sot a-gabbin' some r portrait tuck!' in to, nuther.'

uns as I knows on,

to the silent tomb, hevin' been Jidge

ke nothin'! ight o' that afore:

can dew it for you,

n't got no ha'r, I'll

carries 'em along ent with a notion to

ck up a bit.' e to the shiny old 'it won't work, no

me my old wig.' eation! When you asterin' for the new har!'

'll astonish the paover my shoulder,

ck as the old bellturkey-gobbler!' idge: 'can't I get

nardly a fair sample, thougn, for i made it aln ber, a-splittin' rails for old Hiram Powers, and nothin', to find the rhymes to it.'

I politely but positively declined the poetica and rising lazily from his seat, with a look of man of genius moved slowly away. But s seemed to strike him he returned, and again man. Taking a handful of boxes out of his 'Any body got the agur here? It looks as th smart chance for it here, it's so low and ma beautiful prairie, sloping down to the river, a elicited a short, angry negative from old fr my

'Oh, you ha'n't?' said the imperturbable you'll ketch it some time, and these 'ere pills doctor. They'll cure the agur, sure as sho tell ye, I've hed it, on and off, more'n a year had n't taken fifteen boxes of these 'ere pills, m wheres now. They've done me a heap o' g hev a box?'

My old friend closed his eyes and made no vender lingeringly mounted his Rosinante, and fully to himself: 'That old hoss's a dotin', or s the agur'll shake it out of him yet!'

Strange and ignorant as poor Ik Custis app haps a greater genius, than many who have a n In fact, it is a certain proof of talent that a m the lowest walks of life, should evince such tas far as his means and advantages allowed. P that he never knew his real worth, or expe which more knowledge gives to genius.

It is some years ago since we sustained an the death (by drowning) of a little red-heade an author of pathetic and satirical poems, a melodies, the words of which were interlarded in fact, it was necessary he should sing his ow much emphasis,) and to interpret the French

spectable candles which the first breath of criticism could puff out. they must all be Byrons or Nortons, without the genius of eithe enduring the trials which perhaps made those two luminaries. But re a poet has a very hard life in the west. The country is too new your gilt-edged-paper poets; too full of actualities and necessities for abstracted; too simple and home-like for the terrible and magnific too few of the luxuries and elegances of life for the sentimentalist. instance, here is a scene in the house of a young poetess, who has al work to do, from an inability to find a servant, a luxury very har keep in the west.

Young poetess engaged in writing an impassioned poem. Hus standing in an unsympathizing attitude, endeavoring to make hir heard:

POETESS: 'Tell me, my heart, whence springs this bitter tear?' HUSBAND: 'I've asked you for my slippers twice, my dear.' POETESS, in provoked prose: Oh! they 're some where, Charles ook for them yourself, and let me write!'

'Tell me, my heart, whence springs this bitter tear?'

HUSBAND: I tell you what, Jane, bacon's scarce this year!' POETESS, angrily: 'Oh! Charles, I wish you would save your ba nd let me write. You keep putting the rhyme out of my head.' HUSBAND, pathetically: 'Ah! my dear, I wish I could do that!' POETESS: 'Tell me, my heart, whence springs this bitter tear?' One of the children coughs violently in bed.

HUSBAND, distractedly: Poor Tommy's got the whooping-coug fear !'

POETESS throws down her pen in desperation, and exclaims: 'V I wish you were all any where but here!'

Now I ask any of the poetical fraternity, could they endure this, and tinue poets? Our native genius was the only kind that could flourish and it has generally become sadly adulterated of later years. Ther no more Ik Custises and musical carpenters at the present day, to en Yenest country-folks with their simple talents. No more! no n oh are gone, good old innocent days!—and all our rough diamond disappearing too.

Our little vessel cleaves the waves no longer,

Dashing the water bravely from her bow,

And bending proudly, as the breeze grows stronger For nothing stirs her but the tide-wave now.

But as a warrior from the field hard-fought,
In his love's arms lies listlessly at rest,
So she, her feats of sailing soon forgot,
Droops fainting on the water's burning breast.

The rude lips of the ruffian sun are drinking
Hot kisses from the wavelets as they glide:
Like timid maids, from his embraces shrinking,
They long to find a home wherein to hide.

They cannot know that GOD, in his own fashion,
Doing, as always, all things for the best,
Makes them the purer for this fiery passion,
Before the sun has sunk within the west.

Our souls- -at least when passion has passed through us,
And left us prey to bitter fears and pains-
Become the better for the love that drew us,
Softened and soothed by gentle evening rains.

The slender sword-fish, whirling as if crazy,
Darts on the sleeping surface to and fro;
"And in the water-grass, alone and lazy,
Quiet and cosy, lies the perch below.

As near the flats, so calm and deathly quiet,
Silent as ghosts, we hold our toilsome way,
Our half-shut eyes, where fantasies run riot,
See forms beneath, that beckon us to stay.

In the dank weeds we image flowing tresses,
And in the buds beneath, unearthly eyes;
And arms are twining there in soft caresses—
Fair love-knots, which our cruel keel unties.

Ir was the nineteenth of March, 184age of Methusaleh, he will never forget th at three in the afternoon, that our friend where he had just received five hundred f specie.

The first use Rodolphe made of this into his pocket was not to pay his debts, himself to practise economy and go to no idea on this subject, and declared that befo ought to provide for necessaries. Theref his creditors, and bought a Turkish pipe w

Armed with this purchase, he directed his friend Marcel, who had for some tin entered Marcel's atelier, Rodolphe's pocke a grand holiday. On hearing this unus was one of his neighbors, a great spec 'Change, and muttered: 'There's that in ginning his music again! If this is to g landlord. It's impossible to work with s quit one's condition of poor artist and turn never suspecting that it was his friend Ro Marcel reapplied himself to his Passage been on his easel nearly three years.