Now I weckomember, I made thuch a jolly widdle the other day on the Ethplanade. I thaw a fellah with a big New--Newfoundland dog, and he inthpired me--the dog, you know, not the fellah,--he wath a lunatic.

I'm keeping the widdle, but I don't mind telling _you_.

Why does a dog waggle hith tail? Give it up? I think motht fellahs will give that up!

You thee, the dog waggles. .h.i.th tail becauth the dog's stwonger than the tail. If he wath n't, the tail would waggle the dog!

Ye-th,--that 'th what I call a widdle. If I can only wecollect him, I thall athtonish those two girls thome of these days.

THE VOICES AT THE THRONE.

T. WESTWOOD.

A little child, A little meek-faced, quiet village child, Sat singing by her cottage door at eve A low, sweet sabbath song. No human ear Caught the faint melody,--no human eye Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile That wreathed her innocent lips while they breathed The oft-repeated burden of the hymn, "Praise G.o.d! Praise G.o.d!"

A seraph by the throne In full glory stood. With eager hand He smote the golden harp-string, till a flood Of harmony on the celestial air Welled forth, unceasing. There with a great voice, He sang the "Holy, holy evermore, Lord G.o.d Almighty!" and the eternal courts Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies, Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burned With vehement adoration.

Higher yet Rose the majestic anthem, without pause, Higher, with rich magnificence of sound, To its full strength; and still the infinite heavens Rang with the "Holy, holy evermore!"

Till, trembling with excessive awe and love, Each sceptred spirit sank before the Throne With a mute hallelujah.

But even then, While the ecstatic song was at its height, Stole in an alien voice,--a voice that seemed To float, float upward from some world afar,-- A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how sweet!

That blended with the spirits' rushing strain, Even as a fountain's music, with the roll Of the reverberate thunder.

Loving smiles Lit up the beauty of each angel's face At that new utterance, smiles of joy that grew More joyous yet, as ever and anon Was heard the simple burden of the hymn, "Praise G.o.d! praise G.o.d!"

And when the seraph's song Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre Silence hung brooding,--when the eternal courts Rang with the echoes of his chant sublime, Still through the abysmal s.p.a.ce that wandering voice Came floating upward from its world afar, Still murmured sweet on the celestial air, "Praise G.o.d! praise G.o.d!"

MY FRIEND'S SECRET.

I found my friend in his easy chair, With his heart and his head undisturbed by a care; The smoke of a Cuba outpoured from his lips, His face like the moon in a semi-eclipse; His feet, in slippers, as high as his nose, And his chair tilted back to a cla.s.sical pose.

I marvelled much such contentment to see-- The secret whereof I begged he'd give me.

He puffed away with re-animate zest, As though with an added jollity blest.

"I'll tell you, my friend," said he, in a pause, "What is the very 'identical' cause.

"Don't fret!--Let this be the first rule of your life;-- Don't fret with your children, don't fret with your wife; Let everything happen as happen it may, Be cool as a cuc.u.mber every day; If favourite of fortune or a thing of its spite, Keep calm, and believe that all is just right.

"If you're blown up abroad or scolded at home, Just make up your mind to let it all come: If people revile you or pile on offence, 'Twill not make any odds a century hence.

For all the reviling that malice can fling, A little philosophy softens the sting.

"Run never in debt, but pay as you go; A man free from debt feels a heaven below; He rests in a sunshine undimmed by a dun, And ranks 'mid the favoured as A No. 1.

It needs a great effort the spirit to brace 'Gainst the terror that dwells in a creditor's face.

"And this one resolve you should cherish like gold, --It has ever my life and endeavour controlled,-- If fortune a.s.sail, and worst comes to worst, And business proves bad, its bubbles all burst, Be resolved, if disaster your plans circ.u.mvent, That you will, if you fail, owe no man a cent."

There was Bunsby's deep wisdom revealed in his tone, Though its depth was hard to fathom I own; "For how can I fail," I said to myself, "If to pay all my debts I have enough pelf?"

Then I scratched my sinciput, battling for light, But gave up the effort, supposing 'twas right; And herein give out, as my earnest intent, Whenever I fail to owe no man a cent.

VAIN REGRETS.

A seedy old beggar asked alms of me As he sat 'neath the shade of a wayside tree.

He was beggared in purse and beggared in soul, And his voice betrayed a pitiful dole, As he sang a song, to a dismal pitch, With the burden, "IF THINGS WAS ONLY SICH!"

"If things was only sich," said he, "You should see what a wonderful man I'd be; No beggar I, by the wayside thrown, But I'd live in a palace and millions own, And men would court me if I were rich-- As I'd be if things was only sich."

"If things was only sich," said he, "I'd be lord of the land and lord of the sea; I would have a throne and be a king, And rule the roast with a mighty swing-- I'd make a place in Fame's bright niche; I'd do it if things was only sich."

"If things was only sich," said he, "Rare wines I'd quaff from the far countree, I'd cloth myself in dazzling garb, I'd mount the back of the costly barb, And none should ask me wherefore or which-- Did it chance that things was only sich."

"If things was only sich," said he, "I'd love the fairest and they'd love me; Yon dame, with a smile that warms my heart, Might have borne with me life's better part, But lost to me, here in poverty's ditch, What were mine if things was only sich."

Thus the old beggar moodily sung, And his eyes dropped tears as his hands he wrung.

I could but pity to hear him berate, In dolorous tones the decrees of Fate, That laid on his back its iron switch, While he cried, "If things was only sich."

"If things was only sich!"--e'en all Might the past in sad review recall; But little the use and little the gain, Exhuming the bones of buried pain, And whether we're poor or whether we're rich, We'll say not, "If things was only sich."

ON THE Sh.o.r.eS OF TENNESSEE.

E.L. BEERS.

The opening verses should be given in a low, almost plaintive tone; when the flag is seen, the exclamations should be e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed with spirit and rapturous delight. Care should be taken not to give the negro _patois_ too broad, or it may prove a defect; where properly spoken it is really a beauty:

"Move my arm-chair, faithful Pompey In the sunshine bright and strong, For this world is fading, Pompey-- Ma.s.sa won't be with you long; And I fain would hear the south wind Bring once more the sound to me, Of the wavelets softly breaking On the sh.o.r.es of Tennessee.

"Mournful though the ripples murmur As they still the story tell, How no vessels float the banner That I've loved so long and well.

I shall listen to their music, Dreaming that again I see Stars and stripes on sloop and shallop Sailing up the Tennessee;

"And, Pompey, while old Ma.s.sa's waiting For Death's last dispatch to come, If that exiled starry banner Should come proudly sailing home.

You shall greet it slave no longer-- Voice and hand shall both be free That shout and point to Union colors On the waves of Tennessee."

"Ma.s.sa's berry kind to Pompey; But old darkey's happy here.

Where he's tended corn and cotton For dese many a long gone year.

Over yonder, Missis' sleeping-- No one tends her grave like me: Mebbe she would miss the flowers She used to love in Tennessee.