HO-HO OF THE GOLDEN BELT.

ONE OF THE "NINE STORIES OF CHINA." BY JOHN G. SAXE.

A beautiful maiden was little Min-Ne, Eldest daughter of wise Wang-Ke; Her skin had the colour of saffron-tea, And her nose was flat as flat could be; And never was seen such beautiful eyes. Two almond-kernels in shape and size, Set in a couple of slanting gashes, And not in the least disfigured by lashes; And then such feet! You'd scarcely meet In the longest walk through the grandest street (And you might go seeking From Nanking to Peking) A pair was remarkably small and neat.

Two little stumps, Mere pedal lumps, That toddle along with the funniest thumps In China, you know, are reckon'd trumps. It seems a trifle, to make such a boast of it; But how they will dress it: And bandage and press it, By making the least, to make the most of it! As you may suppose, She had plenty of beaux Bowing around her beautiful toes, Praising her feet, and eyes, and nose In rapturous verse and elegant prose! She had lots of lovers, old and young: There was lofty Long, and babbling Lung, Opulent Tin, and eloquent Tung, Musical Sing, and, the rest among, Great Hang-Yu and Yu-be-Hung.

But though they smiled, and smirk'd, and bow'd, None could please her of all the crowd; Lung and Tung she thought too loud; Opulent Tin was much too proud; Lofty Long was quite too tall; Musical Sing sung very small; And, most remarkable freak of all, Of great Hang-Yu the lady made game, And Yu-be-Hung she mocked the sama, By echoing back his ugly name!

But the hardest heart is doom'd to melt; Love is a passion that will be felt; And just when scandal was making free To hint "What a pretty old maid she'd be,"— Little Min-Ne, Who but she? Married Ho-Ho of the Golden Belt! A man, I must own, of bad reputation, And low in purse, though high in station,— A sort of Imperial poor relation, Who rank'd as the Emperor's second cousin Multiplied by a hundred dozen; And, to mark the love the Emperor felt, Had a pension clear Of three pounds a year, And the honour of wearing a Golden Belt! And gallant Ho-Ho Could really show A handsome face, as faces go In this Flowery Land, where, you must know, The finest flowers of beauty grow. He'd the very widest kind of jaws, And his nails were like an eagle's claws, And—though it may seem a wondrous tale— (Truth is mighty and will prevail!) He'd a queue as long as the deepest cause Under the Emperor's chancery laws!

Yet how he managed to win Min-Ne The men declared they couldn't see; But all the ladies, over their tea, In this one point were known to agree: Four gifts were sent to aid his plea: A smoking-pipe with a golden clog, A box of tea and a poodle dog, And a painted heart that was all aflame, And bore, in blood, the lover's name, Ah! how could presents pretty as these A delicate lady fail to please? She smoked the pipe with the golden clog, And drank the tea, and ate the dog, And kept the heart,—and that's the way The match was made, the gossips say.

I can't describe the wedding-day, Which fell in the lovely month of May; Nor stop to tell of the Honey-moon, And how it vanish'd all too soon; Alas! that I the truth must speak, And say that in the fourteenth week, Soon as the wedding guests were gone, And their wedding suits began to doff, Min-Ne was weeping and "taking-on," For he had been trying to "take her off." Six wives before he had sent to heaven, And being partial to number "seven," He wish'd to add his latest pet, Just, perhaps, to make up the set! Mayhap the rascal found a cause Of discontent in a certain clause In the Emperor's very liberal laws, Which gives, when a Golden Belt is wed, Six hundred pounds to furnish the bed; And if in turn he marry a score, With every wife six hundred more.

First, he tried to murder Min-Ne With a special cup of poison'd tea, But the lady smelling a mortal foe, Cried, "Ho-Ho! I'm very fond of mild Souchong, But you, my love, you make it too strong."

