has seen!

-John Godfrey Saxe.

COM

OME take up your hats, and away let us haste
To the Butterfly's ball and the Grasshopper's
feast.

The trumpeter, Gad-fly, has summoned the crew,
And the revels are now only waiting for you.

So said little Robert, and pacing along,
His merry companions came forth in a throng,
And on the smooth graas, by the side of a wood,
Beneath a broad oak that for ages had stood,

Saw the children of earth, and the tenants of air,
For an evening's amusement together repair.
And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black,
Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his back.

And there was the Gnat, and the Dragon-fly too,
With all their relations, green, orange and blue.
And there came the Moth, with his plumage of down,
And the Hornet, in jacket of yellow and brown;

Who with him the Wasp, his companion did bring, But they promised that evening to lay by their sting. And the sly little Dormouse crept out of his hole, And brought to the feast his blind brother, the Mole.

And the Snail, with his horns peeping out of his shell,
Came from a great distance, the length of an ell,
A mushroom their table, and on it was laid
A water dock leaf, which a tablecloth made.

The viands were varions, to each of their taste,
And the Bee brought her honey to crown the repast.

Then close on his haunches, so solemn and wise,
The Frog from a corner looked up to the skies.
And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversion to see,
Mounted high overhead, looked down from a tree.
Then out came the Spider, with finger so fine,
To show his dexterity on the tight line.

From one branch to another, his cobwebs he slung,
Then quick as an arrow he darted along.
But just in the middle-Oh! shocking to tell-
From his rope in an instant, poor harlequin fell.
Yet he touched not the ground, but with talons out-
spread,

Hung suspended in air, at the end of a thread.
Then the Grasshopper came with a jerk and a spring,
Very long was his leg, though but short was his wing.

He took but three leaps, and was soon out of sight,
Then chirped his own praises the rest of the night.
With step so majestic the Snail did advance,
And promised the gazers a minuet to dance.

But they all laughed so hard that he pulled in his
And went in his own little chamber to bed. loud,
Then, as evening gave way to the shadows of night,
Their watchman, the Glowworm, came out with a
light.

Then home let us hasten, while yet we can see,
For no watchman is waiting for you and for me,
So said little Robert, and pacing along,
His merry companions returned in a throng.

-Mrs. Henry Roscoe.

The old ones have wigs, and the young ones have hair, And they scent it, and curl it, and friz it with care, And turn it to dark should it chance to be fair. They are ramblers and wanderers, never at home, Making sure of a welcome wherever they roam; And every one knows that the Bachelor's den Is a room set apart for these singular menA nook in the clouds, perhaps five by four, With skylight, or no light, ghosts, goblins, and gloom, And every where known as the Bachelor's Room.

These creatures, tis said, are not valued at all,
Except when the herb give a Bachelor's ball;
Then dress'd in their best, in their gold-broidered vest,
'Tis allowed, as a fact, that they act with much tact,
And they lisp out, "How do?" and they coo and they
sue,

And they smile for awhile, their guests to beguile,
Condescending and bending, for fear of offending:
Though inert, they expect to be pert, and to flirt,
And they turn and they twist, and are great hands at
whist;

And they whirl and they twirl-they whisk and are brisk, And they whiz and they quiz, and they spy with their eye,

And they sigh as they fly,

For they meet to be sweet, and are fleet on their feet,
Pattering, and flattering, and chattering-
Spluttering, and fluttering, and buttering-
Advancing, and glancing, and dancing, and prancing,

[ing

And bumping and jumping, and stumping, and thump-
Sounding and bounding around and around.
And sliding and gliding with minuet pace-
Pirouetting, and sitting with infinite grace.

They like dashing and flashing, lashing and splashing,
Racing and pacing, chasing and lacing;

They are flittering and glittering, gallant and gay,
Yawning all morning, and lounging all day;
Love living in London, life loitering away

At their clubs in the dubs, or with beaux in the rows,
Or, what's propera, at the opera,

Reaching home in the morning-fie! fie, sirs, for shame— At an hour, for their sakes, I won't venture to name. But when the bachelor-boy grows old,

And these butterfly days are past—
When threescore years their tale have told,
And the days are wet, and the nights are cold,
And something more is required than gold
His heart to cheer, and his hearth uphold-
When, in fact, he finds he's completely sold,-
And the world can grumble, and women can scold-
His sun setting fast, and his tale being told,
He then repents at last!

When he, at length, is an odd old man,
With no warmer friend than a warming-pan,
He is fidgety, fretful, and frowsty-in fine
Loves self, and his bed, and his dinner, and wine
And he rates and he prates, and reads and debates,
And abuses the world, and the women he hates,
And is cosing and prosing, and dozing all day,
And snoring, and roaring, and boring away,
And he's huffy, and stuffy, and puffy, and snuffy,
And musty, and fusty, and rusty, and crusty;
Sneezing, and wheezing, and teasing, and freezing,
And grumbling, and fumbling, and mumbling, and
.stumbling;

Falling, and bawling, and crawling, and sprawling, Withering, and dithering, and quivering, and shivering;

Waking, and aching, and quaking and shaking,
Ailing, and wailing, and always bewailing,
Weary and dreary, and nothing that's cheery,
Groaning and moaning, his selfishness owning;
And crying and sighing, while lying and dying,
Grieving and heaving, though naught he is leaving
But wealth and ill-health, and his pelf, and himself.
Nobody grieves him, nobody sighs,
Nobody misses him, nobody cries;

For whether a fool, or whether he's wise,
Nobody grieves when a bachelor dies.

