Bessie. Well, I declare! The mean old thing!

Jenny. It's too bad! Nothing but blasted hopes in this world!

Sadie. Well, I don't care, I'm a going to have one of those pickles, if I die for it.

Jenny. Why, Sadie Bean, you don't mean it!

Sadie. Yes, I do. I know they are wholesome, and my mother always allows me to eat them.

Bessie. I wouldn't touch one for the world. How impolite it would be, after Miss Pease has forbidden it!

Sadie. No; she didn't forbid it. She said, if we thought she had our interest at heart, we wouldn't touch the pail. Now I don't believe she has, when she wants to deprive us of such a luxury. I'm determined to have a pickle.

Jenny. You are wrong, Sadie, to think of such a thing. A Precious Pickle you'll make. (Sits on sofa.)

Bessie. Nothing would tempt me. (Sits on sofa.) How can you, Sadie?

Sadie. Pooh! Cowards! It's just as easy as croquet, when you make up your mind. (Lifts cover, and takes out pickle.) A Precious Pickle. I'll taste, Jenny. Ain't they beauties?

Jenny. Quick, quick, Sadie; somebody's coming!

Sadie. Dear me! (Claps on cover, runs and sits on sofa between JENNY and BESSIE.)

Enter JUNO, L.

Juno. Bress my soul! dars Missis Gabble a runnin up de walk like all possessed. Speck her house afire, sure for sartin. Exit, R.

Sadie. (Tasting pickle.) O, ain't it nice! Bessie, run and get one.

Bessie. No, indeed; I shall do no such thing.

Jenny. O, Sadie, I wouldn't believe you could do such a thing.

Sadie. O, pshaw! It's all envy; you know it is.

Enter R., JUNO, followed by MRS. GABBLE, who wears a calico dress, has her sleeves rolled up, her apron thrown over her head, and has altogether the appearance of having just left the wash-tub.

Mrs. G. Yes, Juno, poor Mr. Brown has shuffled off this mortal—what's it's name? (Looks at girls.) O, how do you do? I don't know how much he's worth, but they do say—Why, Juno, you've got a new calico—Fine day, young ladies.—They do say—Well, there, I oughtn't to speak of it. Got your washing out, Juno? I've been all day at that tub; and—Where's Miss Pease? I can't stop a minute; so don't ask me to sit down. (Sits in rocking-chair and rocks violently.)

Juno. Yes, Missy Gabble, Missy Pease to home. Send her right up, sure for sartin. Bress my soul, how that woman do go on, for sartin. Exit, L.

Mrs. G. Ah, poor Mrs. Brown, with all them young ones. I wonder where my Sis is.

Jenny. I think she's in the kitchen, Mrs. Gabble.

Mrs. G. You don't say so? Stuffing herself, I'm sure. And poor Mr. Brown lying dead in the next house—and there's my washing waiting for soap—and there's Mrs. Jones hasn't sent my ironing-board home; and mercy knows how I'm to get along without it.

Enter MISS PEASE, L. During the dialogue between MISS PEASE and MRS. G., SADIE slyly eats her pickle, offering it to JENNY and BESSIE, who at first shake their heads, afterwards taste; the pickle is passed among them, and devoured before the conclusion of the conversation.

Miss P. Ah, Mrs. Gabble! I'm glad to see you. (Takes chair and sits beside her.)

Mrs. G. And poor Brown is gone!

Miss P. Mr. Brown dead? This is sad news.

Mrs. G. I should think it was—and there's Skillet, the butcher, chopped off his thumb—and Miss Pearson fell down stairs and broke her china sugar-bowl—sp'ilt the whole set. As I told my husband, these expensive dishes never can be matched—and speaking of matches, Mrs. Thorpe is going to get a divorce. Jest think of it! I met her going into Carter's shop this morning. She had on that pink muslin he gave her for a birthday present—Jenkins has got a new lot of them, only a shilling a yard—speaking of yards, old Cooper tumbled into that miserable well in his back yard this morning. They pulled him out—speaking of pulling, Miss Tibbet was in to the dentist's this morning for a new set of teeth, and—Have you seen my Sis?

Miss P. O, yes. She's in the kitchen with Juno. And, speaking of Sissy, reminds me that I must thank you for sending me—

Mrs. G. My pickles? Yes. Well, I'm glad you got 'em. But I didn't have a bit of good luck with 'em. And, speaking of pickles, O, Miss Pease, that villain, Smith, the grocer, has been taken up. He's going to be hung. Nothing can save him.

Miss P. Mr. Smith arrested! For what pray?

Mrs. G. P'isoning! Jest think of it! And he a deacon in the church, and has such a splendid span of horses, and such an elegant beach wagon. I declare, the last time he took us to the beach I nearly died eating soft-shelled crabs; and my husband tumbled overboard, and Mr. Brown got sunstruck; and now he's gone! Dear me, dear me! And my washing ain't out yet.

Miss P. But tell me, Mrs. Gabble, what is it about the poisoning?

Mrs. G. Why, he or somebody else has been putting prussic acid in his vinegar, just at the time, too, when everybody's making pickles; and there's no end of the p'isoning he will have to answer for. Mrs. Jewel's just sent for the doctor, and Mrs. Poor's been dreadful all day, and Dr. Baldtop's flying round from house to house; and, O, dear—there's my washing! Who'll be the next victim nobody knows, I'm sure.

Sadie. (Jumping up.) O, dear! O, dear! Send for the doctor, quick! I'm dying, I know I am. (Runs across stage and sinks into chair, R.)

Miss P. (Running to her.) Bless me child, what ails you?

Sadie. I don't know; I can't tell. The doctor, quick!

Mrs. G. Deary me, she's took sudden, just for all the world like Susan Richie.

Jenny. (Jumping up.) Water, water! Give me some water! I shall die if I don't have some water. (Runs down and sinks into chair, L.)

Mrs. G. (Jumping up and running to her.) Gracious goodness! here's another! It's something dreadful, depend upon it. When folks is took sudden—

Bessie. (Jumping up.) O, my throat! I'm burning up! Give me some ipecac. Quick, quick, quick! (Runs round stage, then sinks into chair, C.)

Mrs. G. There goes another! It's something dreadful, depend on it.

Miss P. What does this mean? Here, Juno, Juno! Quick!

Enter JUNO, L.

Juno. Here I is, Missy Pease.

Sadie. Run for the doctor, quick, Juno!

Juno. (Running, R.) Bress my soul! I'll fetch him.

Jenny. No, no! Get me some water—quick!

Juno. (Running L.) To be sure, honey; to be sure.

Bessie. No, no, Juno! some ipecac, or a stomach pump.

Juno. Pump, pump! Want de pump? I'll fetch it, I'll fetch it. Bress my soul, I'll fetch something. Exit, L.

Mrs. G. Well, if this ain't drefful!—washing-day, too—and the undertaker's jest as busy as he can be—there never was so much immortality in this place, never. Poor critters! poor critters!

Miss P. Girls, what does this mean?

Sadie. O, Miss Pease, such agony!

Bessie. O, dear, what will become of me?

Jenny. O, this dreadful parching in the throat!

Mrs. G. O, I know it, I know it. I told my husband that something dreadful was a goin' to happen when he sold that colt yesterday.

Miss P. Sadie, what is the meaning of this. Your pulse is regular, your head cool, and your tongue clear.

Sadie. O, Miss Pease, it's those dreadful pickles.

Mrs. G. Yes, indeed, it is a drefful pickle—and so sudden, jest for all the world like poor Mr. Brown's sudden took, and these always seem to end fatally at some time or other—Dear me, dear me, and my wash—

Miss P. Pickles! Have you disobeyed me?

Sadie. I couldn't help it, Miss Pease; they looked so tempting. But I only took one.

Bessie. And I only tasted that.

Jenny. I only had one good bite.

Sadie. And we are poisoned!

Bessie. O, dear! poisoned!

Jenny. Yes, poisoned!

Miss P. How, poisoned?

Sadie. Mrs. Gabble says the vinegar was poisoned by Mr. Smith.

Mrs. G. Smith—vinegar—p'isoned! The land sakes! And I a good church member—and my washing—and poor Mr. Brown, tew. Well, I never! I'd have you to know that I bought no vinegar of Mr. Smith, I made my own.

Sadie. And your pickles were not poisoned?

Mrs. G. No, indeed. Never did such a thing in my life.

Sadie. O, dear! I'm so glad! (Jumping up.)

Bessie. I won't have the ipecac. (Rises.)

Jenny. My throat is decidedly better. (Rises.)

Enter JUNO with a pail of water and a dipper.

Juno. Bress my soul, de pump was fastened down so tight couldn't git it up. Here's a pail of water; if dat won't do I'll git a tub.

Miss P. No matter, Juno. I think 'twill not be needed. Young ladies, I am very sorry—

Sadie. Please, Miss Pease, do not speak of it. I alone am to blame for transgressing your command, for such we should consider it, as you are for the present our guardian. Forgive me, and in future I will endeavour to control my appetite, and comply with your wishes.

Mrs. G. Well, I declare, I don't see the harm in eating pickles. My girls eat their weight in 'em, and they're just as sweet-tempered as—

Miss P. Their mother. Mrs. Gabble, it is not a question of harm, but of obedience, here. You see, the young ladies accept me as their guardian, and I only forbid that which I think their parents would not approve.