At last Ho-Ho, the treacherous man, Contrived the most infernal plan Invented since the world began; He went and got him a savage dog, Who'd eat a woman as soon as a frog; Kept him a day without any prog, Then shut him up in an iron bin, Slipp'd the bolt and locked him in; Then giving the key To poor Min-Ne, Said, "Love, there's something you mustn't see In the chest beneath the orange-tree."

* * * * *

Poor mangled Min-Ne! with her latest breath She told her father the cause of her death; And so it reach'd the Emperor's ear, And his highness said, "It is very clear Ho-Ho has committed a murder here!" And he doom'd Ho-Ho to end his life By the terrible dog that kill'd his wife; But in mercy (let his praise be sung!) His thirteen brothers were merely hung, And his slaves bamboo'd in the mildest way, For a calendar month, three times a day. And that's the way that Justice dealt With wicked Ho-Ho of the Golden Belt!



THE HIRED SQUIRREL.

A RUSSIAN FABLE.

BY LAURA SANFORD.

A lion to the Squirrel said: "Work faithfully for me, And when your task is done, my friend, Rewarded you shall be With a barrel-full of finest nuts, Fresh from my own nut-tree." "My Lion King," the Squirrel said, "To this I do agree."

The Squirrel toiled both day and night, Quite faithful to his hire; So hungry and so faint sometimes He thought he should expire. But still he kept his courage up, And tugged with might and main, "How nice the nuts will taste," he thought, "When I my barrel gain."

At last, when he was nearly dead, And thin and old and grey, Quoth th' Lion: "There's no more hard work You're fit to do. I'll pay." A barrel-full of nuts he gave— Ripe, rich, and big; but oh! The Squirrel's tears ran down his cheeks. He'd lost his teeth, you know!



BALLAD OF THE TRAILING SKIRT.

NEW YORK "LIFE."

I met a girl the other day, A girl with golden tresses, Who wore the most bewitching air, And daintiest of dresses.

I gazed at her with kindling eye And admiration utter— Until I saw her silken skirt Was trailing in the gutter!

"What senseless style is this?" I thought; "What new sartorial passion? And who on earth stands sponsor for The idiotic fashion?"

I've asked a dozen maids or more, A tailor and his cutter, But no one knows why skirts are made To drag along the gutter.

Alas for woman, fashion's slave; She does not seem to mind it. Her silk or satin sweeps the street And leaves no filth behind it.

For all the dirt the breezes blow And all the germs that flutter May find a refuge in the gowns That swish along the gutter.

What lovely woman wills to do She does without a reason. To interfere is waste of time, To criticise is treason.

Man's only province is to work To earn his bread and butter— And buy her all the skirts she wants To trail along the gutter.



TO THE GIRL IN KHAKI.

"MODERN SOCIETY."

I put the question shyly, Lest you inform me dryly That women's ways are far beyond my ken; But was not khaki chosen For coats and breeks and hosen To render men invisible to men?

Why, then, dear maid, do you Forsake your gayest hue And dress in viewless khaki spick and span? You charming little miss, It never can be this: To render you invisible to man!

Not that at all? What then? You do not fear the men: Perchance you only wish to hide your heart, And so, you fickle flirt, You don a khaki skirt To foil the deadly aim of Cupid's dart.



THE TENDER HEART.

BY HELEN GRAY CONE.

She gazed upon the burnished brace Of partridges he showed with pride; Angelic grief was in her face; "How could you do it, dear?" she sighed, "The poor, pathetic, moveless wings! The songs all hushed—oh, cruel shame!" Said he, "The partridge never sings." Said she, "The sin is quite the same.

"You men are savage through and through. A boy is always bringing in Some string of bird's eggs, white or blue, Or butterfly upon a pin. The angle-worm in anguish dies, Impaled, the pretty trout to tease——" "My own, I fish for trout with flies——" "Don't wander from the question, please!"

She quoted Burns's "Wounded Hare," And certain burning lines of Blake's, And Ruskin on the fowls of air, And Coleridge on the water-snakes. At Emerson's "Forbearance" he Began to feel his will benumbed; At Browning's "Donald" utterly His soul surrendered and succumbed.

