A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad-
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But, when a pique began,

The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighboring streets
The wondering neighbors ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;

And, while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied;
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE BAGGAGE-FIEND.

WAS a ferocious baggage-man, with Atlan

tean back,

And biceps upon each arm piled in a formidable stack,

That plied his dread vocation beside a railroad track.

Wildly he tossed the baggage round the platform there, pell-mell,

And crushed to naught the frail bandbox where'er it shapeless fell,

Or stove the "Saratoga" like the flimsiest eggshell.

On ironclads, especially, he fell full ruthlessly,
And eke the trunk derisively called "Cottage by the
Sea;"

And pulled and hauled and rammed and jammed the same vindictively,

Until a yearning breach appeared, or fractures two or three,

Or straps were burst, or lids fell off, or some catas. trophe

Crowned his Satanic zeal or moved his diabolic glee. The passengers surveyed the wreck with diverse dis content,

And some vituperated him, and some made loud lament,

But wrath or lamentation on him were vainly spent.

To him there came a shambling man, sad-eyed and meek and thin,

Bearing an humble carpet-bag, with scanty stuff therein,

And unto that fierce baggage-man he spake, with quivering chin :

"Behold this scanty carpet-bag! I started a month

ago,

With a dozen Saratoga trunks, hat box, and portmanteau,

But baggage-men along the route have brought me down so low.

"Be careful with this carpet-bag, kind sir," said he to him.

The baggage-man received it with a smile extremely grim,

And softly whispered, "Mother, may I go out to swim ?"

Then fiercely jumped upon that bag in wild, sardonic spleen,

And into countless fragments flew-to his profound chagrin

For that lank bag contained a pint of nitro-glycerine. The stranger heaved a gentle sigh, and stroked his quivering chin,

And then he winked with one sad eye, and said, with smile serene,

"The stuff to check a baggage-man is nitro-glycerine!"

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

''M wearing awa', Jean,

Like snaw when it's a thaw, Jean,

I'm wearing awa'

To the land o' the leal.

There's nae sorrow there Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day is aye fair

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean;
Your task's ended noo, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
She was baith guid and fair, Jean;
Oh, we grudged her right sair

To the land o' the leal.
Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal.
Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
This warld's care is vain, Jean;
We'll meet and aye be fain
In the land o' the leal.

CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRE

POOR LITTLE JOE.

ROP yer eyes wide open, Joey,

For I've brought you sumpin' great.
Apples! No, a heap sight better!

Don't you take no int'rest? Wait! Flowers, Joe-I knowed you'd like 'emAin't them scrumptious? Ain't them high? Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey? There poor little Joe !-don't cry!

I was skippin' past a winder,
Where a bang-up lady sot,
All amongst a lot of bushes-

Each one climbin' from a pot;
Every bush had flowers on it-

Pretty? Mebbe not! Oh, no! Wish you could a seen 'em growin', It was sich a stunnin' show.

Flowers in heaven? 'M-I s'pose so;
Dunno much about it, though;
Ain't as fly as wot I might be
On them topics, little Joe.

But I've heard it hinted somewheres
That in heaven's golden gates
Things is everlastin' cheerful—

B'lieve that's wot the Bible states.
Likewise, there folks don't git hungry;
So good people, when they dies,
Finds themselves well fixed forever-
Joe, my boy, wot ails yer eyes?

Thought they looked a little sing❜ler.

Oh, no! Don't you have no fear;
Heaven was made fur such as you is-

Joe, wot makes you look so queer?
Here-wake up! Oh, don't look that way!
Joe! My boy! Hold up yer head!

Here's yer flowers-you dropped 'em Joey!
Oh, my God, can Joe be dead?

DAVID L. PROUDFIT (Peleg Arkwright.)

THE BELLS.

EAR the sledges with the bells-
Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody fore

tells!

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight-
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells

Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats

On the moon!

O, from out the sounding cells,

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

How it swells!

How it dwells

On the future! how it tells

Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells,

And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls,

A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells

With the pean of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pean of the bells-
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells—

To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-

To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-
Bells, bells, bells-

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

For memory, dwelling

On each proud swelling

Of thy belfry, knelling
Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasaat waters

Of the river Lee.
I've heard bells tolling
Old Adrian's Mole" in,
Their thunder rolling
From the Vatican-
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets

Of Notre Dame ;

But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly.

O, the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.
There's a bell in Moscow;
While on tower and kiosko
In St. Sophia

The Turkman gets, And loud in air

Calls men to prayer,

From the tapering summit
Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom

I freely grant them;

But there's an anthem

More dear to me

'Tis the bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

When a neighbor (who acted as nurse), said with glee,

"You've just been presented with twirs! Do you

see!"

"Good gracious!" said Tim, overwhelmed with surprise,

For he scarce could be made to believe his own eyes; His astonishment o'er, he acknowledged, of course, That the trouble, indeed, might have been a deal

worse.

The twins were two boys, and poor Tim was inclined

To believe them the handsomest pair you could find,.
But fathers' and mothers' opinions, they say,
Always favor their own children just the same way..
"Would you like to step up, sir, to see Mrs. T. ?'”
The good lady said: "she's as pleased as can be.”
Of course the proud father dropped both fork and
knife,

And bounded up stairs to embrace his good wife.
Now, Mrs. Tim Twinkleton-I should have said—
An industrious, frugal life always had led,
And kept the large family from poverty's woes,
By washing, and starching, and ironing clothes.
But, before the young twins had arrived in the town,
She'd intended to send to a family named Brown,
Who resided some distance outside of the city,
A basket of clothes; so she thought it a pity
That the basket should meet any further delay,
And told Tim to the depot to take it that day.
He promised he would and began to make haste,
For he found that there was not a great while to

waste,

TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS.

Pop

To the rail-station, after a long and sharp trot,
And he'd just enough time to say 'Brown-Norris.

town

A basket of clothes-" and then the train was gone.

The light-hearted tailor made haste to return,

smart,

And ten "olive branches"-four girls and six Completed the household, divided its joys.

boys-Whate'er may occur, he's on hand for his dinner. And it's always the case, with a saint or a sinner, "How are the twins?" was his first inquiry; "I've hurried home quickly, my darlings to see," In ecstacy, quite of his reason bereft.

"Oh, the dear little angels hain't cried since you left!