Or, in New Orleans, far away,

When under Butler's rule?"
Fie! fie ! should social science come,

Or scurvy politics,
To mar our peace with brutal bomb?

Away with all such tricks !

There! please go on.

“S”-oh! the sound Through lips that sweetly smile, Like sibilant waters unprofound,

That aimless hours beguile
On pebbly beaches! “P”-more staid

The smile now on the lips,
As though love's sun that warmed the

maid Was partly 'neath eclipse.

“ Double o”- through parting lips that

breaks, Like gurgling rill half held 'Tween walling rocks and tent-like brakes,

And wonder semi-knelled

Through circling lips. “N”_here again

The semi-smile that played Athwart your lips so sweetly when

The “s” you first essayed.
“S”—ah! the smile is here again!

Oh, sweet thou letter “s”!
You 'mind me of that moment when

A tremulous little “ Yes"
From self-same lips a day in eld

My being thrilled with joyWhen clouds of doubt were quick dispelled,

And life lost all alloy. “Quite right,” I said ; “ but why this waste

Of letters, since with two
It can be spelled with greater haste,

More truth, and less ado?
“Oh, fie! S, p, double o, n, s,

Spells 'spoons': you needn't try To spell the word with any less."

· Yes, dear; two—'u and I.'”

66

EARL MARBLE.

A CHURCH-GOING BELLE.

A DAINTY little bonnet,

The sweetest marabout, A sea of tawny wavelets

O'er forehead white as snow; A brace of sparkling sapphires,

Two cheeks of rosy dye,
A pair of lips of ruby,

And a fascinating sigh.
Think'st thou she goes to worship?

Ah! it is difficult to tell,
But it's plain both saints and sinners

Worship that Sabbath belle.

A tightly-fitting bodice,

Costume all brocaded,
Short petticoats with flounces,

In endless colors braided;
Enameled shoes with buckles,

Such as the Frenchmen vend,

With lofty, taper heel-taps,

To give a Grecian bend. Think'st thou it's for God's glory

She dresses out so well? Or does she want some saint or sinner

To love the Sabbath belle?

ANONYMOUS.

I WISH HE WOULD DECIDE.

I wish he would decide, mamma,

I wish he would decide;
I've been a bridesmaid twenty times—

When shall I be a bride?
My cousin Anne, my sister Fan,

The nuptial-knot have tied ;
Yet come what will, I'm single still

I wish he would decide.

He takes me to the play, mamma,

He brings me pretty books;
He woos me with his eyes, mamma,

Such speechless things he looks !
Where'er I roam-abroad, at home-

He lingers by my side; Yet come what will, I'm single still

I wish he would decide.

I throw out many hints, mamma,

I speak of other beaux, I talk about domestic life,

And sing “ They don't propose "; But ah! how vain each piteous strain

His wavering heart to guide ! Do what I will, I'm single still — I wish he would decide.

ANONYMOUS.