"Oh, gentlest of all gentle girls," He thought, "beneath the blessed sun!" He saw her lashes hung with pearls, And swore to give away his gun. She smiled to find her point was gained, And went, with happy parting words (He subsequently ascertained), To trim her hat with humming-birds.



A SONG OF SARATOGA.

BY JOHN G. SAXE.

"Pray what do they do at the Springs?" The question is easy to ask: But to answer it fully, my dear, Were rather a serious task. And yet, in a bantering way, As the magpie or mocking-bird sings, I'll venture a bit of a song, To tell what they do at the Springs.

Imprimis, my darling, they drink The waters so sparkling and clear; Though the flavour is none of the best, And the odour exceedingly queer; But the fluid is mingled, you know, With wholesome medicinal things; So they drink, and they drink, and they drink— And that's what they do at the Springs!

Then with appetites keen as a knife, They hasten to breakfast, or dine; The latter precisely at three, The former from seven till nine. Ye gods! what a rustle and rush, When the eloquent dinner-bell rings! Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat— And that's what they do at the Springs!

Now they stroll in the beautiful walks, Or loll in the shade of the trees; Where many a whisper is heard That never is heard by the breeze; And hands are commingled with hands, Regardless of conjugal rings: And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt— And that's what they do at the Springs!

The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, And music is shrieking away; Terpsichore governs the hour, And fashion was never so gay! An arm round a tapering waist— How closely and fondly it clings! So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz— And that's what they do at the Springs!

In short—as it goes in the world— They eat, and they drink, and they sleep; They talk, and they walk, and they woo; They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep; They read, and they ride, and they dance (With other remarkable things): They pray, and they play, and they PAY— And that's what they do at the Springs!



THE SEA.

BY EVA L. OGDEN.

She was rich and of high degree; A poor and unknown artist he. "Paint me," she said, "a view of the sea." So he painted the sea as it looked the day That Aphrodite arose from its spray; And it broke, as she gazed in its face the while Into its countless-dimpled smile. "What a pokey stupid picture," said she; "I don't believe he can paint the sea!"

Then he painted a raging, tossing sea, Storming, with fierce and sudden shock, Wild cries, and writhing tongues of foam, A towering, mighty fastness-rock. In its sides above those leaping crests, The thronging sea-birds built their nests. "What a disagreeable daub!" said she; "Why it isn't anything like the sea!"

Then he painted a stretch of hot, brown sand, With a big hotel on either hand, And a handsome pavilion for the band,— Not a sign of the water to be seen Except one faint little streak of green. "What a perfectly exquisite picture," said she; "It's the very image of the sea." —Century Magazine.



A TALE OF A NOSE.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

'Twas a hard case, that which happened in Lynn. Haven't heard of it, eh? Well, then, to begin, There's a Jew down there whom they call "Old Mose," Who travels about, and buys old clothes.

Now Mose—which the same is short for Moses— Had one of the biggest kind of noses: It had a sort of an instep in it, And he fed it with snuff about once a minute.

One day he got in a bit of a row With a German chap who had kissed his frau, And, trying to punch him a la Mace, Had his nose cut off close up to his face.

He picked it up from off the ground, And quickly back in its place 'twas bound, Keeping the bandage upon his face Until it had fairly healed in place.

Alas for Mose! 'Twas a sad mistake Which he in his haste that day did make; For, to add still more to his bitter cup, He found he had placed it wrong side up.

"There's no great loss without some gain;" And Moses says, in a jocular vein, He arranged it so for taking snuff, As he never before could get enough.

One thing, by the way, he forgets to add, Which makes the arrangement rather bad: Although he can take his snuff with ease, He has to stand on his head to sneeze!



LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

I haf von funny leedle poy Vot gomes schust to my knee— Der queerest schap, der createst rogue As efer you dit see. He runs, und schumps, and schmashes dings In all barts off der house. But vot off dot? He vas mine son, Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measels und der mumbs, Und eferyding dot's oudt; He sbills mine glass of lager-bier, Foots schnuff indo mine kraut; He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese— Dot vas der roughest chouse; I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo To make der schticks to beat it mit— Mine cracious, dot vas drue! I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart, He kicks oup such a touse! But nefer mind, der poys vas few Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese: Who baints mine nose so red? Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt Vrom der hair ubon mine hed? Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp Vene'er der glim I douse? How gan I all dese dings eggsblain To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss.

I somedimes dink I schall go vild Mit sooch a grazy poy, Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest Und beaceful dimes enshoy, But ven he vas ashleep in ped, So quiet as a mouse, I prays der Lord, "Dake anydings, But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."



DOT BABY OF MINE.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

Mine cracious! Mine cracious! shust look here und see A Deutscher so habby as habby can pe. Der beoples all dink dat no prains I haf got, Vas grazy mit trinking, or someding like dot; Id vasn't pecause I trinks lager und vine, Id vas all on aggount of dot baby off mine.

Dot schmall leedle vellow I dells you vas qveer; Not mooch pigger round as a goot glass off beer, Mit a bare-footed hed, and nose but a schpeck, A mout dot goes most to der pack of his neck, And his leedle pink toes mid der rest all combine To gife sooch a charm to dot baby off mine.

I dells you dot baby vas von off der poys, Und beats leedle Yawcob for making a noise; He shust has pegun to shbeak goot English, too, Says "Mamma," und "Bapa," und somedimes "ah-goo!" You don't find a baby den dimes oudt off nine Dot vas qvite so schmart as dot baby off mine.

He grawls der vloor over, und drows dings aboudt, Und puts efryding he can find in his mout; He durables der shtairs down, und falls vrom his chair, Und gifes mine Katrina von derrible schare. Mine hair stands like shquills on a mat borcupine Ven I dinks of dose pranks of dot baby off mine.

Der vas someding, you pet, I don't likes pooty veil; To hear in der nighdt dimes dot young Deutscher yell, Und dravel der ped-room midout many clo'es, Vhile der chills down der sphine off mine pack quickly goes. Dose leedle shimnasdic dricks vasn't so fine Dot I cuts oop at nighdt mit dot baby off mine.

Veil, dese leedle schafers vos goin' to pe men, Und all off dese droubles vill peen ofer den; Dey vill vear a vhite shirt-vront inshted of a bib, Und voudn't got tucked oop at nighdt in deir crib. Veil! veil! ven I'm feeple und in life's decline, May mine oldt age pe cheered by dot baby off mine.



A DUTCHMAN'S MISTAKE.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

I geeps me von leedle schtore town Proadway, und does a pooty goot peeznis, but I don't got mooch gapital to work mit, so I finds it hard vork to get me all der gredits vot I vould like.

Last veek I hear about some goots dot a barty vas going to sell pooty sheap, und so I writes dot man if he vould gief me der refusal of dose goots for a gouple of days. He gafe me der refusal—dot is, he sait I gouldn't haf dem—but he sait he vould gall on me und see mine schtore, und den if mine schtanding in peesnis vas goot, berhaps ve might do somedings togedder.

Veil, I vas behind mine gounter yesterday, ven a shentle-man gomes in and dakes me py der hant and says, "Mr. Schmidt, I pelieve." I says, "Yaw," und den I tinks to mine-self, dis vas der man vot has doze goots to sell, und I must dry to make some goot imbressions mit him, so ve gould do some peesnis.

"Dis vas goot schtore," he says, looking roundt, "bud you don't got a pooty big shtock already." I vas avraid to let him know dot I only hat 'bout a tousand tollars vort of goots in der blace, so I says, "You ton't tink I hat more as dree tousand tollars in dis leedle schtore, vould you?" He says, "You ton't tole me! Vos dot bossible!" I says, "Yaw."

