Cried Michael na Chauliny, "And troth that's | And how when the cracks threatened fairly true Himself and the fiddle were matched by few, God be good to the ould gossoon! There's playing and plighting, But the skirl of the wake is the end of the tune!" At the wake of O'Connor, The merry ould man, To wail in his honour The cauliaghs began; And Rose, Donnell's daughter, Began (sure saints taught her!) All was still;-in the middle, Oh, 'twas sweet as the crooning of fairies by night, Oh, 'twas sad-as you listened, you smiled in delight, With the tears in your eyes; it was like a shower falling, When the rainbow shines thro' and the cuckoo is calling; to end them He cut up his own leather breeches to mend them! How we laugh'd, young and old! "Well, beat that if you can,” Cried fat Tony Bourke, the potheen-making man "Who sings next?" Tony cried, and at that who came in, Dancing this way and that way in midst of the din, But poor Shamus the Fool! and he gave a great spring "By the cross, merry boys, 'tis mysilf that can sing?" Then he stood by the corpse, and he folded his hands, And he sang of the sea and the foam on the sands, Of the shining skiddawn as it flies to and fro, Of the birds of the waves and their wings like the snow, Then he sank his voice lower and sang with strange sound Of the caves down beneath and the beds of the drown'd. Till we wept for the boys who lie where the wave rolls, With no kinsmen to stretch them and wake their poor souls. When he ceased, Shamus looked at the corpse and he said, "Sure a dacenter man never died in his bed!' And at that the old cauliaghs began to croon : "Sure life's like his music, and ended as soon In the midst of it all the sweet singer did stand, With a light on her hair, like the gleam of a hand; She seemed like an angel to each girl and boy, But most to Tim Cregan, who watched her in joy, And when she had ended he led her away, And whispered his love, till the dawning of day. After that, cried Pat Rooney, the rogue of a lad, "I'll sing something merry-the, last was too sad !" And he struck up the song of the Piper of | Clare, tune !" There's dancing and sporting, "A health to O'Connor !" Fat Anthony said: A two-gallon cag then, While all there grew keen. Oh, well had the dead man loved Tony's potheen!" Then the fun brightened up; but of all that befell How the bags of his pipes were beginning to tear, "Good-bye to O'Connor," For the ould fiddle's sake! If the saints love sweet playingIt's the truth that I'm sayingHis sowl will be straying And fiddling an air! He'll pass through their middle, With stick and with fiddle, JABBERWOCKY. (From Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.) 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand : And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves LEWIS CARROLL, A NEWSPAPER. ORGANS that gentlemen play, my boy, They hit on the key, And pipe in full concert away, my boy. News from all countries and climes, my boy, Advertisements, essays, and rhymes, my boy, Mix'd up with all sorts Of flying reports, And published at regular times, my boy. And they'll give him the cead mille fealta up Articles able and wise, my boy. there !" ROBERT BUCHANAN. At least in the editor's eyes, my boy, She first conversed with her own kind, That ancient worm, the Devil. The fops are painted butterflies, First from a worm they took their rise, The flatterer an ear-wig grows, Some worms suit all conditions; Misers are muck-worms; silk-worms, beaus, And death-watches, physicians. That statesmen have a worm, is seen That gnaws them night and day. Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd, If thou couldst make the courtier void Thou only canst our fate adjourn Some few short years, no more; E'en Button's wits to worms shall turn, Who maggots were before. ALEXANDER POPE. ROBIN GOODFELLOW. [ROBIN GOODFELLOW, alias Hobgoblin, alias Puck, an English domestic sprite, who was, as Sir Walter Scott has written, the constant attendant upon the English fairy court, and, to the elves, acted in some measure as the clown or jester of the company,-a character then to be found in the establishment of every person of quality, or, to use a more modern comparison, resembled the Pierrot of the pantomime. His jests were of the most simple, and, at the same time, of the broadest comic character; to mislead a clown on his path homeward, to disguise himself like a stool, in order to induce an old gossip to commit the egregious mistake of sitting down on the floor when she expected to repose on a chair, were his special employments.' In the writings of Shakespeare and Milton reference is made to this spirit. The following poem is attributed to Ben Jonson.] FROM Oberon, in fairy land, The king of ghosts and shadows there, Am sent to view the night-sports here, LONG ISLAND HUNTING.