Mrs. G. And there's my washing in the suds! Where's my Sis.

Enter SISSY GABBLE, L., with a large slice of bread, covered with molasses.

Sissy. Here I ith, mother. Mith Peath thed I might have thumthin, and I like bread, and 'latheth.

Juno. Bress my soul! dat are chile jest runnin' over with sweetness, sure for sartin.

Mrs. G. Yes; and the 'lasses running all over the clothes! Come, Sissy, let's go home. I'm sorry, Miss Pease, you don't like pickles; and I'm sorry, young ladies, they disagree with you. And I'm sorry, Miss Pease, I left my washing.

Miss P. Now don't be sorry at all, Mrs. Gabble. I'm always glad to see you. Your gift was well-intended, and the young ladies have suffered no harm, perhaps received a wholesome lesson.

Sadie. I think we have. I shall be very careful what I touch.

Jenny. O, dear! such a fright! I shall never get over it.

Bessie. O, Sadie, you thought it was so nice!

Jenny. Yes, such a Precious Pickle!

Mrs. G. Of course it was. My pickles are the best made in town—precious nice, I tell you. Mrs. Doolittle always sends in for 'em when she has company; and the minister says they're awful soothing arter sermon.

Sadie. O, certainly; I've no doubt of it. But I've found that stolen fruit is not the sweetest, and that mischievous fingers make trouble when they clutch what mine sought, and made a Precious Pickle.

[Curtain.]



MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

MORRIS.

After once reading this sweet little poem, the student will need no prompting to teach him that it is not possible for him to deliver it with too much genuine emotion:

This book is all that's left me now! Tears will unbidden start,— With faltering lip and throbbing brow, I press it to my heart. For many generations past, Here is our family tree; My mother's hand this Bible clasped; She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those Whose names those records bear, Who round the hearthstone used to close After the evening prayer, And speak of what these pages said, In tones my heart would thrill! Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters dear; How calm was my poor mother's look, Who learned God's word to hear. Her angel-face—I see it yet! What thronging memories come! Again that little group is met Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew, Thy constancy I've tried; Where all were false I found thee true, My counsellor and guide. The mines of earth no treasure give That could this volume buy: In teaching me the way to live, It taught me how to die.



ENLISTING AS ARMY NURSE.

LOUISA M. ALCOTT.

"I want something to do."—This remark being addressed to the world in general, no one in particular felt it his duty to reply; so I repeated it to the smaller world about me, received the following suggestions, and settled the matter by answering my own inquiry, as people are apt to do when very much in earnest.

"Write a book," quoth my father.

"Don't know enough, sir. First live, then write."

"Try teaching again," suggested my mother.

"No, thank you, ma'am; ten years of that is enough."

"Take a husband like my Darby, and fulfil your mission," said Sister Jane, home on a visit.

"Can't afford expensive luxuries, Mrs. Coobiddy."

"Turn actress, and immortalize your name," said Sister Vashti, striking an attitude.

"I won't."

"Go nurse the soldiers," said my young neighbor, Tom, panting for "the tented field."

"I will!"

Arriving at this satisfactory conclusion, the meeting adjourned; and the fact that Miss Tribulation was available as army nurse went abroad on the wings of the wind.

In a few days a townswoman heard of my desire, approved of it, and brought about an interview with one of the sisterhood I wished to join, who was at home on a furlough, and able and willing to satisfy inquiries.

A morning chat with Miss General S.—we hear no end of Mrs. Generals, why not a Miss?—produced three results: I felt that I could do the work, was offered a place, and accepted it; promising not to desert, but to stand ready to march on Washington at an hour's notice.

A few days were necessary for the letter containing my request and recommendation to reach head-quarters, and another, containing my commission, to return; therefore no time was to be lost; and, heartily thanking my pair of friends, I hurried home through the December slush, as if the Rebels were after me, and, like many another recruit, burst in upon my family with the announcement,—"I've enlisted!"

An impressive silence followed. Tom, the irrepressible, broke it with a slap on the shoulder and the grateful compliment,—"Old Trib, you're a trump!"

"Thank you; then I'll take something,"—which I did, in the shape of dinner, reeling off my news at the rate of three dozen words to a mouthful; and as every one else talked equally fast, and all together, the scene was most inspiring.

As boys going to sea immediately become nautical in speech, walk as if they already had their sea-legs on, and shiver their timbers on all possible occasions, so I turned military at once, called my dinner my rations, saluted all new-comers, and ordered a dress-parade that very afternoon.

Having reviewed every rag I possessed, I detailed some pieces for picket duty while airing on the fence; some to the sanitary influences of the wash-tub; others to mount guard in the trunk; while the weak and wounded went to the Work-basket Hospital, to be made ready for active service again.

To this squad I devoted myself for a week; but all was done, and I had time to get powerfully impatient before the letter came. It did arrive, however, and brought a disappointment along with its good-will and friendliness; for it told me that the place in the Armory Hospital that I supposed I was to take was already filled, and a much less desirable one at Hurly-burly House was offered instead.

"That's just your luck, Trib. I'll take your trunk up garret for you again; for of course you won't go," Tom remarked, with the disdainful pity which small boys affect when they get into their teens.

I was wavering in my secret soul; but that remark settled the matter, and I crushed him on the spot with martial brevity,—"It is now one; I shall march at six."

I have a confused recollection of spending the afternoon in pervading the house like an executive whirlwind, with my family swarming after me,—all working, talking, prophesying, and lamenting while I packed such of my things as I was to take with me, tumbled the rest into two big boxes, danced on the lids till they shut, and gave them in charge, with the direction,—"If I never come back, make a bonfire of them."

Then I choked down a cup of tea, generously salted instead of sugared by some agitated relative, shouldered my knapsack,—it was only a travelling-bag, but do let me preserve the unities,—hugged my family three times all round without a vestige of unmanly emotion, till a certain dear old lady broke down upon my neck, with a despairing sort of wail,—"O my dear, my dear! how can I let you go?"

"I'll stay, if you say so, mother."

"But I don't; go, and the Lord will take care of you."

Much of the Roman matron's courage had gone into the Yankee matron's composition, and, in spite of her tears, she would have sent ten sons to the war, had she possessed them, as freely as she sent one daughter, smiling and flapping on the door-step till I vanished, though the eyes that followed me were very dim, and the handkerchief she waved was very wet.

My transit from The Gables to the village depot was a funny mixture of good wishes and good-bys, mud-puddles and shopping. A December twilight is not the most cheering time to enter upon a somewhat perilous enterprise; but I'd no thought of giving out, O, bless you, no!

When the ingine screeched "Here we are!" I clutched my escort in a fervent embrace, and skipped into the car with as blithe a farewell as if going on a bridal tour,—though I believe brides don't usually wear cavernous black bonnets and fuzzy brown coats, with a hair-brush, a pair of rubbers, two books, and a bag of gingerbread distorting the pockets.

If I thought that people would believe it, I'd boldly state that I slept from C. to B., which would simplify matters immensely; but as I know they wouldn't, I'll confess that the head under the funereal coal-hod fermented with all manner of high thoughts and heroic purposes "to do or die,"—perhaps both; and the heart under the fuzzy brown coat felt very tender with the memory of the dear old lady, probably sobbing over her army socks and the loss of her topsy-turvy Trib.

At this juncture I took the veil, and what I did behind it is nobody's business; but I maintain that the soldier who cries when his mother says "Good by" is the boy to fight best, and die bravest, when the time comes, or go back to her better than he went.



ONLY SIXTEEN.

"When last seen, he was considerably intoxicated.... and was found dead in the highway."—Republican and Democrat of May 17.

Only sixteen, so the papers say, Yet there on the cold, stony ground he lay; 'Tis the same sad story we hear every day— He came to his death in the public highway. Full of promise, talent, and pride, Yet the rum fiend conquered him; so he died. Did not the angels weep over the scene? For he died a drunkard—and only sixteen, Only sixteen.

Oh! it were sad he must die all alone: That of all his friends, not even one Was there to list to his last faint moan, Or point the suffering soul to the throne Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son Would say, "Whosoever will may come." But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene, With his God we leave him—only sixteen. Only sixteen.

Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought: Witness the suffering and pain you have brought To the poor boy's friends. They loved him well, And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell That beclouded his brain, his reason dethroned, And left him to die out there all alone. What if 'twere your son instead of another? What if your wife were that poor boy's mother, And he only sixteen?

Ye free-holders who signed the petition to grant The license to sell, do you think you will want That record to meet in the last great day, When the earth and the heavens shall have passed away, When the elements, melted with fervent heat, Shall proclaim the triumph of RIGHT complete? Will you wish to have his blood on your hands When before the great throne you each shall stand, And he only sixteen?

Christian men! rouse ye to stand for the right, To action and duty; into the light Come with your banners, inscribed "Death to rum." Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come; Strike killing blows; hew to the line; Make it a felony even to sign A petition to license; you would do it, I ween, If that were your son, and "only sixteen," Only sixteen.

THE WATCHWORD.



THE GRIDIRON.

THE CAPTAIN, PATRICK, AND THE FRENCHMAN.

Patrick. Well, Captain, whereabouts in the wide world are we? Is it Roosia, Proosia, or the Jarmant oceant?

Captain. Tut, you fool; it's France.

