-Bwightened 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 shoe-buckle, 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 Bwobdignag 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 (not two o'clock, you know, but f-four o'clock. II'm vewy fond of m-martial music, mythelf. I like the dwums, and the t-twombones, and the ophicleides, and all those sort of inthtwuments,-yeth, ethpethelly the bwass ones, they're so vewy exthpiring, they are. Thtop though, ith it exthpiring or p-perthpiring?-n-neither of 'em sound quite right. Oh! I have it now, it—it's inthpiring,—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 good 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-bassoon 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, thomehow; 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 in-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 1-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'lì twy,—I—I've got a little converthational 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 intwo duced 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 tel! 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 pockethandkerchief!

"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! she went off again into hystewics.

Upon which sheI-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? motht fellahs will give that up!

Give it up? I think

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

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

MILTON'S PRAYER OF PATIENCE.-ELIZABETH LLOYD

I am old and blind!

Men point at me as smitten by God's frown;
Afflicted and deserted of my kind,

Yet am I not cast down.

I am weak, yet strong:

I murmur not that I no longer see;-
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father Supreme! to Thee.

O merciful One!

When men are farthest, then art Thou most near;
When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun,
Thy chariot I hear.

Thy glorious face

Is leaning towards me, and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place,—
And there is no more night.

On my bended knee,

I recognize Thy purpose, clearly shown;
My vision Thou hast dimmed, that I may see
Thyself Thyself alone.

I have nought to fear;

This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing;
Beneath it I am almost sacred,-here
Can come no evil thing.

Oh! I seem to stand

Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been,
Wrapped in the radiance of Thy sinless land
Which eye hath never seen.

Visions come and go,

Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.

It is nothing now,—

When heaven is ripening on my sightless eyes,
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow,
That earth in darkness lies.

In a purer clime,

My being fills with rapture,-waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit,-strains sublime
Break over me unsought.

Give me now my lyre!

I feel the stirrings of a gift divine;
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine.

THE CID AND BAVIECA.

The king looked on him kindly, as on a vassal true;
Then to the king Ruy Diaz spake, after reverence due,
"O king! the thing is shameful, that any man beside
The liege lord of Castile himself, should Bavieca ride :

"For neither Spain nor Araby could another charger bring
So good as he, and certes, the best befits my king.
But, that you may behold him, and know him to the core,
I'll make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt the
Moor."

With that the Cid, clad as he was, in mantle furred and wide, On Baviera vaulting, put the rowel in his side;

And up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career,

Streamed like a pennon on the wind, Ruy Diaz' minivere.

And all that saw them praised them,-they lauded man and horse,

As matched well, and rivals for gallantry and force; Ne'er had they looked on horseman might to this knight come near,

Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier.

Thus, to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and furious steed,
He snapped in twain his nether rein :-" God pity now the
Cid!-

God pity Diaz!" cried the lords,- but when they looked again,

They saw Ruy Diaz ruling him with the fragment of his rein;
They saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm and calm,
Like a true lord commanding, and obeyed as by a lamb.

And so he led him foaming and panting to the king,
But, No," said Don Alphonso, it were a shameful thing,
That peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid

By any mortal but Bivar,-mount, mount again, my Cid!"

SOCKS FOR JOHN RANDALL.-MRS. P. H. PHELPS.

It was a matter of talk that Widow Randall knit so many socks for the soldiers. She was a poor woman, and had little to do with; but she must have spent a great deal of money for yarn, buying so much of the best at war prices. Knitting seemed almost a mania with her. She was sometimes seen knitting before breakfast. No sooner was her housework done, than out came her knitting, and her needles flew, click, click, click, faster even than they did when her fingers were young and supple; while her pale, sad face bending above them made one almost weep to look at her. She was one of those who do not weep, but who ever carry a full fountain of tears sealed up within them.

Not a box in all the country near was sent to the soldiers