THE COWS ARE IN THE CORN.

SUNG BY MRS. BELLE COLE.

H father's gone to market-town,
He was up before the day,

And Jamie 's hunting robin's nests,

And the man is making hay,

And whistling up the hollow goes

The boy that minds the mill,

While mother from the kitchen door

Is calling with a will,

"Polly Polly! The cows are in the corn."

From off the misty morning air

There comes a sudden sound,

A murmur as of water comes

From ship and tree and ground,
The birds are singing on the wing,

The pigeons bill and coo,

And o'er hill and valley rings

Again the loud halloo,

"Polly Polly! The cows are in the corn."

'Tis strange at such a time of day
The mill should stop its clatter,
The farmer's wife is listening now
And wonders what 's the matter,
And wild the birds are singing
In the woodland on the hill,

While whistling, up the hollow goes

The boy that minds the mill,

"Polly! Poly! The cows are in the corn."

THE FISH-BALL.

ROBERT K. MUNKITTRICK.

(Read by the Author.)

ET poets sing

The chicken's wing,

And buckwheat cakes and griddle fishes,

And side by side

Place lobster fried,

Pork chops and other comic dishes;

But yet unto my dying day,

While o'er my reason I am lord,

I'll stand before the world and say: "The fish-ball is its own reward!"

I'm fond of ham,

And crimson jam,

And macaroni crowned with bacon ;

Yet while I sigh

For cake and pie,

My faith in clams remains unshaken ;

But when my fancy 's running wild,
And I'm by no gay lark out-soared,
I preach to woman, man, and child,
"The fish-ball is its own reward!"

O gay marine

You're often seen

Nailed up against a door or shutter;
The little boy

Just jumps with joy

To see you served with milk and butter. Oh! dwelt I far beyond the sea,

By fifty thousand girls adored,

The motto of my soul would be:
"The fish-ball is its own reward!"

O noble cod!

To you I nod;

You make me sad and meditative;
When toned with wine

You're quite divine

Unto the Massachusetts native.

Oh! when I'm old, and bent, and gray,

With wholesome morals richly stored,

I'll boldly face the world and say:

"The fish-ball is its own reward!"

POE'S HOUSE AT FORDHAM.

MRS. MARTHA J. LAMB.

(Read by the Author.)

HERE is Fordham ?

The very question I asked of Sophomoros.

"Is it possible that you do not know?" he replied, deferentially at first, but growing insufferably pompous as he proceeded; "how singular that any one who has studied the geography of the different countries of the world through actual travel should be obliged to come down to first principles, and institute home researches ! Fordham is an inconspicuous portion of New-York City, a few miles north of Harlem River."

"Thank you," I said meekly: "I was aware of that fact in a general way, but it being a place, like some faces, which never made special impression upon my memory, I am not able to locate it with precision. How may it be reached?"

"Variously; chiefly by steam and horse-cars. Boats do not run up there yet. It is not so much their fault as