Patrick. Tare and ouns! do you tell me so? and how do you know it's France, Captain dear?

Captain. Because we were on the coast of the Bay of Biscay when the vessel was wrecked.

Patrick. Throth, I was thinkin' so myself. And now, Captain jewel, it is I that wishes we had a gridiron.

Captain. Why, Patrick, what puts the notion of a gridiron into your head?

Patrick. Because I'm starving with hunger, Captain dear.

Captain. Surely you do not intend to eat a gridiron, do you?

Patrick. Ate a gridiron; bad luck to it! no. But if we had a gridiron, we could dress a beefsteak.

Captain. Yes; but where's the beefsteak, Patrick?

Patrick. Sure, couldn't we cut it off the pork?

Captain. I never thought of that. You are a clever fellow, Patrick. (Laughing.)

Patrick. There's many a thrue word said in joke, Captain. And now, if you will go and get the bit of pork that we saved from the rack, I'll go to the house there beyant, and ax some of them to lind me the loan of a gridiron.

Captain. But, Patrick, this is France, and they are all foreigners here.

Patrick. Well, and how do you know but I am as good a furriner myself as any o' them.

Captain. What do you mean, Patrick?

Patrick. Parley voo frongsay?

Captain. O, you understand French, then, is it?

Patrick. Throth, you may say that, Captain dear.

Captain. Well, Patrick, success to you. Be civil to the foreigners, and I'll be back with the pork in a minute. [He goes out.

Patrick. Ay, sure enough, I'll be civil to them; for the Frinch are always mighty p'lite intirely, and I'll show them I know what good manners is. Indade, and here comes munseer himself, quite convaynient. (As the Frenchman enters, Patrick takes off his hat, and making a low bow, says:) God save you, sir, and all your children. I beg your pardon for the liberty I take, but it's only being in disthress in regard of ateing, that I make bowld to trouble ye; and if you could lind me the loan of a gridiron, I'd be intirely obleeged to ye.

Frenchman (staring at him). Comment!

Patrick. Indade it's thrue for you. I'm tathered to paces, and God knows I look quare enough; but it's by rason of the storm that dhruve us ashore jist here, and we're all starvin'.

Frenchman. Je m'y t—(pronounced zhe meet).

Patrick. Oh! not at all! by no manes! we have plenty of mate ourselves, and we'll dhress it, if you be plased jist to lind us the loan of a gridiron, sir. (Making a low bow.)

Frenchman (staring at him, but not understanding a word.)

Patrick. I beg pardon, sir; but maybe I'm undher a mistake, but I thought I was in France, sir. An't you all furriners here? Parley voo frongsay?

Frenchman. Oui, monsieur.

Patrick. Then, would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, if you plase? (The Frenchman stares more than ever, as if anxious to understand.) I know it's a liberty I take, sir; but it's only in the regard of bein' cast away; and if you plase, sir, parley voo frongsay?

Frenchman. Oui, monsieur, oui.

Patrick. Then would you lind me the loan of a gridiron, sir and you'll obleege me?

Frenchman. Monsieur, pardon, monsieur—

Patrick. (Angrily). By my sowl, if it was you was in disthress, and if it was to owld Ireland you came, it's not only the gridiron they'd give you, if you axed it, but something to put on it too, and a dhrop of dhrink into the bargain. Can't you understand your own language? (Very slowly.) Parley—voo—frongsay—munseer?

Frenchman. Oui, monsieur; oui, monsieur, mais—

Patrick. Then lend me the loan of a gridiron, I say, and bad scram to you.

Frenchman (bowing and scraping). Monsieur, je ne l'entend—

Patrick. Phoo! the divil sweep yourself and your long tongs! I don't want a tongs at all, at all. Can't you listen to rason?

Frenchman. Oui, oui, monsieur: certainement, mais—

Patrick. Then lind me the loan of a gridiron, and howld your prate. (The Frenchman shakes his head, as if to say he did not understand; but Patrick, thinking he meant it as a refusal, says, in a passion:) Bad cess to the likes o' you! Throth, if you were in my counthry, it's not that-a-way they'd use you. The curse o' the crows on you, you owld sinner! The divil another word I'll say to you. (The Frenchman puts his hand on his heart, and tries to express compassion in his countenance.) Well, I'll give you one chance more, you old thafe! Are you a Christhian, at all, at all? Are you a furriner that all the world calls so p'lite? Bad luck to you! do you understand your mother tongue? Parley voo frongsay? (Very loud.) Parley voo frongsay?

Frenchman. Oui, monsieur, oui, oui.

Patrick. Then, thunder and turf! will you lind me the loan of a gridiron? (The Frenchman shakes his head, as if he did not understand; and Pat says, vehemently:) The curse of the hungry be on you, you owld negarly villian! the back of my hand and the sowl of my fut to you! May you want a gridiron yourself yet! and wherever I go, it's high and low, rich and poor, shall hear of it, and be hanged to you!



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

SAMUEL FERGUSON.

This fine poem is full of points for brilliant declamation; at times there should be a flow of rapid narration, rising frequently into shouts of exultation:

Come, see the good ship's anchor forged—'tis at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased—though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round; All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare— Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe! It rises, roars, rends all outright—O, Vulcan, what a glow: 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright—the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show; The roof-ribs swart, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing-monster slow Sinks on the anvil—all about the faces fiery grow.

"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out—leap out;" bang, bang the sledges go; Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low— A hailing fount of fire is struck at every quashing blow; The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow The ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flow And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load! Let's forge a goodly anchor—a bower thick and broad; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road— The low reef roaring on her lee—the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains! But courage still, brave mariners—the bower yet remains! And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky-high; Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing—here am I."

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time; Your blows make sweeter music far than any steeple's chime. But while you sling your sledges, sing—and let the burden be, "The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we:" Strike in, strike in—the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.

Our anchor must soon change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor must soon change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the "Yeo-heave-o'!" and the "Heave-away!" and the sighing seaman's cheer; When, weighing slow, at eve they go—far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cast was cast. O, trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!

O, broad-armed diver of the deep, whose sports can equal thine? The good ship weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line; And, night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play. O, lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, once leagued in patriot band! O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron sides would swell with pride; thou'dst leap within the sea!

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for love of father-land— Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard grave So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave— O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!



LORD DUNDREARY AT BRIGHTON.

AND THE RIDDLE HE MADE THERE.

One of the many popular delusions wespecting the Bwitish swell is the supposition that he leads an independent life,—goes to bed when he likes, gets up when he likes, d-dwesses how he likes, and dines when he pleases.

The public are gwossly deceived on this point. A weal swell is as m-much under authowity as a p-poor devil of a pwivate in the marines, a clerk in a government office, or a f-forth-form boy at Eton. Now I come under the demon—demonima—(no,—thop,—what is the word?)—dom—denom—d-denomination, that 'th it—I come under the d-denomination of a swell—(in—in fact—a howwid swell—some of my friends call me, but that'th only their flattewy), and I assure you a f-fellah in that capacity is so much westained by rules of f-fashion, that he can scarcely call his eyeglath his own. A swell, I take it, is a fellah who t-takes care that he swells as well as swells who swell as well as he, (there's thuch lot of thwelling in that thentence,—ha, ha!—it's what you might c-call a busting definition). What I mean is, that a f-fellah is obliged to do certain things at certain times of the year, whether he likes 'em or no. For instance, in the season I've got to go to a lot of balls and dwums and tea-fights in town, that I don't care a bit about, and show myself in the Park wegularly evewy afternoon; and latht month I had to victimize mythelf down in the countwy,—shooting (a bwutal sort of amusement, by the way). Well, about the end of October evewy one goes to Bwighton, n-no one knowth why,—that'th the betht of it,—and so I had to go too,—that's the wortht of it,—ha, ha!

Not that it's such a b-bad place after all,—I d-dare say if I hadn't had to go I should have gone all the same, for what is a f-fellah to do who ith n't much of a sportsman just about this time? There 'th n-nothing particular going on in London. Evewything is b-beathly dull; so I thought I would just run down on the Southeastern Wailway to be—ha, ha!—Bwightoned up a bit. (Come, th-that's not bad for an impromptu!)

B-Bwighton was invented in the year 1784, by his Woyal Highness George P-Pwince of Wales,—the author of the shoebuckle, the stand-up collar (a b-beathly inconvenient and cut-throat thort of a machine), and a lot of other exthploded things. He built the Pavilion down there, which looks like a lot of petrified onions from Bwobdinag clapped down upon a guard-house. There'th a jolly sort of garden attached to the building, in which the b-band plays twice a week, and evewy one turns in there about four o'clock, so I went too (n-not too o'clock, you know, but f-four o'clock). I—I'm vewy fond of m-martial music, mythelf. I like the dwums and the t-twombones, and the ophicleides, and all those sort of inshtwuments,—yeth, ethpethelly the bwass ones,—they're so vewy exthpiring, they are. Thtop though, ith it expiring or p-perthpiring?—n-neither of 'em sound quite right. Oh! I have it now, it—it's inthspiring,—that'th what it is, because the f-fellahs bweathe into them!

