"A favor so light one's good nature secures,' And she playfully seated herself by his side.

"I would blow it again," said the youth, "and the charm Would work so that not even modesty's check

Would be able to keep from my neck her fine arm.”

She smiled-and she laid her fine arm round his neck.

"Yet once more would I blow, and the music divine
Would bring me the third time an exquisite bliss;
You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine,
And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss."

The maiden laughed out in

her innocent glee

"What a fool of yourself with your whistle you'd make! For only consider how silly 'twould be

To sit there and whistle for what you might take.”

ROGER AND DOLLY.

BLACKWOOD.

Young Roger came tapping at Dolly's window-
Thumpaty, thumpaty, thump;

He begged for admittance-she answered him no-
Glumpaty, glumpaty, glump.

No, no, Roger, no—as you came you may go

Stumpaty, stumpaty, stump..

"Oh, what is the reason, dear Dolly ?" he cried

Humpaty, humpaty, hump

"Why am I cast off, and unkindly denied?

Trumpaty, trumpaty, trump;

Some rival more dear I guess has been here"

Crumpaty, crumpaty, crump.

"Suppose there's been two, sir, pray what's that to you, sir?

Numpaty, numpaty, nump.

Wi' a disconsolate look his sad farewell he took

Trumpaty, trumpaty, trump

And all in despair jumped into a brook

Jumpaty, jumpaty, jump

His courage did cool in a filthy green pool-¦
Slumpaty, slumpaty, slump-

So he swam to the shore, but saw Dolly no more—
Dumpaty, dumpaty, dump.

He did speedily find one more fat and more kindPlumpaty, plumpaty, plump

But poor Dolly's afraid she must die an old maidMumpaty, mumpaty, mump.

THE KNOOK AT THE DOOR.

ANON.

There came a gentle knock-
I heard it with surprise-
At half past eight o'clock,
The time I always rise.

I listened, and I thought

What that low tap could mean

The water had been brought,

The butcher's boy had been.

The post had come and gone,
The letters lay around-
From Boston and Whitestone,
Peru and Hudson Sound.

Perhaps it was a note;

A telegram to say

My aunt had caught the boat,
And would be here to-day.

Perhaps it was a bill

The messenger to wait;
Perhaps my brother Phil
To take me out to skate.

Conjectures such as these
Passed swiftly thro' my brain;

I hardly felt at ease,

When lo! that knock again.

And then there came a voice-
Our nursemaid's voice, forsooth-
Which made my heart rejoice
With-"Baby's got a tooth !"

THE BEWITCHED TARRIER.

R. H. NEWELL.

Sam Johnson was a cullud man,
Who lived down in Judee;

He owned a rat tan tarrier

That stood 'bout one foot three; And the way that critter chawed up rats Was gorjeus for to see.

One day this dorg was slumberin'
Behind the kitchen stove,
When suddenly a wicked flea-

An ugly little cove—
Commenced upon his faithful back

With many jumps to rove.

Then up arose that tarrier,
With frenzy in his eye,
And waitin' only long enough
To make a touchin' cry,
Commenced to twist his head around,
Most wonderfully spry.

But all in vain; his shape was sich,
So awful short and fat,

And tho' he doubled up hisself,
And strained hisself at that,
His mouth was half an inch away.
From where the varmint sat.

The dorg set up an awful yowl
And twisted like an eel,
Emitting cries of misery
At every nip he'd feel,

And tumbling down and jumping up
And turning like a wheel.

But still that most owdacious flea

Kept up a constant chaw

Just where he couldn't be scratched out

By any reach of paw,

But always half an inch beyond

His victim's snappin' jaw.

Sam Johnson heard the noise, and came

To save his animile:

But when he see the crittur spin

A barkin' all the while

He dreaded hiderfobia,

And then began to rile.

"The pup is mad enough," says he,

He

And luggin' in his axe,

gev the wretched tarrier

A pair of awful cracks

That stretched him out upon the floor

As dead as carpet tacks.

MORAL.

Take warnin' by this tarrier,

Now turned to sassidge meat,
And when misfortin's flea shall come
Upon your back to eat,

Beware! or you may die because

You can't make both ends meet.

A CATALECTIO MONODY.

CRUIKSHANK.

A cat I sing, of famous memory,
Though catachrestical my song may be ;
In a small garden catacomb she lies,
And Cataclysms fill her comrades' eyes;
Borne on the air, the catacoustic song
Swells with her virtues' catalogue along;
No cataplasm could lengthen out her years,
Though mourning friends shed cataracts of tears.
Once loud and strong her catechist-like voice;
It dwindled to a catcall's squeaking noise;
Most categorical her virtues shone,
By catenation joined each one to one;
But a vile catchpoll dog, with cruel bite,
Like catlings cut, her strength disabled quite;
Her caterwauling pierced the heavy air,
As cataphracts their arms thro' legions bear;
'Tis vain! as caterpillars drag away
Their lengths, like cattle after busy day,
She lingering died, nor left in kit-kat the
Embodiment of this catastrophe!

A SERENADE.

PUNCH.

Smile, lady, smile! (Bless me! what's that?

Confound the cat!)

Smile, lady, smile! One glance bestow

On him who sadly waits below

To catch-(A villain up above

Has thrown some water on me, love!) ·

To catch one token

(Oh, dear! my head is broken

The wretch who threw the water down

Has dropped the jug upon my crown !)—