NEW "OLD MOTHER HUBBARD."

"Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard,
To get her poor dog a bone,

But when she got there, the cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none."

The aged and venerable maternal representative of a family
which descended from an ancestral progenitor known in
his time by the patronymic appellation of Hubbard (per-
haps from his having been one of the early poets or bards
of the hub), wended her way to the small apartment ordi-
narily devoted to the storage of crockery, and such portions
of the family provisions as were left unused at the pran-
did meal.
To obtain for the gratification of her favorite but emaciated
specimen of the genus canis, a fragment of an osseous
nature once composing an integral portion of the skeleton
of an animal (whether bovine, porcine, or otherwise, the
narrator was not able to determine satisfactorily), from
which she had reason to believe her petted quadruped
would aliment.

When by continuous progressive motion she had arrived at the end of her brief journey and in fact had reached the objective point, and the goal of her desire, her fond anticipations were not realized, and her calculations came to naught; for the family receptacle, before alluded to, proved to be entirely denuded of everything in the way of that sustenance which tends to prolong life when received within and assimilated by the animal organism. Casequently this indignant and long-suffering member of the high class of vertebrata called mammals, but familiarly known as the "poor dog," failed on this occasion to obtain anything to appease his unsated and voracious ap petite which we have reason to believe, had previously been whetted by the anticipation of the favorable result of the visit of his friend and protector to the usual storehouse of his supplies.

THE HEBREW MOTHER.-MRS. HEMANS.

The rose was rich in bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother with her first-born thence
Went up to Zion, for the boy was vowed
Unto the temple service;- by the hand

She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye

Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God. So passed they on,
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-boughs,
With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest:
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart.-And where a fount
Lay like a twilight-star midst palmy shades,
Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There too she lingered, from the diamond wave
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips,

And softly parting clusters of jet curls

To bathe his brow. At las: the Fane was reached,
The earth's one sanctuary-and rapture hushed
Her bosom, as before her, through the day,
It rose a mountain of white marble, steeped
In light, like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear

Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm
Clung as the ivy clings-the deep spring tide
Of nature then swelled high, and o'er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song.-" Alas," she cried,
"Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes,
And now fond thoughts arise,

And silver chords again to earth have won me;
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-
How shall I hence depart?

"How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing So late, along the mountains, at my side?

And I in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,
Beholding thee so fair!

"And oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turned from its door away;

While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted,
I languish for thy voice, which past me still
Went like a singing rill?

66

Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn;

Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me,
As midst the silence of the stars I wake,
And watch for thy dear sake.

"And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee,
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?
Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear?

"What have I said, my child?-Will He not hear thee,
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?
Shall He not guard thy rest,

And in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

"I give thee to thy God-the God that gave thee,
A wellspring of deep gladness to my heart!

And precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be his child.

"Therefore, farewell!-I go,-my soul may fail me,
As the hart panteth for the water-brooks,
Yearning for thy sweet looks-

But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me;
Thou in the shadow of the rock shalt dwell,—
The rock of strength.-Farewell!"

DIVERSITIES OF JUDGMENT.-POPE.

'Tis with our judgments as our watches,-none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In poets as true genius is but rare,

True taste as seldom is the critic's share ;

Both must alike from heaven derive their light,→
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true;
But are not critics to their judgment, too?

DAVY THE TEAMSTER.-ESTELLE THOMSON.

Honest Davy, the teamster, lives down by the mill,

In a cottage thatched over with straw;

You would say, if you looked on its queer, battered walls, 'Twas the drollest home ever you saw.

But more strange than all else, is that Davy ne'er seems To suspect he's not envied by all,

For he talks to his friends of "my wife" and "my home,"
As though living in palace or hall.

It is true that the Judge, on the top of the hill,
Boasts proudly, while flushed with his wine,
Of" my wife and her jewels so costly and rare."
And "my mansion so spacious and fine."
And the people all listen, and look with an awe
On the handsome-faced lady-his wife-

Who sweeps her rich robes once a week into church,
Quite ignoring all commonplace life.

Her hands are as white and as soft as the lace

That falls in such dainty-like frills

O'er the bosom that covers her own selfish thoughts,
Never touched by humanity's ills.

With a ladylike grace she moves ever through life,

As the mistress of lands and of gold;

But the heart in her breast never shines through her eyes-
Like her gems, it is polished and cold.

You would laugh to see Margery, Davy's young wife;
She has never a garment that's fine;

And she does up her hair in a queer little knot,
Because she cannot find the time

For braidings and puffings and crimpings, like those
That the Judge's wife loves to display;

And Margery's hands are not spotless and white,
For they toil all the long, busy day.

Then she tucks up her gown at the dawning of morn,

And goes merrily off with her pail,

While the song that she sings in the green meadow lane Wakes the echoes in mountain and dale.

Ah! Margy is useful; we know that full well,

But the Judge's wife says, for her life,

She could never imagine what charm there could be

In such a plain girl for a wife.

"Oho-ho!" laughs out Davy, when nearing his home,
And Margy comes down to the gate,

While her voice takes a tender, caressing-like tone,
As she tells him he's working too late.

Then her own sun browned hands help unfasten the bars,
And lead the worn horse to the stall,

And they dust Davy's coat, and draw out his rude chair,
And he loves them-though hardened by toil.

Ah, the wife of the Judge! She is pacing to-night
Through her parlors, whose tropical glow
Should carry a thrill of warm love to her heart,
Yet her face tells of bitterest woe;

And she pauses anon, as the clock on the stairs
Tells the hours, as they slowly pass by;

But he comes not to cheer the lone vigil she keeps,
And we turn from her grief with a sigh.

We know but too well where his revels are spent ;-
The Judge is a man of the world-

And many a one, through the dread "social glass,"
To a grave of dishonor is hurled.

Then may ours be the hearts that find ever sweet peace,
Though humble and toilsome our lot;

Still content, like friend Davy, to work if there's need,
And like Margy-make home of a cot.

SELLING A COAT.

A story is told of a clothing merchant on Chatham Street, New York, who kept a very open store, and drove a thriv ing trade, the natural consequence being that he waxed wealthy and indolent. He finally concluded to get an assistant to take his place on the sidewalk to "run in" customers. while he himself would enjoy his otium cum dig within the store. Having advertised for a suitable clerk, he awaited applications, determined to engage none but a good talker who would be sure to promote his interest.

Several unsuccessful applicants were dismissed, when a smart looking Americanized Jew came along and applied for the situation. The "boss" was determined not to engage the fellow without proof of his thorough capability and sharpness. Hence the following dialogue:

"Look here, young man! I told you somedings. I vill gone up de street und valk me back past dis shop yust like I vas coundrymans, and if you can make me buy a coat of you, I vill hire you right away quick."