That weminds me of a widdle I made down there (I—I've taken to widdles lately, and weally it'th a vewy harmleth thort of a way of getting thwough the morning, and it amuthes two f-fellahs at onth, because if—if you athk a fellah a widdle, and he can't guess it, you can have a jolly good laugh at him, and—if he—if he doth guess it, he—I mean you—no—that is the widdle—stop, I—I'm getting confuthed,—where wath I? Oh! I know. If—if he doth guess it.... however it ithn't vewy likely he would—so what's the good of thupposing impwobabilities?) Well, thith was the widdle I made,—I thed to Sloper (Sloper's a fwiend of mine,—a vewy gook thort of fellah Sloper is,—I d-don't know exactly what his pwofession would be called, but hith uncle got him into a b-berth where he gets f-five hundred a year,—f-for doing nothing—s-somewhere—I forget where—but I—I know he does it),—I said to Sloper, "Why is that f-fellah with the b-bassooon l-like his own instrument?" and Sloper said, "How—how the dooth should I know?" (Ha, ha!—I thought he'd give it up!) So I said to Sloper, "Why, b-because they both get blown—in time!" You thee the joke, of course, but I don't think Sloper did, thomhow; all he thed was, "V-vewy mild, Dundreary,"—and t-tho—it was mild—thertainly, f-for October, but I d-don't thee why a f-fellah should go making wemarks about the weather instead of laughing at m-my widdle.

In this pwomenade that I was speaking of, you see such a lot of thtunning girls evewy afternoon,—dwessed twemendous swells, and looking like—yes, by Jove! l-like angels in cwinoline,—there 'th no other word for it. There are two or thwee always will l-laugh, somehow, when I meet them,—they do now weally. I—I almost fancy they wegard me with intewest. I mutht athk Sloper if he can get me an introduction. Who knowth? pwaps I might make an impwession,—I'll twy,—I—I've got a little converthathional power,—and theveral new wethcoats.

Bwighton is filling fast now. You see dwoves of ladies evewy day on horseback, widing about in all diwections. By the way, I—I muthn't forget to mention that I met those two girls that always laugh when they thee me, at a tea-fight. One of 'em—the young one—told me, when I was intwoduced to her,—in—in confidence, mind,—that she had often heard of me and of my widdles. Tho you thee I'm getting quite a weputathun that way. The other morning, at Mutton's, she wath ch-chaffing me again, and begging me to tell her the latetht thing in widdles. Now, I hadn't heard any mythelf for thome time, tho I couldn't give her any vewy great novelty, but a fwiend of mine made one latht theason which I thought wather neat, tho I athked her, When ith a jar not a jar? Thingularly enough, the moment she heard thith widdle she burtht out laughing behind her pocket-handkerchief!

"Good gwacious! what'th the matter?" said I. "Have you ever heard it before?"

"Never," she said emphatically, "in that form; do, please tell me the answer."

So I told her,—When it ith a door! Upon which she—she went off again in hystewics. I—I—I never did see such a girl for laughing. I know it's a good widdle, but I didn't think it would have such an effect as that.

By the way, Sloper told me afterwards that he thought he had heard the widdle before, somewhere, but it was put in a different way. He said it was: When ith a door not a door?—and the answer, When it ith ajar!

I—I've been thinking over the matter lately, and though I dare thay it—d-don't much matter which way the question is put, still—pwaps the last f-form is the betht. It—it seems to me to wead better. What do you think?

Now I weckomember, I made thuch a jolly widdle the other day on the Ethplanade. I thaw a fellah with a big New—Newfoundland dog, and he inthpired me—the dog, you know, not the fellah,—he wath a lunatic. I'm keeping the widdle, but I don't mind telling you.

Why does a dog waggle hith tail? Give it up? I think motht fellahs will give that up!

You thee, the dog waggles hith tail becauth the dog's stwonger than the tail. If he wath n't, the tail would waggle the dog!

Ye-th,—that 'th what I call a widdle. If I can only wecollect him, I thall athtonish those two girls thome of these days.



THE VOICES AT THE THRONE.

T. WESTWOOD.

A little child, A little meek-faced, quiet village child, Sat singing by her cottage door at eve A low, sweet sabbath song. No human ear Caught the faint melody,—no human eye Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile That wreathed her innocent lips while they breathed The oft-repeated burden of the hymn, "Praise God! Praise God!"

A seraph by the throne In full glory stood. With eager hand He smote the golden harp-string, till a flood Of harmony on the celestial air Welled forth, unceasing. There with a great voice, He sang the "Holy, holy evermore, Lord God Almighty!" and the eternal courts Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies, Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burned With vehement adoration.

Higher yet Rose the majestic anthem, without pause, Higher, with rich magnificence of sound, To its full strength; and still the infinite heavens Rang with the "Holy, holy evermore!" Till, trembling with excessive awe and love, Each sceptred spirit sank before the Throne With a mute hallelujah.

But even then, While the ecstatic song was at its height, Stole in an alien voice,—a voice that seemed To float, float upward from some world afar,— A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how sweet! That blended with the spirits' rushing strain, Even as a fountain's music, with the roll Of the reverberate thunder.

Loving smiles Lit up the beauty of each angel's face At that new utterance, smiles of joy that grew More joyous yet, as ever and anon Was heard the simple burden of the hymn, "Praise God! praise God!"

And when the seraph's song Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre Silence hung brooding,—when the eternal courts Rang with the echoes of his chant sublime, Still through the abysmal space that wandering voice Came floating upward from its world afar, Still murmured sweet on the celestial air, "Praise God! praise God!"



MY FRIEND'S SECRET.

I found my friend in his easy chair, With his heart and his head undisturbed by a care; The smoke of a Cuba outpoured from his lips, His face like the moon in a semi-eclipse; His feet, in slippers, as high as his nose, And his chair tilted back to a classical pose.

I marvelled much such contentment to see— The secret whereof I begged he'd give me. He puffed away with re-animate zest, As though with an added jollity blest. "I'll tell you, my friend," said he, in a pause, "What is the very 'identical' cause.

"Don't fret!—Let this be the first rule of your life;— Don't fret with your children, don't fret with your wife; Let everything happen as happen it may, Be cool as a cucumber every day; If favourite of fortune or a thing of its spite, Keep calm, and believe that all is just right.

"If you're blown up abroad or scolded at home, Just make up your mind to let it all come: If people revile you or pile on offence, 'Twill not make any odds a century hence. For all the reviling that malice can fling, A little philosophy softens the sting.

"Run never in debt, but pay as you go; A man free from debt feels a heaven below; He rests in a sunshine undimmed by a dun, And ranks 'mid the favoured as A No. 1. It needs a great effort the spirit to brace 'Gainst the terror that dwells in a creditor's face.

"And this one resolve you should cherish like gold, —It has ever my life and endeavour controlled,— If fortune assail, and worst comes to worst, And business proves bad, its bubbles all burst, Be resolved, if disaster your plans circumvent, That you will, if you fail, owe no man a cent."

There was Bunsby's deep wisdom revealed in his tone, Though its depth was hard to fathom I own; "For how can I fail," I said to myself, "If to pay all my debts I have enough pelf?" Then I scratched my sinciput, battling for light, But gave up the effort, supposing 'twas right; And herein give out, as my earnest intent, Whenever I fail to owe no man a cent.



VAIN REGRETS.

A seedy old beggar asked alms of me As he sat 'neath the shade of a wayside tree. He was beggared in purse and beggared in soul, And his voice betrayed a pitiful dole, As he sang a song, to a dismal pitch, With the burden, "IF THINGS WAS ONLY SICH!"

"If things was only sich," said he, "You should see what a wonderful man I'd be; No beggar I, by the wayside thrown, But I'd live in a palace and millions own, And men would court me if I were rich— As I'd be if things was only sich."

"If things was only sich," said he, "I'd be lord of the land and lord of the sea; I would have a throne and be a king, And rule the roast with a mighty swing— I'd make a place in Fame's bright niche; I'd do it if things was only sich."

"If things was only sich," said he, "Rare wines I'd quaff from the far countree, I'd cloth myself in dazzling garb, I'd mount the back of the costly barb, And none should ask me wherefore or which— Did it chance that things was only sich."

"If things was only sich," said he, "I'd love the fairest and they'd love me; Yon dame, with a smile that warms my heart, Might have borne with me life's better part, But lost to me, here in poverty's ditch, What were mine if things was only sich."

Thus the old beggar moodily sung, And his eyes dropped tears as his hands he wrung. I could but pity to hear him berate, In dolorous tones the decrees of Fate, That laid on his back its iron switch, While he cried, "If things was only sich."

"If things was only sich!"—e'en all Might the past in sad review recall; But little the use and little the gain, Exhuming the bones of buried pain, And whether we're poor or whether we're rich, We'll say not, "If things was only sich."



ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.

E.L. BEERS.

The opening verses should be given in a low, almost plaintive tone; when the flag is seen, the exclamations should be ejaculated with spirit and rapturous delight. Care should be taken not to give the negro patois too broad, or it may prove a defect; where properly spoken it is really a beauty:

"Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey In the sunshine bright and strong, For this world is fading, Pompey— Massa won't be with you long; And I fain would hear the south wind Bring once more the sound to me, Of the wavelets softly breaking On the shores of Tennessee.

"Mournful though the ripples murmur As they still the story tell, How no vessels float the banner That I've loved so long and well. I shall listen to their music, Dreaming that again I see Stars and stripes on sloop and shallop Sailing up the Tennessee;

"And, Pompey, while old Massa's waiting For Death's last dispatch to come, If that exiled starry banner Should come proudly sailing home. You shall greet it slave no longer— Voice and hand shall both be free That shout and point to Union colors On the waves of Tennessee."

