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The marriage list, and the jeu d'esprit,
All reach my ear in the selfsame tone,-
I shudder at each, but the fiend reads on!

Oh sweet as the lapse of water at noon

.O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree, The sigh of the wind in the woods of June, Or sound of flutes o'er a moonlight sea, Or the low soft music, perchance, which seems To float through the slumbering singer's dreams,

So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone

Of her in whose features I sometimes look, As I sit at eve by her side alone,

And we read by turns from the selfsame book,Some tale perhaps of the olden time,

Some lover's romance or quaint old rhyme.

Then when the story is one of woe,

Some prisoner's plaint through his dungeon-bar, Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low Her voice sinks down like a moan afar; And I seem to hear that prisoner's wail, And his face looks on me worn and pale. And, when she reads some merrier song, Her voice is glad as an April bird's; And, when the tale is of war and wrong,

A trumpet's summons is in her words, And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear, And see the tossing of plume and spear!—Oh pity me then, when, day by day,

The stout fiend darkens my parlour door; And reads me perchance the selfsame lay Which melted in music, the night before, From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet,

And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet!

I cross my floor with a nervous tread,

I whistle and laugh and sing and shout,

I flourish my cane above his head,

And stir up the fire to roast him out;
I topple the chairs, and drum on the pane,
And press my hands on my ears, in vain !

I've studied Glanville and James the wise,
And wizard black-letter tomes which treat
Of demons of every name and size

Which a Christian man is presumed to meet,
But never a hint and never a line

Can I find of a reading fiend like mine.

I've crossed the Psalter with Brady and Tate,
And laid the Primer above them all,
I've nailed a horseshoe over the grate,

And hung a wig to my parlour wall,
Once worn by a learned Judge, they say,
At Salem court in the witchcraft day.

"Conjuro te, sceleratissime,

Abire ad tuum locum!"-Still
Like a visible nightmare he sits by me,-
The exorcism has lost its skill;
And I hear again in my haunted room
The husky wheeze and the dolorous hum!

Ah!-commend me to Mary Magdalen

With her sevenfold plagues,-to the wandering Jew,—
To the terrors which haunted Orestes when
The furies his midnight curtains drew;
But charm him off, ye who charm him can,
That reading demon, that fat old man!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

[Born in 1809. A Physician, and Professor of Anatomy in Harvard University. Well known as author of The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table and other prose writings, as well as poems-humorous, critical, or occasional, for the most part].

THE TREADMILL SONG.

THE stars are rolling in the sky,

The earth rolls on below,

And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.

Then tread away, my gallant boys,
And make the axle fly;

Why should not wheels go round about,

Like planets in the sky?

Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man,
And stir your solid pegs!

Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,

And shake your spider legs;

What though you're awkward at the trade,

There's time enough to learn,—

So lean upon the rail, my lad,

And take another turn.

They've built us up a noble wall,
To keep the vulgar out;

We've nothing in the world to do
But just to walk about;

So faster, now, you middle men,
And try to beat the ends,-
It's pleasant work to ramble round
Among one's honest friends.

Here, tread upon the long man's toes,
He sha'nt be lazy here,--

And punch the little fellow's ribs,
And tweak that lubber's ear,-

He's lost them both, -don't pull his hair,
Because he wears a scratch,

But poke him in the further eye,
That isn't in the patch.

Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell,
And so our work is done;

It's pretty sport, -suppose we take
A round or two for fun!

If ever they should turn me out,
When I have better grown,
Now hang me but I mean to have

A treadmill of my own!

THE MUSIC-GRINDERS.

THERE are three ways in which men take

One's money from his purse,

And very hard it is to tell

Which of the three is worse;

But all of them are bad enough
To make a body curse.

You're riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains;
A fellow jumps from out a bush,
And takes your horse's reins,
Another hints some words about
A bullet in your brains.

It's hard to meet such pressing friends
In such a lonely spot;

It's very hard to lose your cash,

But harder to be shot;

And so you take your wallet out,
Though you would rather not.

Perhaps you're going out to dine,—
Some filthy creature begs

You'll hear about the cannon-ball

That carried off his pegs,
And says it is a dreadful thing
For men to lose their legs.

He tells you of his starving wife,
His children to be fed,
Poor little lovely innocents,

All clamorous for bread,—
And so you kindly help to put
A bachelor to bed.

You're sitting on your window-seat,
Beneath a cloudless moon;

You hear a sound that seems to wear
The semblance of a tune,

As if a broken fife should strive
To drown a cracked bassoon.

And nearer, nearer still, the tide
Of music seems to come;

There's something like a human voice,

And something like a drum;

You sit in speechless agony,

Until your ear is numb.

Poor "home, sweet home," should seem to be A very dismal place;

Your "auld acquaintance" all at once

Is altered in the face;

Their discords sting through Burns and Moore,

Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.

You think they are crusaders, sent
From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,
To crack the voice of Melody,
And break the legs of Time.

But hark! the air again is still,
The music all is ground,

And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound;

It cannot be,it is,-it is,

A hat is going round!

No! Pay the dentist when he leaves
A fracture in your jaw,

And pay the owner of the bear

That stunned you with his paw, And buy the lobster that has had Your knuckles in his claw;

But, if you are a portly man,
Put on your fiercest frown,
And talk about a constable

To turn them out of town;

Then close your sentence with an oath,
And shut the window down!

And, if you are a slender man,
Not big enough for that,
Or if you cannot make a speech
Because you are a flat,

Go very quietly and drop
A button in the hat!

TO AN INSECT.1

I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice,
Wherever thou art hid,
Thou testy little dogmatist,
Thou pretty Katydid!

Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,—
Old gentlefolks are they,-
Thou say'st an undisputed thing
In such a solemn way.

Thou art a female, Katydid!

I know it by the trill

That quivers through thy piercing notes,
So petulant and shrill.

I think there is a knot of you
Beneath the hollow tree,-
A knot of spinster Katydids,-
Do Katydids drink tea?

O tell me where did Katy live,
And what did Katy do?
And was she very fair and young,
And yet so wicked, too?
Did Katy love a naughty man,
Or kiss more cheeks than one?

I warrant Katy did no more
Than many a Kate has done.

Dear me! I'll tell you all about

My fuss with little Jane,

And Ann, with whom I used to walk

So often down the lane,

1 Perhaps most of our readers are aware that there is an insect in America named the "Katydid," on account of its emitting a sound resembling that combination of syllables. I have been told that sometimes the insect varies its utterances into "Katydidn't."-W. M. R.

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