THE GREEN GOOSE.

Mr. Bogardus "gin a treat,"

And a green goose, best of birds to eat, Delicious, savory, fat and sweet, Formed the dish the guests to greet; But such, we know, Is small for a "blow,"

And many times around won't go; So Mr. Bogardus chanced to reflect, And with a wisdom circ.u.mspect, He sent round cards to parties select, Some six or so the goose to dissect, The day and hour defining; And then he laid in lots of things, That might have served as food for kings, Liquors drawn from their primal springs, And all that grateful comfort brings To epicures in dining.

But Mr. Bogardus's brother Sim, With moral qualities rather dim, Copied the message sent to him, In his most clerkly writing, And sent it round to Tom, and d.i.c.k, And Harry, and Jack, and Frank, and Nick, And many more, to the green goose "pick"

Most earnestly inviting; He laid it on the green goose thick, Their appet.i.tes exciting.

'Twas dinner time by the Old South Clock; Bogardus waited the sounding knock Of friends to come at the moment, "chock,"

To try his goose, his game, his hock, And hoped they would not dally; When one, and two, and three, and four, And running up the scale to a score, And adding to it many more, Who all their Sunday fixings wore, Came in procession to the door, And crowded in on his parlor floor, Filling him with confusion sore, Like an after-election rally!

"Gentlemen," then murmured he, "To what unhoped contingency Am I owing for this felicity, A visit thus unexpected?"

Then they held their cards before his eyes, And he saw, to his infinite surprise, That some sad dog had taken a rise On him, and his hungry friends likewise, And _whom_ he half suspected; But there was Sim, Of morals dim, With a face as long, and dull, and grim, As though _he_ the ire reflected.

Then forth the big procession went, With mirth and anger equally blent; To think they didn't get the scent Of what the cursed missive meant Annoyed some of 'em deeply; They felt they'd been caught by a green goose bait, And plucked and skinned, and then, light weight, Had been sold very cheaply.

MORAL.

Keep your weather eye peeled for trap, For we never know just what may hap, Nor if we shall be winners; Remembering that one green goose Will be of very little use 'Mongst twenty hungry sinners.

MIGRATORY BONES,[2]

SHOWING THE VAGABONDISH TENDENCY OF BONES THAT ARE LOOSE.

We all have heard of Dr. Redman, The man in New York who deals with dead men, Who sits at a table, And straightway is able To talk with the spirits of those who have fled, man!

And gentles and ladies Located in Hades, Through his miraculous mediation, Declare how they feel, And such things reveal As suits their genius for impartation.

'Tis not with any irreverent spirit I give the tale, or flout it, or jeer it; For many good folk Not subject to joke Declare for the fact that they both see and hear it.

It comes from New York, though, And it might be hard work, though, To bring belief to any point near it.

Now this Dr. Redman, Who deals with dead men, Once cut up a fellow whose spirit had fled, man, Who (the fellow) perchance Had indulged in that dance Performed at the end of a hempen thread, man; And the cut-up one, (A sort of a gun!) Like Banquo, though he was dead, wasn't done, Insisted in very positive tones That he'd be ground to calcined manure, Or any other evil endure, Before he'd give up his right to his bones!

And then, through knocks, the resolute dead man Gave his bones a bequest to Redman.

In Hartford, Conn., This matter was done, And Redman the bones highly thought on, When, changed to New York Was the scene of his work, In conjunction with Dr. Orton.

Now mark the wonder that here appears: After a season of months and years, Comes up again the dead man, Who in a very practical way, Says he'll bring his bones some day, And give them again to Redman.

When, sure enough (Though some that are rough Might call the narrative "devilish tough"), One charming day In the month of May, As Orton and Redman walked the street Through the severing air, From they knew not where, Came a positive bone, all bleached and bare.

That dropped at the doctor's wondering feet!

Then the sprightly dead man Knocked out to Redman The plan that lay in his ghostly head, man: He'd carry the freight, Unheeding its weight; They needn't question how, or about it; But they might be sure The bones he'd procure And not make any great bones about it.

From that he made it a special point Each day for their larder to furnish a joint!

From overhead, and from all around, Upon the floor, and upon the ground, Pell-mell, Down fell Low bones, and high bones, Jaw bones, and thigh bones, Until the doctors, beneath their power, Ducked like ducks in a thunder-shower!

Armfuls of bones, Bagfuls of bones, Cartloads of bones, No end to the mult.i.tudinous bones, Until, forsooth, this thought gained head, man, That this invisible friend, the dead man, Had chartered a band From the shadowy land, Who had turned to work with a busy hand, And boned all their bones for Dr. Redman!

Now, how to account for all the mystery Of this same weird and fantastical history?

That is the question For people's digestion, And calls aloud for instant untwistery!

Of this we are certain, By this lift of the curtain, That still they're alive for work or enjoyment, Though I must confess That I scarcely can guess Why they don't choose some useful employment.

[Footnote 2: Dr. Redman, of New York, was a noted medium, and it was said that, for a while, wherever he might be, bones would be dropped all about him, to the confusion and wonder of everybody. These bones, he said, were brought him by a spirit, whose bones were of no further use to him.]

THE RED CHIGNON.

(FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY.)

CHARACTERS.

MISS PRISCILLA PRECISE, { Princ.i.p.al of a genteel Boarding { School for Young Ladies.

HETTY GRAY, } f.a.n.n.y RICE, } Pupils.

LIZZIE BOND, } HANNAH JONES, } MRS. LOFTY, a fashionable Lady.

SCENE.--_Parlor in_ MISS PRECISE'S _Establishment._

_Piano_ R., _Lounge_ L., _Chairs_ C.

_Enter_ HETTY, f.a.n.n.y, _and_ LIZZIE, R., _laughing._

_Hetty._ O, such a fright!

_f.a.n.n.y._ Such a stupid!

_Lizzie._ I never saw such a ridiculous figure in the whole course of my life!

_Hetty._ I should think she came from the back-woods.

_f.a.n.n.y._ Who is she, any way?

_Lizzie._ She's the daughter of the rich Mr. Jones, a man, who, three years ago, was the proprietor of a very small saw-mill away down east.

He managed to sc.r.a.pe together a little money, which he invested in certain railroad stocks, which n.o.body thought would ever pay. They did, however, and he has, no doubt to his own astonishment, made a great deal of money.

_Hetty._ And that accounts for Miss Precise's partiality. Well, I'm not going to a.s.sociate myself with her; and I mean to write to father this very day, and tell him to take me home. She dresses so ridiculously!

_Lizzie._ And talks so horridly!

_f.a.n.n.y._ And plays so wretchedly!

_Hetty._ O, girls, don't you think I caught her at the piano this morning playing Yankee Doodle and whistling an accompaniment!

_f.a.n.n.y._ Whistling!

_Lizzie._ Good gracious! what would Miss Precise say. If there's anything she forbids, it's whistling.