Poor Tim roared aloud: "Why, what have I done?
You surely must mean what you say but in fun!
That basket! my twins I shall ne'er see again!
Why, I sent them both off by the 12 o'clock train!
The nurse, at these words, sank right into a chair

And exclaimed, “O my preciouses dear, you hain't there! Go, Twinkleton, go, telegraph like wildfire!"

Why," said Tim, "they can't send the twins home on the wire!"

"Oh dear!" cried poor Tim, getting ready to go;

"Could ever a body have met with such woe?
Sure this is the greatest of greatest mistakes;
Why, the twins will be all squashed down into pancakes!”
Tim Twinkleton hurried as if all creation

Were after him, quick, on his way to the station.
"That's the man,-O you wretch!" and, tight as a rasp,
Poor Tim found himself in a constable's grasp.

"Ah! ha! I have got yer, now don't say a word, Yer know very well about what has occurred; Come 'long to the station-house, hurry up now,

Or 'tween you and me there'll be a big row."

What's the charge?" asked the tailor of the magistrate, "I'd like to find out, for it's getting quite late;"

"So
you shall," he replied, but don't look so meek,—
You deserted your infants,-now hadn't you cheek?"
Now it happened that, during the trial of the case,
An acquaintance of Tim's had stepped into the place,
And he quickly perceived, when he heard in detail
The facts of the case, and said he'd go bail
To any amount, for good Tim Twinkleton,
For he knew he was innocent, "sure as a gun."
And the railway-clerk's evidence, given in detail,
Was not quite sufficient to send him to jail.

It was to effect, that the squalling began
Just after the basket in the baggage-van

Had been placed by Tim T., who solemnly swore
That he was quite ignorant of their presence before.
So the basket was brought to the magistrate's sight,

And the twins on the top of the clothes looked so bright,
That the magistrate's heart of a sudden enlarged,
And he ordered that Tim Twinkleton be discharged.

Tim grasped up the basket and ran for dear life,

And when he reached home he first asked for his wife;
But the nurse said with joy, "Since you left she has slept,
And from her the mistakes of to-day I have kept."
Poor Tim, and the nurse, and all the small fry,
Before taking dinner, indulged in a cry.

The twins are now grown, and they time and again
Relate their excursion on the railway train.

MAN MAY BE HAPPY.-PETER PINDAR.

"Man may be happy, if he will:"
I've said it often, and I think so still;
Doctrine to make the million stare!

Know then, each mortal is an actual Jove:
Can brew what weather he shall most approve,
Or wind, or calm, or foul, or fair.

But here's the mischief-man's an ass, I say;
Too fond of thunder, lightning, storm, and rain;
He hides the charming, cheerful ray

That spreads a smile o'er hill and plain!

Dark, he must court the skull, and spade, and shroud--The mistress of his soul must be a cloud.

Who told him that he must be cursed on earth?
The God of Nature?-No such thing;

Heaven whispered him, the moment of his birth,
"Don't cry, iny lad, but dance and sing;
Don't be too wise, and be an ape:-

In colors let thy soul be dressed, not crape.

"Roses shall smooth life's journey, and adorn;
Yet mind me-if, through want of grace,
Thou mean'st to fling the blessing in my face,
Thou hast full leave to tread upon a thorn."

Yet some there are, of men, I think the worst,
Poor imps! unhappy if they can't be cursed-
Forever brooding over Misery's eggs,

As though life's pleasure were a deadly sin;
Mousing forever for a gin

To catch their happiness by the legs.

Even at a dinner some will be unblessed,
However good the viands, and well dressed:
They always come to table with a scowl,
Squint with a face of verjuice o'er each dish,
Fault the poor flesh, and quarrel with the fish,
Curse cook and wife, and, loathing, eat and growl.

A cart-load, lo! their stomachs steal,
Yet swear they cannot make a meal.
I like not the blue-devil-hunting crew!
I hate to drop the discontented jaw!
Oh! let me Nature's simple smile pursue,
And pick even pleasure from a straw.

THE STAB.-WILL WALLACE HARNEY.

On the road, the lonely road,

Under the cold, white moon;

Under the rugged trees he strode,
Whistled and shifted his heavy load,―
Whistled a foolish tune.