I meant dot id vas bossible, dough id vasn't so, vor I vas like 'Shorge Vashingtons ven he cut town der "olt elm" on Poston Gommons mit his leedle hadchet, and gouldn't dell some lies aboud id.

"Veil," says der shentleman, "I dinks you ought to know petter as anypody else vot you haf got in der schtore." Und den he takes a pig book vrom unter his arm and say, "Veil, I poots you town vor dree tousand tollars."

I ask him vot he means py "Poots me town," und den he says he vas von off der tax-men, or assessors off broperty, und he tank me so kintly as nefer vas, pecause he say I vas sooch an honest Deutscher, und tidn't dry und sheat der gofermants.

I dells you vot it vos, I tidn't veel any more petter as a hundert ber cent, ven dot man valks oudt of mine schtore, und der nexd dime I makes free mit strangers I vinds first deir peesnis oudt.



THE OWL CRITIC.

JAMES T. FIELDS, IN "HARPER'S MAGAZINE."

"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop! The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop! The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The Daily, the Herald, the Post, little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; Not one raised a head or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mister Brown," Cried the youth with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, How preposterous each wing is, How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is— In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis! I make no apology, I've learned owl-eology. I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've studied owls, And other night fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true; An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed. No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that attitude. He can't do it, because 'Tis against all bird laws, Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches, An owl has a toe That can't turn out so! I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears! Mister Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd! To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes, I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pass Off on you such poor glass; So unnatural they seem They'd, make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff. Do take that bird down: Have him stuffed again, Brown!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark I could stuff in the dark An owl better than that. I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather, In fact, about him there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic. And then fairly hooted, as if he should say: "Your learning's at fault this time, anyway; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray. I'm an owl; you're another, Sir Critic, good day!" And the barber kept on shaving.



THE TRUE STORY OF KING MARSHMALLOW,

O a jolly old fellow was King Marshmallow As ever wore a crown! At every draught of wine he quaffed, And at every joke of his jester he laughed, Laughed till the tears ran down— O, he laughed Ha! Ha! and he laughed Ho! Ho! And every time that he laughed, do you know, The Lords in waiting they did just so.

But Queen Bonniberry was not quite so merry; She sat and sighed all the while, And she turned very red and shook her head At everything Jingle the jester said, And never vouchsafed a smile. O, she sighed Ah me! and she sighed Heigh-oh! And every time that she sighed, do you know, The Ladies in waiting they did just so.

Then the jester spoke just by way of a joke, (O he was a funny man!) And he said May it please your majesties, I wish to complain of those impudent fleas That bite me whenever they can! Then the king he laughed Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! And the queen she sighed Ah me!—Heigh-oh! While the Lords and the Ladies they did just so.

As for that, my man, the king began, The fleas bite whoever they like, But the very first flea you chance to see, Wherever he may happen to be, You have my permission to strike! And the king he roared, Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! While the queen she sighed Ah me!—Heigh-oh! And the Lords and the Ladies they did just so.

Just then Jingle sighted a flea that had lighted Right on—well, where do you suppose? On Marshmallow's own royal face, and the clown In bringing his hand with a swift motion down Nearly ruined the poor monarch's nose. And the king he shrieked Ah! Ah! Oh! Oh! And the queen burst out laughing Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! While the Lords and the Ladies stood stupidly by And didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.



THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.

BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY (REV. R.H. BARHAM).

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! Bishop and abbot and prior were there; Many a monk, and many a friar, Many a knight, and many a squire, With a great many more of lesser degree,— In sooth a goodly company; And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. Never, I ween, was a prouder seen, Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!

In and out through the motley rout, That little Jackdaw kept hopping about; Here and there like a dog in a fair, Over comfits and cakes, and dishes and plates, Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, Mitre and crosier! he hopp'd upon all! With saucy air, he perch'd on the chair Where in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat; And he peer'd in the face of his Lordship's Grace With a satisfied look, as if he would say, "We two are the greatest folks here to-day!"

