Miss Goodchild's a gloomy young elf,

Miss Lion's, from terror, a fool, Miss Mee's not at all like myself,

Miss Carpenter no one can rule.

Miss Saddler ne'er mounted a horse,

While Miss Groom from the stable will run, Miss Killmore can't look on a corse,

And Miss Aimwell ne'er levelled a gun. Miss Greathead has no brains at all,

Miss Heartwell is ever complaining,

Miss Dance has ne'er been at a ball,

Over hearts Miss Fairweather likes reigning. Miss Wright, she is constantly wrong, Miss Tickle, alas! is not funny,

Miss Singer ne'er warbled a song,

And, alas! poor Miss Cash has no money! Miss Hatemen would give all she's worth To purchase a man to her liking,

Miss Merry is shocked at all mirth,

Miss Boxer the men don't mind striking.

Miss Bliss does with sorrow o'erflow,
Miss Hope in despair seeks the tomb,
Miss Joy still anticipates woe,

66

And Miss Charity's never at home."

Miss Hamlet resides in a city,

The nerves of Miss Steadfast are shaken,

Miss Prettyman's beau is not pretty,

Miss Faithful her love has forsaken.

Miss Porter despises all froth,

Miss Scales they'll make wait, I'm thinking,

Miss Meekly is apt to be wroth,

Miss Lofty to meanness is sinking.

Miss Seemore's as blind as a bat,

Miss Last at a party is first,

Miss Brindle dislikes a striped cat,

And Miss Waters has always a thirst.

Miss Knight is now changed into Day,
Miss Day wants to marry a Knight,
Miss Prudence has just run away,

And Miss Steady assisted her flight.
But success to the fair,-one and all,-
No misapprehensions be making;
Though wrong the dear sex to mis-call,

There's no harm, I should hope, in mis-taking!

"I DON'T CARE.”

Old "Don't Care" is a murderer foul,
Yes, a murderer foul is he;
He beareth a halter in his hand,
And his staff is the gallows-tree;
And slyly he follows his victim on,
Through high degree and low,
And strangles him there when least aware,
And striketh the fatal blow,—
Hanging his victim high in the air,

A villain strong is old "Don't Care!"

He looks on the babe at its mother's breast,
And blighteth that blossom fair;

For its young buds wither, and fade, and die,
'Neath the gaze of old "Don't Care!"
And in place of these there springeth up
Full many a poisonous weed,

And their tendrils coil around the victim's heart,—
A rank and loathsome breed:

Blighting the spirit young and fair;

A villain in truth is old "Don't Care!"

He meeteth bold manhood on his way,

And wrestleth with him there;

He falls a sure and an easy prey

To the strength of old "Don't Care: "
Then he plants his foot on the victim's breast,

And shouteth with demon joy,

And treadeth the life from his panting heart,
And exulteth to destroy,-

Crushing bold manhood everywhere;

A villain indeed is old "Don't Care!"

SIGNS AND OMENS.

An old gentleman, whose style was Germanized, was asked what he thought of signs and omens.

"Vell, I don't dinks mooch of dem dings, und I don't pelieve averydings; but I dells you somedimes dere is somedings ash dose dings. Now de oder night I sit and reads mine newspaper, und my frau she speak und say,

"Fritz, de dog ish howling!'

"Vell, I don' dinks mooch of dem dings, und I goes on und reads mine paper, und mine frau she say,—

666

Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen,-der dog ish howling!'

66

Und den I gets hop mit mineself und look out troo de wines on de porch, und de moon was shinin', und mine leetle dog he shoomp right up and down like averydings, und he park at de moon, dat was shine so bright as never vas. Und ash I hauled mine het in de winder, de old voman she say,

666

Mind, Fritz, I dells you dere ish some pad ish happen. De dog ish howling!'

'Vell, I goes to pet, und I shleeps, und all night long ven I vakes up dere vas dat dog howling outside, und ven I dream I hear dat howling vorsher ash never. Und in de morning I kits up und kits mine breakfast, und mine frau she looks at me und say, werry solemn,—

"Fritz, dere is somedings pad ish happen. howl all night.'

De dog vas

'Und shoost den de newspaper came in, und I opens him und by shings, vot you dinks! dere vas a man died in Philadelphia!"

But the distant village chime

Of bells is striking nine,
And they all

Hasten home, with noisy shout,
Running nimbly on the route,
Great and small.

May I never grow so old,
And have sympathies so cold
As to hate

The bustle and the noise

Made by the village boys,
When they skate !

BANEFUL INFLUENCE OF SKEPTICISM.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

O! lives there, Heaven, beneath thy dread expanse, One hopeless, dark idolater of chance,

Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined,

The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind;

Who, mouldering earthward, reft of every trust,
In joyless union wedded to the dust,
Could all his parting energy dismiss,
And call the barren world sufficient bliss?

There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien,
Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene,
Who hail'd thee, man! the pilgrim of a day,
Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay !
Frail as the leaf in autumn's yellow bower,
Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower !
A friendless slave, a child without a sire,
Whose mortal life, and momentary fire,
Lights to the grave his chance-created form,
As ocean wrecks illuminate the storm;
And when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er,
To night and silence sink for evermore!