"Massa's berry kind to Pompey; But old darkey's happy here. Where he's tended corn and cotton For dese many a long gone year. Over yonder, Missis' sleeping— No one tends her grave like me: Mebbe she would miss the flowers She used to love in Tennessee.

"'Pears like, she was watching Massa— If Pompey should beside him stay, Mebbe she'd remember better How for him she used to pray; Telling him that way up yonder White as snow his soul would be, If he served the Lord of Heaven While he lived in Tennessee."

Silently the tears were rolling Down the poor old dusky face, As he stepped behind his master, In his long-accustomed place. Then a silence fell around them, As they gazed on rock and tree Pictured in the placid waters Of the rolling Tennessee;—

Master, dreaming of the battle Where he fought by Marion's side, When he bid the haughty Tarleton Stoop his lordly crest of pride;— Man, remembering how yon sleeper Once he held upon his knee, Ere she loved the gallant soldier, Ralph Vervair of Tennessee.

Still the south wind fondly lingers 'Mid the veteran's silver hair; Still the bondman close beside him Stands behind the old arm-chair, With his dark-hued hand uplifted, Shading eyes, he bends to see Where the woodland, boldly jutting, Turns aside the Tennessee.

Thus he watches cloud-born shadows Glide from tree to mountain-crest, Softly creeping, aye and ever To the river's yielding breast. Ha! above the foliage yonder Something flutters wild and free "Massa! Massa! Hallelujah! The flag's come back to Tennessee!"

"Pompey, hold me on your shoulder, Help me stand on foot once more, That I may salute the colors As they pass my cabin door. Here's the paper signed that frees you, Give a freeman's shout with me— 'God and Union!' be our watchword Evermore in Tennessee!"

Then the trembling voice grew fainter, And the legs refused to stand; One prayer to Jesus—and the soldier Glided to the better land. When the flag went down the river Man and master both were free; While the ring-dove's note was mingled With the rippling Tennessee.



THE BLACK REGIMENT. PORT HUDSON.

MAY 27, 1863.

GEO. H. BOKER.

Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land;— So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event Stands the black regiment.

Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam and eye-balls shine, And the bright bayonet, Bristling, and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long, ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment.

"Now," the flag-sergeant cried, "Though death and hell betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down, like the whining hound,— Bound with red stripes of pain In our cold chains again!" Oh! what a shout there went From the black regiment!

"Charge!" trump and drum awoke, Onward the bondmen broke: Bayonet and sabre stroke Vainly opposed their rush. Through the wild battle's crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the guns' mouths they laugh; Or at the slippery brands Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course; Trampling with bloody heel Over the crashing steel, All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the black regiment.

"Freedom!" their battle-cry,— "Freedom! or learn to die!" Ah! and they meant the word, Not as with us 'tis heard, Not a mere party shout: They gave their spirits out; Trusted the end to God, And on the glory sod Rolled in triumphant blood. Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe; Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death, Praying—alas! in vain!— That they might fall again, So they could once more see That burst to liberty! This was what "freedom" lent To the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well; Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. O, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true! Hail them as comrades tried; Fight with them side by side; Never in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment.



THE THIEF OF TIME.

CHARACTERS.

JOHN RAY, } CHARLEY CHEERFUL, } School-boys. RALPH READY, } MR. HANKS, a Deaf Gentleman. JOHN CLOD, a Countryman. PATSY FLINN, an Irishman.

SCENE.—A Quiet Place in the Country.

Enter RALPH READY, R., with School-books.

Ralph. Twenty minutes of nine. I can take it easy this morning. How glad I am I staid at home last night and studied "Spartacus." It's Declamation Day, and I want to win the highest mark. If I fail, it will not be for want of study. I believe I'm all right. (Declaims.)

"Ye call me Chief—"[1]

[Footnote 1: The dialogue can be lengthened, if necessary, by allowing Charley and Ralph to declaim the whole of their pieces.]

Enter CHARLEY CHEERFUL, L.

Charley. (Clapping his hands.) Bravo! Bravo! Spartacus. "They do well to call you chief!" number one in arithmetic, history, and geography; and to-day I've no doubt we shall call you number one in declamation.

Ralph. Ah, Charley, glad to see you. Are you all ready for the contest?

Charley. Yes, Ralph. (Declaims.)

"Again to the battle, Achaians; Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance."

Ralph. I see "a foeman worthy of my steel." Well, Charley, good luck to you.

Charley. The same to you. I believe we are about equally matched. I want to take the highest mark, but if I am to be defeated, there's no one to whom I'd sooner surrender the "victor's laurels" than to you.

Ralph. And I can heartily say the same of you; but we must both look out. John Ray told the boys yesterday he was bound to have the highest mark.

Charley. I don't fear him.

Ralph. But he's a good declaimer, Charley.

Charley. I'll acknowledge that; but you know he's a terrible fellow for putting off study until the last moment. It was only yesterday morning Master Jones decided to have declamation to-day. The only time we had to prepare was yesterday noon, last night, and this morning.

Ralph. Time enough, Charley.

Charley. Certainly. But I know John Ray hasn't employed it. Yesterday noon he went boating; last night I'm afraid he visited Hopkins's melon patch; and this morning I saw him from my window playing ball.

Ralph. Then we've not much to fear from him; but here he is, puffing like a porpoise.

Enter JOHN RAY, L., with a book.

John. Hallo, boys! what's the time?

Charley. Eighteen minutes of nine. All ready for the declamation?

John. Not yet; there's time enough.

Ralph. Time enough! What have you selected?

John. "Tell's Address." I'm going to pitch into it now. I can do it in eighteen minutes.

Charley. Why, you haven't left it till now?

John. Of course I have. Time enough, I tell you. I've got a locomotive memory, you know. None of your slow coaches. I shall only have to read it over two or three times.

Ralph. But why didn't you take it up before?

John. What's the use? I went boating yesterday; and last night I went—somewhere else.

Charley. Yes! you took a meloncholy walk. Hey, John?

John. What do you mean by that?

Charley. No matter. You'd better study Tell's Address, if you expect to be ready by nine o'clock.

John. So I had. Well, you run along, and let me have this place to myself. It's a quiet place. So good by. I'll see you by nine o'clock, with Tell's Address perfect.

Charley. Well, good luck to you. Come Ralph.

Ralph. I say, Ray; what's the proverb about the "thief of time"?

John. Who do you call a thief?

Ralph. A slow coach, that will rob you of your laurels spite of your locomotive memory. Come along Charley. [Exeunt CHARLEY and RALPH R.

John. Now, who told them I was after melons last night. (Opens book.) "Tell's Address." Won't I astonish those lads! What's the use of wasting time in study before it's needed? (Reads.)

"Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again."

Enter MR. HANKS, L.

Mr. Hanks. Look here, boy; where's Mr. Simmons's house?

John. O, bother! Over by the mill.

Mr. H. Hey?

John. Over by the mill.

Mr. H. Over that hill? Good gracious! You don't mean I've got to travel as far as that, do you, in the hot sun?

John. No, no; it's only a little ways.

Mr. H. Only a little blaze! It's an awful hot morning.

John. O, dear! this old fellow is as deaf as a post. (Very loud.) Mr.—Simmons—lives—down—by—the—mill.

Mr. H. O, he does! Why didn't you say so before? Down that way? (Points R.)

John. (Loud.) Yes! To—the—right! That—old—wooden—one—ahead!

Mr. H. Who do you call an old wooden head?

John. O, dear! I never shall get that piece. You don't understand. I—said—wooden—house.

Mr. H. Hey?

John. O, dear! O, dear! (Points R.) That's Mr. Simmons's—house—down—there!

Mr. H. O, yes. Thank you, thank you. I'm a little hard of hearing.

John. I see you are. Suffering from a cold?

Mr. H. Hey?

John. O, what a nuisance! Is it—from a cold you—suffer?

Mr. H. Old buffer, indeed! Be more respectful to your elders, young man; more respectful.

[Exit, R.

John. I've got rid of him at last, and five minutes gone. O, dear! (Reads.)

"Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!"

Enter MR. HANKS, R.

Mr. H. Did you say right or left?

John. Good gracious! the man's back! To—the right! To the right! Follow the stream.

Mr. H. Hey?

John. Follow—the—stream—as—it—flows.

Mr. H. Follow my nose! You're an impudent scamp! I'll ask you no more questions. [Exit, R.

John. I hope you won't. This comes of trying to do a good-natured act. O, dear! that address! (Reads.)

"Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!"

Enter JOHN CLOD, L.

Clod. I say, sonny; yer hain't seen nothin' of a keow, have yer, here or hereabouts?

John. No, I haven't seen no cow.

Clod. Well, don't git mad. It's plaguy strange where that are keow has travelled tew. Brand new keow dad brought hum from market yesterday. What on airth shall I do? She's a brindle, short horns. Yeou hain't seen her?

John. No, I haven't seen her. I've seen no cows or cattle of any kind. It's no use stopping here.

Clod. Well, I dunno what's to be did. Marm, she dropped her bakin', and scooted one way; dad quit ploughin', and scooted another; and I've been scootin' every which way. Ain't heard a keow moo—mooing, have yer?

John. I don't believe there's a cow within forty miles of here.