The feast was over, the board was clear'd, The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd, And six little singing-boys,—dear little souls! In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles, Came, in order due, two by two, Marching that grand refectory through! A nice little boy held a golden ewer, Emboss'd and fill'd with water, as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. Two nice little boys, rather more grown, Carried lavender-water and eau de Cologne; And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. One little boy more a napkin bore, Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in "permanent ink." The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white; From his finger he draws his costly turquoise; And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, Deposits it straight by the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait; Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

* * * * *

There's a cry and a shout, and no end of a rout, And nobody seems to know what they're about But the monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out; The friars are kneeling, and hunting, and feeling The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. The Cardinal drew off each plum-colour'd shoe, And left his red stockings exposed to the view; He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the heels; They turn up the dishes,—they turn up the plates,— They take up the poker and poke out the grates, —They turn up the rugs, they examine the mugs:— But, no!—no such thing;—They can't find THE RING! And the Abbot declared that, "when nobody twigg'd it, Some rascal or other had popp'd in, and prigg'd it!"

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger and pious grief, He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of evil, and wake in a fright; He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying, He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!— Never was heard such a terrible curse! But what gave rise to no little surprise, Nobody seem'd one penny the worse!

The day was gone, the night came on, The Monks and the Friars they search'd till dawn; When the Sacristan saw, on crumpled claw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw; No longer gay, as on yesterday; His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way;— His pinions droop'd—he could hardly stand— His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; His eye so dim, so wasted each limb, That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM!— That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing! That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!"

The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say, "Pray be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower, he limp'd on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry door, When the first thing they saw, Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw!

Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book, And off that terrible curse he took; The mute expression served in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution, The Jackdaw got plenary absolution! —When those words were heard, that poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd. He grew sleek, and fat; in addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more Even than before; But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air, No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair. He hopp'd now about With a gait devout; At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads. If any one lied,—or if any one swore,— Or slumber'd in prayer-time and happened to snore, That good Jackdaw would give a great "Caw," As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!" While many remarked, as his manners they saw, That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!" He long lived the pride of that country side, And at last in the odour of sanctity died; When, as words were too faint his merits to paint, The Conclave determined to make him a Saint! And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know, It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow, So they canonized him by the name of. Jim Crow!



TUBAL CAIN.

BY CHARLES MACKAY.

Old Tubal Cain was a man of might In the days when earth was young; By the fierce red light of his furnace bright The strokes of his hammer rung; And he lifted high his brawny hand On the iron glowing clear, Till the sparks rush'd out in scarlet showers, As he fashion'd the sword and spear. And he sang—"Hurra for my handiwork! Hurra for the Spear and Sword! Hurra for the hand that shall wield them well, For he shall be King and Lord!"

To Tubal Cain came many a one, As he wrought by his roaring fire, And each one pray'd for a strong steel blade As the crown of his desire; And he made them weapons sharp and strong, Till they shouted loud for glee, And gave him gifts of pearls and gold, And spoils of the forest free, And they sang—"Hurra for Tubal Cain, Who hath given us strength anew! Hurra for the smith, hurra for the fire, And hurra for the metal true!"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart Ere the setting of the sun, And Tubal Cain was fill'd with pain For the evil he had done; He saw that men, with rage and hate, Made war upon their kind, That the land was red with the blood they shed In their lust for carnage, blind. And he said—"Alas! that ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan, The spear and the sword for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow-man!"

And for many a day old Tubal Cain Sat brooding o'er his woe; And his hand forbore to smite the ore, And his furnace smoulder'd low. But he rose at last with a cheerful face, And a bright courageous eye, And bared his strong right arm for work, While the quick flames mounted high. And he sang—"Hurra for my handiwork!" And the red sparks lit the air; "Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made;" And he fashion'd the First Plough-share!

