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Hair-locks! There are probably many

Good things to be said about those. Give me time-that's the best guess of any

"Lock” has several meanings, one knows. Iron locks-iron-gray locks—a “deadlock”

That would set up an every-day wit: Then of course there's the obvious “wedlock";

But that wasn't it.

No! mine was a joke for the ages:

Full of intricate meaning and pith; A feast for your scholars and sages

How it would have rejoiced Sydney Smith! 'Tis such thoughts that ennoble a mortal;

And, singling him out from the herd, Fling wide immortality's portal

But what was the word ?

Ah me! 'tis a bootless endeavor.

As the flight of a bird of the air
Is the flight of a joke—you will never

See the same one again, you may swear.

'Twas my first-born, and oh! how I prized it!

My darling, my treasure, my own! This brain and none other devised it

And now it has flown.



From Bab Ballads."


At a pleasant evening party I had taken down

to supper One whom I will call Elvira, and we talked of

love and Tupper,

Mr. Tupper and the poets, very lightly with

them dealing, For I've always been distinguished for a strong

poetic feeling

Then we let off paper crackers, each of which

contained a motto, And she listened while I read them, till her

mother told her not to. Then she whispered, “To the ball-room we

had better, dear, be walking; If we stop down here much longer, really peo

ple will be talking.” There were noblemen in coronets, and military

cousins, There were captains by the hundred, there

were baronets by dozens, Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed

them with a blessing ; Then she let down all her back-hair which had

taken long in dressing; Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agi

tated throttle, Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her

pretty smelling-bottle.

So I whispered, “Dear Elvira, say—what can

the matter be with you? Does anything you've eaten, darling Popsy,

disagree with you?" But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and

more distressing, And she tore her pretty back-hair, which had

taken long in dressing. Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling

then above me, And she whispered, “Ferdinando, do you

really, really love me?” “ Love you?” said I, then I sighed, and then I

gazed upon her sweetlyFor I think I do this sort of thing particularly

neatly“Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable

azure, On a scientific goose-chase, with my Coxwell

or my Glaisher!

“Tell me whither I may hie me, tell me, dear

one, that I may knowIs it up the highest Andes? down a horrible

volcano ?”

But she said, “ It isn't polar bears, or hot vol

canic grottoes, Only find out who it is that writes those lovely

cracker mottoes!”


“Tell me, Henry Wadsworth, Alfred, Poet

Close, or Mister Tupper, Do you write the bonbon mottoes my Elvira

pulls at supper r?"

But Henry Wadsworth smiled, and said he

had not had that honor: And Alfred, too, disclaimed the words that

told so much upon her. .

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