B

ACHELOR'S Hall, what a quare-lookin' place it is!
Kape me from such all the days of my life!
Sure but I think what a burnin' disgrace it is,
Niver at all to be gettin' a wife.

Pots, dishes, pans, an' such grasy commodities,
Ashes and praty-skins, kiver the floor;
His cupboard's a storehouse of comical oddities,
Things that had niver been neighbors before.
Say the old bachelor, gloomy an' sad enough,
Placin' his tay-kettle over the fire;

Soon it tips over-Saint Patrick! he's mad enough,
If he were prisint, to fight with the squire !

He looks for the platter-Grimalkin is scourin' it! Sure, at a baste like that, swearin''s no sin;

His dishcloth is missing; the pigs are devourin' it—
Thunder and turf! what a pickle he's in!

When his male's over, the table's left sittin' so;
Dishes, take care of yourselves if you can;
Divil a drop of hot water will visit ye,-

Och, let him alone for a baste of a man!

Now, like a pig in a mortar-bed wallowin',
Say the old bachelor kneeding his dough;
Troth, if his bread he could ate without swallowin',
How it would favor his palate, ye know!

Late in the night, when he goes to bed shiverin',
Niver a bit is the bed made at all;

He crapes like a terrapin under the kiverin';-
Bad luck to the pictur of Bachelor's Hall!
-John Finley.

H

E sat at the dinner table

With a discontented frown;"The potatoes and steak were underdone,

The bread was baked too brown.

The pie too sour, the pudding too sweet,
And the roast was much too fat;
The soup so greasy, too, and salt;
Sure, 'twas hardly fit for the cat."

"I wish you could eat the bread and pies I've seen my mother make;

They are something like, and 'twould do you good

Just to look at a loaf of her cake."

Said the smiling wife, "I'll improve with age,
Just now I'm but a beginner,

But your mother has come to visit,
And to-day she cooked the dinner."
-Anonymous.

ING a song of cleaning house,

SING

Pocket full of nails,

Four and twenty dustpans,

Scrubbing-brooms and pails, When the door is opened, Wife begins to sing :

'Just help me move this bureau here, And hang this picture; won't you dear? And tack that carpet by the door,

And stretch this one a little more,

And drive this nail, and screw this screw,

And here's a job I have for you—
This closet door will never catch,

I think you'll have to fix the latch ;
And oh, while you're about it, John,
I wish you'd put the cornice on,

And hang this curtain, when you're done.
I'll hand you up the other one;
This box has got to have a hinge
Before I can put on the fringe;

And won't you mend that broken chair?

I'd like a hook put up right there;

The bureau drawer must have a knob-
And here's another little job-

I really hate to ask you, dear-
But could you put a bracket here?"

And on it goes, when these are through,
With this and that and those to do,
Ad infinitum, and more too,

All in a merry jingle;

And isn't it enough to make

A man wish he was single? (Almost.)

Round 1.-They faced each other; Brown, to get an opening, sparred

Adroitly. His antagonist was cautious-on its guard. Brown led off with his left to where a length of stovepipe stood

And nearly cut his fingers off. (The stove allowed First Blood.)

Round 2.-Brown came up swearing, in Græco-Roman style

Closed with the stove, and tugged and strove at it a weary while;

At last the leg he held gave way; flat on his back fell Brown,

And the stove fell on top of him and claimed the First Knock-down.

The fight is done, and Brown has won; his hands are rasped and sore,

And perspiration and black lead stream from every pore;

Sternly triumphant, as he gives his prisoner a shove,
He cries, "Where, my good angel, shall I put this

blessed stove?"

And calmly Mrs. Brown to him she indicates the spot, And bids him keep his temper and remarks that he looks hot,

And now comes in the sweet o' the day; the Brown holds in his gripe

And strives to fit a six-inch joint into a five-inch pipe; He hammers, dinges, bends and shakes, while his wife

scornfully

Tells him how she would manage if only she were he.

At last the joints are joined they rear a pyramid in air,
A tub upon the table, and upon the tub a chair,
And on chair and supporters are the stovepipe and the
Brown,

Like the lion and the unicorn, a fighting for the crown; While Mistress Brown she cheerily says to him, "I expec'

'Twould be just like your clumsiness to fall and break your neck."

Scarce were the piteous accents said before she was

aware

Of what might be called "a miscellaneous music in the air,"

And in wild crash and confusion upon the floor rained down

Chairs, tables, tubs and stovepipes, anathemas andBrown.

There was a moment's silence-Brown had fallen on the cat;

She was too thick for a bookmark, but too thin for a mat,

And he was all wounds and bruises, from his head to his foot,

And seven breadths of Brussels were ruined with the soot.

"O wedded love how beautiful, how sweet a thing thou art!"

Up from her chair did Mistress Brown, as she saw him falling, start,

And shricked aloud as a sickening fear did her inmost heart-strings gripe,

"Josiah Winterbotham Brown, have you gone and smashed that pipe?"

Then fiercely starts that Mister Brown, as one that has been wode

And big his bosom swelled with wrath, and red his visage glowed;

Wild rolled his eye as he made reply (and his voice was sharp and shrill),

"I have not madam, but by-by-by the nine gods, I will."

He swung the pipe above his head, he dashed it on the floor,

And that stove pipe, as a stove-pipe, it did exist no more;

Then he strode up to his shrinking wife, and his face was stern and wan,

As in a hoarse, changed voice he hissed: "Send for that tinsmith's man."