And men, taught wisdom from the Past, In friendship join'd their hands, Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, And plough'd the willing lands; And sang—"Hurra for Tubal Cain! Our staunch good friend is he; And for the ploughshare and the plough To him our praise shall be. But while Oppression lifts its head, Or a tyrant would be lord, Though we may thank him for the Plough, We'll not forget the Sword!"



THE THREE PREACHERS.

BY CHARLES MACKAY.

There are three preachers, ever preaching, Fill'd with eloquence and power:— One is old, with locks of white, Skinny as an anchorite; And he preaches every hour With a shrill fanatic voice, And a bigot's fiery scorn:— "Backward! ye presumptuous nations; Man to misery is born! Born to drudge, and sweat, and suffer— Born to labour and to pray; Backward!' ye presumptuous nations— Back!—be humble and obey!"

The second is a milder preacher; Soft he talks as if he sung; Sleek and slothful is his look, And his words, as from a book, Issue glibly from his tongue. With an air of self-content, High he lifts his fair white hands: "Stand ye still! ye restless nations; And be happy, all ye lands! Fate is law, and law is perfect; If ye meddle, ye will mar; Change is rash, and ever was so: We are happy as we are."

Mightier is the younger preacher, Genius flashes from his eyes: And the crowds who hear his voice Give him, while their souls rejoice, Throbbing bosoms for replies. Awed they listen, yet elated, While his stirring accents fall:— "Forward! ye deluded nations, Progress is the rule of all: Man was made for healthful effort; Tyranny has crush'd him long; He shall march from good to better, And do battle with the wrong.

"Standing still is childish folly, Going backward is a crime: None should patiently endure Any ill that he can cure; Onward! keep the march of Time, Onward! while a wrong remains To be conquer'd by the right; While Oppression lifts a finger To affront us by his might; While an error clouds the reason Of the universal heart, Or a slave awaits his freedom Action is the wise man's part.

"Lo! the world is rich in blessings: Earth and Ocean, flame and wind, Have unnumber'd secrets still, To be ransack'd when you will, For the service of mankind; Science is a child as yet, And her power and scope shall grow, And her triumphs in the future Shall diminish toil and woe; Shall extend the bounds of pleasure With an ever-widening ken, And of woods and wildernesses Make the homes of happy men.

"Onward!—there are ills to conquer, Daily wickedness is wrought, Tyranny is swoln with Pride, Bigotry is deified, Error intertwined with Thought, Vice and Misery ramp and crawl;— Root them out, their day has pass'd; Goodness is alone immortal; Evil was not made to last: Onward! and all earth shall aid us Ere our peaceful flag be furl'd."— And the preaching of this preacher Stirs the pulses of the world.



SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE.

BY ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright.



PATRIOTISM.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

Love thou thy land, with love far-brought From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused Thro' future time by power of thought.

True love turned round on fixed poles, Love that endures not sordid ends, For English natures, freemen, friends, Thy brothers, and immortal souls.

But pamper not a hasty time, Nor feed with crude imaginings The herd, wild hearts, and feeble wings, That every sophister can lime.

Deliver not the tasks of might To weakness, neither hide the ray From those, not blind, who wait for day, Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light.

Make knowledge circle with the winds; But let her herald, Reverence, fly Before her to whatever sky Bear seed of men and growth of minds.

Watch what main currents draw the years: Cut Prejudice against the grain: But gentle words are always gain: Regard the weakness of thy peers:

Nor toil for title, place, or touch Of pension, neither count on praise: It grows to guerdon after-days: Nor deal in watch-words overmuch:

Not clinging to some ancient saw; Not master'd by some modern term; Not swift nor slow to change, but firm; And in its season bring the law;

That from Discussion's lip may fall With Life, that, working strongly, binds— Set in all lights by many minds, To close the interests of all.

For Nature also, cold and warm, And moist and dry, devising long, Thro' many agents making strong, Matures the individual form.