* [MR. W. L. ALDEN is (1884) and for some years has been, the humorous editor of the New York Times, and in 1878 some of his drollest articles were published under the title of "Shooting Stars," from which the following articles: Long Island Hunting, The Six But ton Principle, and Red Hair are taken.] MORE than six months have come and gone since the Long Island Hunt was organized. During that time the gallant hunters have chased the wild anise-seed bag at least twice every week. One would suppose that by this time every member of the hunt must have been in at the death, but, strange as it may seem, not a single anise-seed bag has been killed. A matter so serious as this cannot be passed over in silence, and it becomes necessary to inquire why the chase has in every instance proved unsuccessful. It will not do to say that the hunters have abstained from killing anise-seed bags in order to avoid the premature extirpation of the animal. Although our most learned naturalists were until recently unaware of the existence of the aniseseed bag on Long Island, there can be no doubt that the animal is abundant in Queens and Suffolk Counties. In every instance the dogs have struck the scent without any difficulty. This shows conclusively that the covers of Long Island are full of anise-seed bags, and refutes the pretext that the hunters forbear to kill because they fear that the animal will be exterminated. It is, perhaps, hardly worth while to notice the ludicrous mistake made by certain provincial papers, that the aniseseed bag is a literal cloth bag, filled with a supposed substance called anise-seed, and dragged on the ground by a mounted groom. The absurdity of this supposition is glaringly apparent. Is it probable that a dozen or more men would ride after a pack of hounds in pursuit of a miserable prosaic bag? Very small boys might agree to make believe that a bag is a live animal, just as very little girls sometimes make believe that a dust-brush wrapped in a towel is a living infant, but men have outgrown such childish plays. This preposterous mistake of the rural Published by G. PUTNAM'S SONS, New York press is mentioned here because it may be The anise-seed bag is somewhat larger and fiercer than the fox, but rather smaller than the wolf. It is of a light brown color, with an enormous mouth and a fierce disposition. Nevertheless, it shuns the sight of man, and lurks in the depths of the forests, or makes its way across the country by availing itself of the shelter of ditches and stone walls. It is much fleeter than the fox, but a good pack of hounds can always run it down. The anise-seed bag, in spite of its fierceness when driven to bay, rarely attacks man except in numbers, and when suffering from hunger. In the early history of the Plymouth colonists the anise-seed bags were very numerous and bold. They would gather at the outskirts of the settlement in packs of several hundred, and sit on end howling dismally, and longing to stay their stomachs with even the most sour and angular pilgrim in all Plymouth. Still, it does not appear that any of the colonists were actually killed by these animals. True, we read in the journal of Capt. MILES STANDISH an entry to the effect that "it is said that Mr. JOHN ALDEN was last night devoured by aniseseed bags, and that his vain and fickle widow is in much tribulation. There are those who think that he hath received his deserts;" but it subsequently proved that the rumor was false. BUFFON asserts that the anise-seed bag will fight desperately when its means of escape are cut off, and that the hunter frequently pays for his temerity with his life. This, however, was written of the larger species which inhabits the desert of Gobi, and may not be true of the Long Island variety. The latter may be as dangerous as local legends claim that it is; but there is no well-authenticated case of the death of any Long Islander at the hands, or rather the teeth, of an anise-seed bag. Can it be possible that the gallant huntsmen who have hitherto ridden so unsuccessfully are really afraid to bring the animal to bay, lest they or their dogs should suffer serious injury? Although |