There was a step, timed with his own,
A figure that stooped and bowed:

A cold white blade that flashed and shone,
Like a splinter of daylight downward thrown,-
And the moon went behind a cloud.

But the moon came out so broad and good
The barn-fowl woke and crowed,

Then roughed his feathers in drowsy mood;
And the brown owl called to his mate in the wood,
That a man lay dead in the road.

SONG OF STEAM.-GEORGE W. CUTTER.

Harness me down with your iron bands,
Be sure of your curb and rein,

For I scorn the strength of your puny hands
As the tempest scorns a chain.

How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight,
For many a countless hour,

At the childish boast of human might,

And the pride of human power.

When I saw an army upon the land,
A navy upon the seas,

Creeping along, a snail-like band,

Or waiting the wayward breeze,-

When I marked the peasant faintly reel
With the toil which he daily bore,

As he feebly turned the tardy wheel,

Or tugged at the weary oar,—

When I measured the panting courser's speed,

The flight of the carrier dove,

As they bore the law a king decreed,

Or the lines of impatient love,

130

I could but think how the world would feel,
As these were outstripped afar,

When I should be bound to the rushing keel,
Or chained to the flying car.

Ha, ha, ha! They found me at last,
They invited me forth at length,

And I rushed to my throne with a thunder blast,
And laughed in my iron strength!
Oh! then ye saw a wondrous change
On the earth and the ocean wide,
Where now my fiery armies range,
Nor wait for wind or tide.

The ocean pales where'er I sweep,
To hear my strength rejoice,
And monsters of the briny deep
Cower trembling at my voice.

I carry the wealth and the lord of earth,
The thoughts of his godlike mind;
The wind lags after my going forth,

The lightning is left behind.

In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine,
My tireless arm doth play;

Where the rocks never saw the sun decline,

Or the dawn of a glorious day;

I bring earth's glittering jewels up

From the hidden caves below,

And I make the fountain's granite cup
With a crystal gush o'erflow.

I blow the bellows, I forge the steel,
In all the shops of trade;

I hammer the ore and turn the wheel

Where my arms of strength are made.

I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint,—
I carry, I spin, I weave;

And all my doings I put into print

On every Saturday eve.

I've no muscle to weary, no brains to decay,
No bones to be "laid on the shelf,"

And soon I intend you may "go and play,"
While I manage the world myself.

But harness me down with your iron bands,
Be sure of your curb and rein,

For I scorn the strength of your puny hands
As the tempest scorns a chain.

THE DOUBLE BED.

A new Western town, but lately reclaimed from the wilderness, where the houses are few, mean, and ugly, the streets mud or dust, the trees destroyed, and the general appearance one of poverty struggling with heavy obstacles, where the wolves run the mail in ahead of time, and night is made hideous by a tailor practising on a flute-this is a good place to keep away from.

Into such a town as this, and during court week, I once rode on horseback, at the end of a weary day; passed into a continuous mud hole, studded with stumps and ornamented with logs, that a benighted country called a road. Night had already closed in, and I was guided to the hotel by the thousand and one boys of the place, and the noise issuing from the bar-room, no less beastly and disagreeable. I found the landlord shut up in a corner pen, dealing out liquid insanity to his customers. To my request for supper and a bed he responded that I could eat my fill, but there was not a bed unengaged or not occupied in the house. I persisted, until the wretch informed me that there was "a feller" in No. 6 occupying a double bed, and I could "roll in there," if so minded.

It was dismal, but my only hope; so after the evening indigestion, I climbed the rough stairs to No. 6. I was told by the landlord to walk in without knocking, and did so.

I found my companion measuring off his dreams by snores, and, undressing, "rolled in," as the landlord had suggested. The stranger turned over, with something between a growl and a grunt, as I crept to his side.

Tired as I was, I could not sleep. The bed-tick felt as if it were stuffed with grasshoppers, and the pillows were of the sort to slip up one's nose in the night, and be sneezed out some time during the day. Besides this, my bedfellow snored abominably. It sounded like a giant trying to blow "Old Hundred" through a tin horn, without knowing exactly how. I bore this infliction as long as I could, and at last gave my friend a dig in the ribs, exclaiming at the same