Clod. Sho! yer jokin' neow. Neow, see here; I kinder think yeou dew know somethin' about that keow. Jest tell me where she is, and I don't mind ginning yer fo'pence.

John. I tell you again, I know nothing about your cow. I'm studing my lesson; and if you don't clear out and leave me in peace, I shall never get it.

Clod. Sho! Well, I don't want to hender ye, but I should like to know what's become of that are keow. [Exit, R.

John. Gone at last. Was ever a fellow so plagued! I've only got eight minutes, and I must study. (Goes to back of stage, and walks up and down, studying.)

Enter PATSY FLINN, L.

Patsy. Begorra, it's a foine irrant I's on ony way. It's all along iv thim watthermillons, bad luck to 'em! Slaping swately on my bid last night thinking uv the bould b'ys that fit, blid, and run away from Canady, I heerd a v'ice in the millon patch, "Here's a bouncer, b'ys." Faix, didn't I lept out uv that bid, and didn't I hurry on my clo'es, and didn't I take a big shtick, and didn't I run fur the patch, and didn't I find nobody? To be sure I did! So this morning, Mr. Hopkins sinds me to the school-house to find the b'ys that invadid the sacred retrait, which is the millon-patch. But how will I find thim? Begorra, I should know that v'ice; and I'll make the whole school shtand up togither one by one and shout, "Here's a bouncer!" that I will.

John. (Coming down R. of stage.) Now let's see how much I know. (Declaims.)

"Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!"

Patsy. By my sowl, that's the v'ice of my dr'ams!

John. "I hold to you the hands you first beheld, To show they still are free."

Patsy. Fray, is it, begorra! Ye'll not hould thim long, me b'y!

John. "Methinks I hear A spirit in your echoes answer me."

Patsy. Begorra, ye'll soon hear an Irish echo ax ye something else!

John. "And bid your tenant welcome to his home again!"

Patsy. Begorra, you're wilcome to no more watermillons, ye'll find!

John. "Ye guards of Liberty!"

Patsy. Ye little blackguard!

John. "I'm with you once again! I hold my hands to you, To show they still are free!"

Patsy. Begorra, they're stained with watermillons, sure!

John. "I rush to you, As though I could embrace you!"

(Runs into PATSY'S arms.)

Patsy. Come on, I'm waiting for you! O, you blackguard! O, yes spalpeen! I've got yes!

John. Who are you? What do you want? Let me go!

Patsy. Niver! Ye must go along wid me, my fine lad; there's a bill a waiting for you at farmer Hopkins's.

John. Farmer Hopkins! But I shall be late for school.

Patsy. O, niver mind the school. You'll get a little uv it there, from a nice big cowhide.

John. Let me go, I say!

Patsy. Quit your howling, and come along.

John. I won't. Help! Help! Help!

Enter CHARLEY and RALPH, R.

Charley. What's the matter, Ray?

Ralph. Hallo, Patsy! What's to pay now?

Patsy. A small bill for watermillons, Master Ralph.

Ralph. O, I see; you're found out, Ray!

John. Well, I wan't the only one in the patch last night.

Ralph. But you're the only one found out; so you must take the consequences.

Charley. Master Jones sent us to look for you; it's five minutes after nine.

John. O, dear, what's to become of me!

Ralph. You must get to school at once. Patsy, I'll be answerable for John Ray's appearance at Farmer Hopkins's after school. Won't that do?

Patsy. To be sure it will. I can depind upon you, Master Ralph. But mind and cape an eye on that chap; fur it's my opinion he's a little cracked; he's bin ravin' about crags, and peaks, and liberty like a full-blooded Fenian. I'll go home and practise a bit wid that cowhide. [Exit, L.

Charley. Well, John, got your piece?

John. Got my piece? No. I've been bothered to death!

Ralph. You've been keeping company with the "thief of time."

John. I'd like to know what you mean by that.

Ralph. I'll tell you. You should have studied your piece yesterday noon; but, instead of that, you went boating. You should have studied last night; but instead of that, you got into a scrape, which promises to make trouble for you; and this morning you played ball instead of taking time for your work.

John. Well, I meant to have studied it yesterday, but I thought I had plenty of time. I wanted a little recreation.

Charley. Yes, John; but you should look out for the lessons first, and not neglect them. Come, let's go to school.

John. And be at the foot of the class. I don't like this.

Ralph. You'll find a remedy for it in the copy-book.

John. What is it?

Ralph. A warning to the dilatory—"Procrastination is the thief of time."

[Exeunt, R.



THE RAIN-DROPS.

T.H. EVANS.

A farmer had a field of corn of rather large extent, In tending which, with anxious care, much time and toil he spent; But after working long and hard, he saw, with grief and pain, His corn began to droop and fade, because it wanted rain.

So sad and restless was his mind, at home he could not stop, But to his field repaired each day to view his withering crop. One day, when he stood looking up, despairing, at the sky, Two little rain-drops in the clouds his sad face chanced to spy.

"I very sorry feel," said one, "to see him look so sad; I wish I could do him some good; indeed, I should be glad. Just see the trouble he has had; and if it should not rain, Why, all his toil, and time, and care he will have spent in vain."

"What use are you," cried number two, "to water so much ground? You're nothing but a drop of rain, and could not wet one mound." "What you have said," his friend replied, "I know is very true; But I'm resolved to do my best, and more I cannot do.

I'll try to cheer his heart a bit: so now I'm off—here goes!" And down the little rain-drop fell upon the farmer's nose. "Whatever's that?" the farmer cried. "Was it a drop of rain? I do believe it's come at last; I have not watched in vain."

Now, when the second rain-drop saw his willing friend depart, Said he, "I'll go as well, and try to cheer the farmer's heart." But many rain-drops by this time had been attracted out, To see and hear what their two friends were talking so about.

"We'll go as well," a number cried, "as our two friends have gone. We shall not only cheer his heart, but water, too, his corn. We're off! we're off!" they shout with glee, and down they fell so fast. "O bless the Lord!" the farmer cried, "the rain has come at last."

The corn it grew and ripened well, and into food was dressed, Because a little rain-drop said, "I'll try, and do my best." This little lesson, children dear, you'll not forget I'm sure; Try, do your best, do what you can—angels can do no more.



THE SCOLDING OLD DAME.

There once was a toper—I'll not tell his name— Who had for his comfort a scolding old dame; And often and often he wished himself dead, For, if drunk he came home, she would beat him to bed. He spent all his evenings away from his home, And, when he returned, he would sneakingly come And try to walk straightly, and say not a word— Just to keep his dear wife from abusing her lord; For if he dared say his tongue was his own, 'Twould set her tongue going, in no gentle tone, And she'd huff him, and cuff him, and call him hard names, And he'd sigh to be rid of all scolding old dames.

It happened, one night, on a frolic he went, He stayed till his very last penny was spent; But how to go home, and get safely to bed, Was the thing on his heart that most heavily weighed. But home he must go; so he caught up his hat, And off he went singing, by this and by that, "I'll pluck up my courage; I guess she's in bed. If she a'nt, 'tis no matter, I'm sure. Who's afraid?" He came to his door; he lingered until He peeped, and he listened, and all seemed quite still, In he went, and his wife, sure enough, was in bed! "Oh!" says he, "it's just as I thought. Who's afraid?"

He crept about softly, and spoke not a word; His wife seemed to sleep, for she never e'en stirred! Thought he, "For this night, then, my fortune is made: For my dear, scolding wife is asleep! Who's afraid?" But soon he felt thirsty; and slyly he rose, And, groping around, to the table he goes, The pitcher found empty, and so was the bowl, The pail, and the tumblers—she'd emptied the whole! At length, in a corner, a vessel he found! Says he, "Here's something to drink, I'll be bound!" And eagerly seizing, he lifted it up— And drank it all off in one long, hearty sup!

It tasted so queerly; and what could it be? He wondered. It neither was water nor tea! Just then a thought struck him and filled him with fear: "Oh! it must be the poison for rats, I declare!" And loudly he called on his dear, sleeping wife, And begged her to rise; "for," said he, "on my life I fear it was poison the bowl did contain. Oh dear! yes, it was poison; I now feel the pain!" "And what made you dry, sir?" the wife sharply cried. "'Twould serve you just right if from poison you died; And you've done a fine job, and you'd now better march, For just see, you brute, you have drunk all my starch!"



THE GREEN GOOSE.

Mr. Bogardus "gin a treat," And a green goose, best of birds to eat, Delicious, savory, fat and sweet, Formed the dish the guests to greet; But such, we know, Is small for a "blow," And many times around won't go; So Mr. Bogardus chanced to reflect, And with a wisdom circumspect, He sent round cards to parties select, Some six or so the goose to dissect, The day and hour defining; And then he laid in lots of things, That might have served as food for kings, Liquors drawn from their primal springs, And all that grateful comfort brings To epicures in dining.

But Mr. Bogardus's brother Sim, With moral qualities rather dim, Copied the message sent to him, In his most clerkly writing, And sent it round to Tom, and Dick, And Harry, and Jack, and Frank, and Nick, And many more, to the green goose "pick" Most earnestly inviting; He laid it on the green goose thick, Their appetites exciting.