Meet is it changes should control Our being, lest we rust in ease. We all are changed by still degrees, All but the basis of the soul.

So let the change which comes be free To ingroove itself with that, which flies, And work, a joint of state, that plies Its office, moved with sympathy.

A saying, hard to shape in act; For all the past of Time reveals A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact.

Ev'n now we hear with inward strife A motion toiling in the gloom— The Spirit of the years to come Yearning to mix himself with Life.

A slow-develop'd strength awaits Completion in a painful school; Phantoms of other forms of rule, New Majesties of mighty States—

The warders of the growing hour, But vague in vapour, hard to mark; And round them sea and air are dark With great contrivances of Power.

Of many changes, aptly join'd, Is bodied forth the second whole. Regard gradation, lest the soul Of Discord race the rising wind;

A wind to puff your idol-fires, And heap their ashes on the head; To shame the boast so often made, That we are wiser than our sires.

O yet, if Nature's evil star Drive men in manhood, as in youth, To follow flying steps of Truth Across the brazen bridge of war—

If New and Old, disastrous feud, Must ever shock, like armed foes, And this be true, till time shall close, That Principles are rain'd in blood;

Not yet the wise of heart would cease To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt, But with his hand against the hilt Would pace the troubled land, like Peace;

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, Would serve his kind in deed and word, Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, That knowledge takes the sword away—

Would love the gleams of good that broke From either side, nor veil his eyes: And if some dreadful need should rise Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke:

To-morrow yet would reap to-day, As we bear blossom of the dead; Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed Raw Haste, half sister to Delay.



TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

BY GERALD MASSEY.

High hopes that burn'd like stars sublime, Go down i' the heaven of freedom; And true hearts perish in the time We bitterliest need 'em! But never sit we down and say There's nothing left but sorrow; We walk the wilderness to-day— The promised land to-morrow!

Our birds of song are silent now, Few are the flowers blooming, Yet life is in the frozen bough, And freedom's spring is coming; And freedom's tide creeps up alway, Though we may strand in sorrow; And our good bark, aground to-day, Shall float again to-morrow.

'Tis weary watching wave by wave, And yet the Tide heaves onward; We climb, like Corals, grave by grave, That pave a pathway sunward; We are driven back, for our next fray A newer strength to borrow, And where the Vanguard camps to-day The Rear shall rest to-morrow!

Through all the long, dark night of years The people's cry ascendeth, And earth is wet with blood and tears: But our meek sufferance endeth! The few shall not for ever sway— The many moil in sorrow; The powers of hell are strong to-day, The Christ shall rise to-morrow!

Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyes With smiling futures glisten! For lo! our day bursts up the skies Lean out your souls and listen! The world is rolling freedom's way, And ripening with her sorrow; Take heart! who bear the Cross to-day, Shall wear the Crown to-morrow!

O youth! flame-earnest, still aspire With energies immortal! To many a heaven of desire Our yearning opes a portal; And though age wearies by the way, And hearts break in the furrow— Youth sows the golden grain to-day— The harvest comes to-morrow!

Build up heroic lives, and all Be like a sheathen sabre, Ready to flash out at God's call— O chivalry of labour! Triumph and toil are twins; though they Be singly born in sorrow, And 'tis the martyrdom to-day Brings victory to-morrow!



RING OUT, WILD BELLS.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

Ring out wild bells to the' wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.



RULE, BRITANNIA!

BY JAMES THOMSON.

When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sang this strain: "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves."

The nations not so blest as thee, Must in their turns to tyrants fall While thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves."

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies, Serves but to root thy native oak. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves."

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy gen'rous flame To work their woe and thy renown. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves."

To thee belongs the rural reign, Thy cities shall with commerce shine, All thine shall be the subject main, And ev'ry shore it circles, thine. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves."

The Muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy coasts repair; Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown'd, And manly hearts to guard the fair. "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves."



Printed by H. Virtue and Company, Limited, City Road, London.

THE END