The sage and onions are a snare. "Oh, taste!" our hostess cried, and press'd A portion of a chicken's breast; I view'd the fowl with longing eye, I mark'd with fix'd and stony glare "“Beware the celery, if you please; 66 Dyspepsia !" The Mocking Bird, by Frederick Field (John Van Voorst, THE FATE OF THE WINTER RIDER. (By a young lady aged fourteen). His brow was sad, his eye below In cosy sheds he saw the light Of bicycles well cleaned and bright ; "Try not that road," the old man said, "Rot! Bicycle !" "Beware the oak-tree's withered arm, At break of day, as in a brook He started back, what saw he there? A bicyclist, upon the ground, Half buried in the dirt, was found That two-wheeled thing of strange device, There in the twilight cold and grey, Helpless, but struggling, he lay, While, now no longer bright and fair, His bicycle lay broken there Poor Bicycle! On his high forehead curled copious hair, About half-past nine, as he kep' gettin' upper "Oh, stay!" the maiden said, “and rest, About a quarter to six in the next forenoon The very same man about a quarter to seven He was dead, defunct, beyond any doubt, The shades of night were falling fast, On which was seen the strange device- "Hi, stay!" the Bobby cried, "you man.' At break of day, as in a fright, There in the twilight cold and grey- Scraps, 14 May, 1884. Exitium. I went to bed at eleven, At the sign of the Azure Boar, And I knew that my room was seven, That glimmered like sickly Hope, When a gentleman-not to my thinking-- And he spoke in a language mighty, That rang through the chill and gloom ; And he asked me, Highty-tighty," • What the deuce do you do in my room?" And never of warning mildly A word had the stranger said, And down with a noise and clatter And some one cried, "What's the matter?" And whenever I feel dyspeptic, I see the man with the bootjack, A vindictive person's a brute ; Stands like a pudding at Christmas, a white surface, dete. with black things. Loud from the neighbouring river, the deep voiced clamorous bargée Roars, and in accents opprobrious holloas to have the lock opened. These are the green woods of Cliefden. But where are the people who in them Laughed like a man when he lists to the breath-catching accents of Buckstone? Where are the wondrous white waistcoats, the flimsy barege and muslins, Worn by the swells and the ladies who came here on pleasant excursions? Gone are those light-hearted people, flirtations, perhaps love-even marriage, All have had woeful effect since Mrs. Merillian's picnic; And of that great merry-making, some bottles in tinfol enveloped, And a glove dropped by Jane Page, are the vestiges on'y remaining! Ye who take pleasure in picnics, and dote on excursions aquatic, Flying the smoke of the city, vexations and troubles of business, List to a joyous tradition of one which was once held at Cliefden List to a tale of cold chicken, champagne, bitter beer, lobster salad! EDMUND H. YATES. TOWN AND GOWN. BRIGHTLY blazed up the fires through the long dark days of November, Glimmered the genial lamp in the wainscoted rooms of the College, Brightest of all in the rooms of De Whyskers, "the talented drinker." Thence came the festive song, and the clink of the bottles and glasses, Thence came the chorus loud, abhorred of the Dean and the Fellows. There sat De Whyskers the jolly, the drinker of curious liquors, There sat De Jones, and De Jenkyns, stroke oar of the Boniface Torpid; There too, De Brown, and De Smith, well known to the eyes of the Proctors, Heedless of numberless ticks, and the schools, and a "plough" in futuro, Sat by the ruddy-faced fire, and quaffed the bright vintage of Xeres. Merrily out to the night through the fogs and the mist of November Floated the breath of the weed through the fields of the dark Empyrean, Rose the melodious sounds of the "dogs" which are known as "the jolly," "Slapping" and "banging" along through that noisy and meaningless ditty. But silence! the welkin now rings (whatever the meaning of that is), A rumour of battle is heard, and the wine and the weeds are Out to the darkling High, where the cad and the commoner struggle, Out to the noise, and the d ́n, and the crowd of the unwashed mechanics, Went forth De Whyskers the bold, brisafull of the valour of Holland, Flashed both his eyes in the dark with a gleam that was quite meteoric, As flashes the pheasant's tail when he hears the first gun in October. Now with a yell and a spring the cads came up to the onset, Cursing and swearing amain, and throwing their arms out like thunder. Stopping before All Saints the hideous work of Dean Aldrich, Stopping De Whyskers male emphatic the sign for the battle, Thereon he let fall a blow swift like an armourer's hammer, Down on his face fell a cad as falls an oak on the mountains, Forth from his nose came "the red" as oft in the vintage the dresser Squeezes the blushing grape on the plains of Estremadura. Now from the end of the High a rush of the cads overwhelming Sweeps as the sea sweeps on in the long dark nights of the winter, Howling as howl the wolves through the snow in the forests of Sweden; Blow after blow is struck, as the flakes come down in the snowstorm. Now from the Turl to the Broad, and St. Giles's, abode of the peaceful, Even to Worcester the slow, or Botany Bay, as they call it, Down by Trinity Gates, and Pallioi beloved of the scholar, Down by the temple of Tom, whence the Curfew rings in the gloaming Thundered the fray till the rain came down on the scene as a damper. College Rhymes (T. and G. Shrimpton, Oxford, 1865-) The great "Town and Gown" rows that used to occur