'Twas dinner time by the Old South Clock; Bogardus waited the sounding knock Of friends to come at the moment, "chock," To try his goose, his game, his hock, And hoped they would not dally; When one, and two, and three, and four, And running up the scale to a score, And adding to it many more, Who all their Sunday fixings wore, Came in procession to the door, And crowded in on his parlor floor, Filling him with confusion sore, Like an after-election rally!

"Gentlemen," then murmured he, "To what unhoped contingency Am I owing for this felicity, A visit thus unexpected?" Then they held their cards before his eyes, And he saw, to his infinite surprise, That some sad dog had taken a rise On him, and his hungry friends likewise, And whom he half suspected; But there was Sim, Of morals dim, With a face as long, and dull, and grim, As though he the ire reflected.

Then forth the big procession went, With mirth and anger equally blent; To think they didn't get the scent Of what the cursed missive meant Annoyed some of 'em deeply; They felt they'd been caught by a green goose bait, And plucked and skinned, and then, light weight, Had been sold very cheaply.

MORAL.

Keep your weather eye peeled for trap, For we never know just what may hap, Nor if we shall be winners; Remembering that one green goose Will be of very little use 'Mongst twenty hungry sinners.



MIGRATORY BONES,[2]

SHOWING THE VAGABONDISH TENDENCY OF BONES THAT ARE LOOSE.

We all have heard of Dr. Redman, The man in New York who deals with dead men, Who sits at a table, And straightway is able To talk with the spirits of those who have fled, man! And gentles and ladies Located in Hades, Through his miraculous mediation, Declare how they feel, And such things reveal As suits their genius for impartation. 'Tis not with any irreverent spirit I give the tale, or flout it, or jeer it; For many good folk Not subject to joke Declare for the fact that they both see and hear it. It comes from New York, though, And it might be hard work, though, To bring belief to any point near it.

Now this Dr. Redman, Who deals with dead men, Once cut up a fellow whose spirit had fled, man, Who (the fellow) perchance Had indulged in that dance Performed at the end of a hempen thread, man; And the cut-up one, (A sort of a gun!) Like Banquo, though he was dead, wasn't done, Insisted in very positive tones That he'd be ground to calcined manure, Or any other evil endure, Before he'd give up his right to his bones! And then, through knocks, the resolute dead man Gave his bones a bequest to Redman. In Hartford, Conn., This matter was done, And Redman the bones highly thought on, When, changed to New York Was the scene of his work, In conjunction with Dr. Orton.

Now mark the wonder that here appears: After a season of months and years, Comes up again the dead man, Who in a very practical way, Says he'll bring his bones some day, And give them again to Redman. When, sure enough (Though some that are rough Might call the narrative "devilish tough"), One charming day In the month of May, As Orton and Redman walked the street Through the severing air, From they knew not where, Came a positive bone, all bleached and bare. That dropped at the doctor's wondering feet!

Then the sprightly dead man Knocked out to Redman The plan that lay in his ghostly head, man: He'd carry the freight, Unheeding its weight; They needn't question how, or about it; But they might be sure The bones he'd procure And not make any great bones about it. From that he made it a special point Each day for their larder to furnish a joint!

From overhead, and from all around, Upon the floor, and upon the ground, Pell-mell, Down fell Low bones, and high bones, Jaw bones, and thigh bones, Until the doctors, beneath their power, Ducked like ducks in a thunder-shower! Armfuls of bones, Bagfuls of bones, Cartloads of bones, No end to the multitudinous bones, Until, forsooth, this thought gained head, man, That this invisible friend, the dead man, Had chartered a band From the shadowy land, Who had turned to work with a busy hand, And boned all their bones for Dr. Redman!

Now, how to account for all the mystery Of this same weird and fantastical history? That is the question For people's digestion, And calls aloud for instant untwistery! Of this we are certain, By this lift of the curtain, That still they're alive for work or enjoyment, Though I must confess That I scarcely can guess Why they don't choose some useful employment.

[Footnote 2: Dr. Redman, of New York, was a noted medium, and it was said that, for a while, wherever he might be, bones would be dropped all about him, to the confusion and wonder of everybody. These bones, he said, were brought him by a spirit, whose bones were of no further use to him.]



THE RED CHIGNON.

(FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY.)

CHARACTERS.

MISS PRISCILLA PRECISE, { Principal of a genteel Boarding { School for Young Ladies.

HETTY GRAY, } FANNY RICE, } Pupils. LIZZIE BOND, } HANNAH JONES, } MRS. LOFTY, a fashionable Lady.

SCENE.—Parlor in MISS PRECISE'S Establishment.

Piano R., Lounge L., Chairs C.

Enter HETTY, FANNY, and LIZZIE, R., laughing.

Hetty. O, such a fright!

Fanny. Such a stupid!

Lizzie. I never saw such a ridiculous figure in the whole course of my life!

Hetty. I should think she came from the back-woods.

Fanny. Who is she, any way?

Lizzie. She's the daughter of the rich Mr. Jones, a man, who, three years ago, was the proprietor of a very small saw-mill away down east. He managed to scrape together a little money, which he invested in certain railroad stocks, which nobody thought would ever pay. They did, however, and he has, no doubt to his own astonishment, made a great deal of money.

Hetty. And that accounts for Miss Precise's partiality. Well, I'm not going to associate myself with her; and I mean to write to father this very day, and tell him to take me home. She dresses so ridiculously!

Lizzie. And talks so horridly!

Fanny. And plays so wretchedly!

Hetty. O, girls, don't you think I caught her at the piano this morning playing Yankee Doodle and whistling an accompaniment!

Fanny. Whistling!

Lizzie. Good gracious! what would Miss Precise say. If there's anything she forbids, it's whistling.

Hetty. Yes, and such a reader! I heard her reciting Longfellow's Excelsior; and such reading, and such gestures! (Recites.)

"The shades of night were falling fast, As through an All-pine village past—"

(All laugh.)

Fanny. O, it's ridiculous!

Lizzie. And then her dress! O, girls, I've made a discovery!

Fanny. What is it? What is it?

Hetty. O, do tell us!

Lizzie. Well, then, you must be secret.

Fanny and Hetty. Of course, of course!

Lizzie. Well, yesterday, at just twelve o'clock, I was in the hall; the door-bell rang; I opened it; there was a box for Miss Hannah Jones; I took it; I carried it to her room; I opened—

Fanny and Hetty. The box?

Lizzie. The door; she wasn't there. I put it on the table; it slipped off; the cover rolled off; and such a sight!

Fanny. What was it?

Hetty. O, do tell us!

Lizzie. Four—great—red—

Fanny and Hetty. What? What?

Lizzie. Chignons!

Hetty. Chignons? Why, Miss Precise has forbidden our wearing them.

Fanny. O, it's horrible!

Lizzie. Ain't it? And I did want one so bad!

Hetty. But she cannot wear them.

Lizzie. We shall see! Now comes Miss Precise's trial. She has taken Hannah Jones because her father is rich. She worships money; but if there is anything she hates, it is chignons. If she can stand this test, it will be the best thing in the world for us. Then we'll all have them.

Hetty. Of course we will.

Fanny. But I don't like the idea of having such an interloper here. She's no company for us.

Enter MISS PRECISE, L. She stands behind the Girls with folded arms.

Hetty. Indeed she isn't! I think Miss Precise is real mean to allow her to stay.

Lizzie. She'd better go where she belongs,—among the barbarians!

Miss Precise. And pray, whom are you consigning to a place among the barbarians, young ladies?

Hetty. Good gracious!

Fanny. O, dear! O, dear!

Lizzie. O, who'd have thought!

(They separate, HETTY and FANNY, L., LIZZIE, R., MISS PRECISE, C.)

Miss P. Speak, young ladies; upon whom has your dread anathema been bestowed?

Lizzie. Well, Miss Precise, if I must tell, it's that hateful new pupil, Miss Jones. I detest her.

Fanny. I can't abide her.

Hetty. She's horrible!

Lizzie. So awkward!

Fanny. Talks so badly!

Hetty. And dresses so ridiculously!

Lizzie. If she stays here, I shan't!

Fanny. Nor I.

Hetty. Nor I.

Miss P. Young ladies, are you pupils of the finest finishing-school in the city? Are you being nursed at the fount of learning? Are you being led in the paths of literature by my fostering hands?

Lizzie. Don't know. S'pose so.

Miss P. S'pose so! What language! S'pose so! Is this the fruit of my teaching? Young ladies, I blush for you!—you, who should be the patterns of propriety! Let me hear no more of this. Miss Jones is the daughter of one of the richest men in the city, and, as such, she should be respected by you.

Lizzie. She's a low, ignorant girl.

Miss P. Miss Bond!

Hetty. With arms like a windmill.

Miss P. Miss Gray!

Fanny. A voice like a peacock.

Miss P. Miss Rice!

Hetty, Lizzie, and Fanny. O, she's awful!

Miss P. Young ladies! I'm astonished! I'm shocked! I'm thunderstruck! Miss Jones is my pupil. She is your associate. As such, you will respect her. Let me hear no more of this. Go to your studies. I highly respect Miss Jones. Imitate her. She's not given to conspiracies. She's not forever gossiping. Be like her, and you will deserve my respect. To your studies. Miss Jones is a model for your imitation. [Exit, L.

Hetty. Did you ever!

Fanny. No, I never!

Lizzie. A model for imitation! Girls, we'll have some fun out of this. Imitate Miss Jones! I only hope she'll put on one of her chignons. [Exeunt.