annually on the Fifth of November, between the undergraduates and the townspeople, have been gradual y dying out, but the memory of them still lingers in many old College Rhymes and traditions. They are most vividly described in Verdant Green, an Oxford Freshman, a light-hearted clever little work, by the Rev. E. Bradley, Rector of Lenton, better known under his pseudonym of Cuthbert Bede. Mr. Bradley, although himself a Cambridge man, was intimately acquainted with Oxford. A VOICE FROM THE FAR WRIT, Happy thy name, O BURNS! for bars, in thy native Doric, Meaneth the free bright streams, exhausties, pellucid, and sparkling, Mountain-born, wild and erratic, kiming the flw'rets in passing, Type of thy verse and thyself—bowling ata musical ever; And the streams by thy verse made immortal are known by our giant rivers, Where the emigrants sing them to soothe the yearnings for home in their bosoms, And the Coila and gentle Doon, by the song of the Celtic wanderer, Are known to the whispering reels that border the great Mississippi. Thou wert the lad for the lasses! lasses the same are as misses; And here we have misses hal pleased you-Missouri and the Mississippi. And “green grow the rushes" beside them-as thy evergreen chorus would have them. Thou wert the champion of freedom!-Thou didst rejoice in our glory! When we at Bunker's Hill no bankum lisplay'd, but true courage! Jabilant thou wert in our Declaration of Independence! More a Republican thou than a chain-hugging bow-andscrape Royalist! Even the Stars and the Stripes seem appointed the flag of thy destiny ; The stars are the types of thy glory, the stripes thou didst get from Misfortune. For hers was the duty to ope the gates of the convent, and Messages, parcels, et cetera, from those who came to the Ever and often she paused to gaze on the face of Our Lady, Then would she say to herself (because there was none else "Why should I thus be immured, when people outside are Thousands of sights and scenes, while I'm not allowed to Thousands of joys and of changes, while I am joyless and No, I can bear it no longer. I'll hasten away from the Now is the time, for all's quiet; there's no one to see or to So resolving at length, she took off her habit monastic, Where some one or other, or somebody else, would certainly "Take thou charge of these keys, blest Mother," then mur- "And guard all the nuns in this holy but insupportable And as she spoke these words, the eyes of the picture were With mournful expression upon her, and tears could be seen Little she heeded, however, her thoughts had played truant before her, Then stole she out of the portal, and never once looking behind her, Wrapp'd in an ample cloak, and further concealed by the darkness, Out through the streets of the city Beatrice quickly skedaddled. II. Out in the world went Beatrice, her cell was left dark and deserted; Scarce had she gone, when lo! with wonderment be it Down from her canvas and frame, there stepp'd the blessed Took up the keys and the raiment Beatrice had quitted, and Also assuming the face and figure of her who was absent; Became in appearance a nun, so that none could discover the difference. Save that the sisters agreed that Beatrice the portress was growing Better and better, as one who aspired to canonization ; Daily abounding in grace, a pattern to all in the convent; That, when too good for this world, she might fly away to a better. Her post was below her deserts, and so by promotion they made her Mistress of all the novices seeking religious instruction. Such was her great success in that tender and beautiful office, Her pupils all bloomed into saints, and some of the very first water. III. Many a day had pass'd since Beatrice escape iz convent, Much had she seen of the world, and its wicked Oft she repented her act, and long'd to return, yet e Oft was determined to go, still she "stood the c going." Thus it at last occurr'd that her convent's secular age Entered one day, in the house where the truant is staying, But changed as she was in appearance, he did not aw from Adam; Whilst he in his clerical garb was to her a familiar t And so she eagerly asked of the nuns and of sister convent. "Truly," the factor replied, "She is still the p sisters, Favourite too of the abbess, and worthy of all our affec Puzzled and rather distress'd, then answer'd the "She whom I speak of, alas! was less of a saint She fled from the veil and the cell, so surely you speaks "Not in the least, my child," the secular agent respo "Sister Beatrice, the saint-like, did not run away from cloister, Mistress is she of the novices. Why should she go? Sa and nonsense!" "What can it mean?" thought Beatrice, "and who is zi double and namesake?" So when the agent was gone, resolved she would settle t question, Off to the convent she went, and knocked at the put familiar, Ask'd for the sister Beatrice, was shown to the parlour a found a Counterpart of herself, as she was in her days of seclusion. Down on her knees went Beatrice- the why and the wher fore she knew not. "Welcome, my daughter, again," said her double, the blessed Madonna ; "Now I restore you your keys, your robe, and your other belongings, Adding the excellent name and promotion I've won in your likeness; Be you a nun as before, but more pious; farewell, take my blessing." Speaking, she melted away in the holy pre-Raphaelite Again was Beatrice "herself," like Richard the third, à a Growing in grace from that day, and winning the glory of While each of the pupils she taught, went to heaven as surely Such is the metre Columbian, but where is the bard who |