Enter HANNAH JONES, R., extravagantly dressed, with a red chignon, followed by MRS. LOFTY.

Hannah. Come right in, marm; this is our setting-room, where we receive callers. Take a seat.

(MRS. LOFTY sits on lounge.)

Mrs. Lofty. Will you please call your mistress at once?

Hannah. My mistress? Law, neow, I s'pose yeou take me for a hired gal. Yeou make me laugh! Why, my pa's richer than all the rest of 'em's pas put together. I deon't look quite so scrumptious as the rest o 'em, p'r'aps, but I'm one of the scholars here.

Mrs. L. I beg your pardon. No offence was intended.

Hannah. Law, I don't mind it. Yeou see our folks come from deown east, and we haven't quite got the hang of rich folks yit. That's why I'm here to git polished up. Miss Precise is the schoolmarm, but she's so stiff, I don't expect she'll make much of me. I do hate airs. She makes the girls tend tu door, because she's too poor to keep help.

Mrs. L. Will you please speak to her? I have not much time to spare, as this is my charity day.

Hannah. Charity day! Pray, what's that?

Mrs. L. I devote one day in the week to visiting poor people, and doing what I can to alleviate their misfortunes.

Hannah. Well, marm, that's real clever in you. I do like to see rich folks look arter the poor ones. Won't you please to let me help you? I don't know the way among the poor yit, but I'm going to find out. Here's my pocket-book; there's lots uv money in it; and if you'll take and use it for the poor folks, I'll be obleeged. (Gives pocket-book.)

Mrs. L. O, thank you, thank you! you are very kind; I will use it, for I know just where it is needed. Can you really spare it?

Hannah. Spare it? Of course I can. I know where to git lots more; and my pa says, 'What's the use of having money, if you don't do good with it?' Law, I forgot all about Miss Precise. You just make yourself to home, and I'll call her. [Exit, L.

Mrs. L. A rough diamond. She has a kind heart. I hope she'll not be spoiled in the hands of Miss Precise. (Opens pocket-book.) What a roll of bills! I must speak to Miss Precise before I use her money. She may not be at liberty to dispose of it in this wholesale manner.

Enter MISS PRECISE, L.

Miss P. My dear Mrs. Lofty, I hope I have not kept you waiting. (Shakes hands with her, then sits in chair, C.)

Mrs. L. O, no; though I'm in something of a hurry. I called to ask you if you could take my daughter as a pupil.

Miss P. Well, I am rather full just now; and the duties of instructor are so arduous, and I am so feeble in health——

Mrs. L. O, don't let me add to your trials. I will look elsewhere.

Miss P. No, no; you did not hear me out. I was going to say I have decided to take but one more pupil.

Mrs. L. What are the studies?

Miss P. English branches, French, Italian, German, and Spanish languages, and music; all taught under my personal supervision.

Mrs. L. Quite an array of studies; almost too much for one teacher.

Miss P. Ah, Mrs. Lofty, the mind—the mind is capable of great expansion; and to one gifted with the power to lead the young in the flowery paths of learning, no toil is too difficult. My school is select, refined; nothing rough or improper is allowed to mingle with the high-toned elements with which I endeavour to form a fashionable education.

Mrs. L. I should like to see some of your pupils.

Miss P. O, certainly. You will take them unawares; but I flatter myself you will not find them unprepared. (Strikes bell on piano.)

Enter FANNY, dressed as before, but with large, red chignon on her head.

Miss P. This is Miss Fanny Rice. Mrs. Lofty, Fanny. There you see one of my pupils who has an exquisite touch for the piano, a refined, delicate appreciation of the sweetest strains of the great masters. Fanny, my dear, take your place at the piano, and play one of those pieces which you know I most admire. (FANNY sits at piano, plays Yankee Doodle, whistling an accompaniment.) What does this mean? (Turns and looks at FANNY, starts, puts her eye-glass to her eye.—Aside.) Heavens! that child has one of those horrible chignons on her head!—(Aloud.) Miss Rice, why did you make that selection?

Fanny. (Imitates HANNAH'S manner of speaking.) Cos I thought you'd like it.

Miss P. "Cos?" O, I shall die! And why did you think I should like it?

Fanny. Cos that's the way Hannah Jones does.

Miss P. Send Miss Gray to me. (Follows FANNY to door.) And take that flaming turban off your head. I'll pay you for this! [Exit FANNY, L.

Mrs. L. Your pupil is exceedingly patriotic in her selection.

Miss P. Yes; there's some mistake here. She's evidently not on her good behaviour.

Enter HETTY GRAY, L., with red chignon.

Ah, here's Miss Gray. Mrs. Lofty, Miss Gray. She has a sweet voice, and sings sentimental songs in a bewitching manner. Miss Gray, take your place at the piano, and sing one of my favourites.

(HETTY sits at piano, plays and sings.)

"Father and I went down to camp Along with Captain Goodin, And there we saw the boys and girls As thick as hasty-puddin."

Miss P. Stop! (Looks at her through eye-glass.) She's got one of those hateful things on too,—chignons! Is there a conspiracy? Miss Gray, who taught you that song?

Hetty. Miss Hannah Jones, if you please.

Miss P. Go back to your studies, and send Miss Bond to me. (Takes her by the ear, and leads her to the door.)

Hetty. Ow! you hurt!

Miss P. Silence, miss! Take off that horrid head-dress at once.

[Exit, HETTY, L.

Mrs. Lofty, how can I find words to express my indignation at the conduct of my pupils? I assure you, this is something out of the common course.

Enter LIZZIE, L., with red chignon.

Here is one of my smartest pupils, Miss Bond. Mrs. Lofty, Miss Bond. She particularly excels in reading. Miss Bond, take a book from the piano and read, something sweet and pathetic! something that you think would suit me.

LIZZIE takes a position, L., opens book, and reads, in imitation of HANNAH'S voice.

Lizzie.

What is it that salutes the light, Making the heads of mortals bright, And proves attractive to the sight? My chignon.

Miss P. Good gracious! is the girl mad?

Lizzie.

What moves the heart of Miss Precise To throw aside all prejudice, And gently whisper, It is nice? My chignon!

Miss P. Chignon, indeed! Who taught you to read in that manner?

Lizzie. Hannah Jones.

Miss P. O, this is too bad! You, too, with one of these horrid things on your head? (Snatches it off, and beats her on head with it.) Back to your room! You shall suffer for this! [Exit LIZZIE, L.

Mrs. L. Excuse me, Miss Precise, but your pupils all wear red chignons. Pray, is this a uniform you have adopted in your school?

Miss P. O, Mrs. Lofty, I'm dying with mortification! Chignons! I detest them; and my positive orders to my pupils are, never to wear them in the house.

Hannah. (Outside, L.) Wal, we'll see what Miss Precise will say to this.

Enters with a red chignon in each hand, followed by LIZZIE, HETTY, and FANNY.

Miss P. Good gracious! More of these horrid things!

Hannah. Miss Precise, jest look at them! Here these pesky girls have been rummaging my boxes, and putting on my best chignons that pa sent me only yesterday. Look at them! They're teetotally ruined!

Miss P. Why, Miss Jones, you've got one on your head now!

Hannah. Of course I have. Have you got anything to say against it?

Miss P. O, no; only it don't match your hair.

Hannah. What of that? Pa always goes for the bright colours, and so do I.

Lizzie. Miss Precise, I thought pupils were forbidden to wear them.

Miss P. Well, yes—no—I must make exceptions. Miss Jones has permission to wear them.

Lizzie. Then I want permission.

Hetty. And so do I.

Fanny. And so do I.

Miss P. First tell me what is the meaning of this scene we have just had.

Lizzie. Scene? Why, didn't you tell us to take Miss Jones as a model for imitation? Haven't we done it?

Miss P. But Miss Jones doesn't whistle.

Hannah. Whistle? I bet I can. Want to hear me?

Miss P. No. She don't sing comic songs.

Hannah. Yes, she does.

Lizzie. Yes, and she wears chignons. As we must imitate her, and hadn't any of our own, we appropriated hers.

Miss P. Shame, shame! What will Mrs. Lofty say?

Mrs. L. That she rather enjoyed it. I saw mischief in their eyes as they came in. And now, girls, I'm going to tell you what Miss Jones does that you don't know. A short time ago she placed in my hands her pocket-book, containing a large roll of bills, to be distributed among the poor.

Lizzie. Why, isn't she splendid?

Hetty. Why, she's "mag."

Fanny. O, you dear old Hannah. (Kisses her.)

Mrs. L. I'm going to send my daughter here to school, and I shall tell her to make all the friends she can; but her first friend must be Hannah Jones.

Hannah. Well, I'm sure, I'm obleeged to you.

Lizzie. O, Miss Precise, we are so sorry we have acted so! Let us try again, and show Mrs. Lofty that we have benefited by your instruction.

Miss P. Not now. If Mrs. Lofty will call again, we will try to entertain her. I see I was in the wrong to give you such general directions. I say now, imitate Hannah Jones—her warm heart, her generous hand.

Mrs. L. And help her, by your friendship, to acquire the knowledge which Miss Precise so ably dispenses.

Lizzie. We will, we will.

Miss P. Only, ladies, avoid whistling.

Hetty. Of course, of course.

Miss P. And comic songs!