TRUTH IN PARENTHESES.
I REALLY take it very kind,-
This visit, Mrs. Skinner;
I have not seen you such an age,-
(The wretch has come to dinner!)
Your daughters, too,-what loves of girls!
What heads for painters' easels !
Come here, and kiss the infant, dears,-
(And give it, p'rhaps, the measles !)
Your charming little niece, and Tom,
From Reverend Mr. Russell's;
'Twas very kind to bring them both,-
(What boots for my new Brussels!)
What! little Clara left at home!
Well, now, I call that shabby!
I should have loved to kiss her so,-
(A flabby, dabby babby!)
And Mr. S., I hope he's well,-
But, though he lives so handy,
He never drops once in to sup,-
(The better for our brandy!)
Come, take a seat,-I long to hear
About Matilda's marriage;
You've come, of course, to spend the day,-
(Thank Heaven! I hear the carriage!)
What! must you go?-next time, I hope,
You'll give me longer measure ; .
Nay, I shall see you down the stairs,—
(With most uncommon pleasure!)
Good-by! good-by! Remember, all,
Next time you'll take your dinners,-
(Now, David, mind,-I'm not at home,
In future, to the Skinners).
THE WIND IN A FROLIC.
THE wind one morning sprung up from sleep,
Saying, "Now for a frolic! now for a leap!
Now for a mad-cap galloping chase!
I'll make a commotion in every place!"
So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,
Creaking the signs, and scattering down
Shutters; and whisking with merciless squalls,
Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls;
There never was heard a much lustier shout,
As the apples and oranges tumbled about,
And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes
Forever on watch, ran off each with a prize.
Then away to the field it went blustering and humming,
And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming;
It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows,
And tossed the colt's manes all about their brows,
Till offended at such a familiar salute,
They all turned their backs and stood silently mute.
So on it went capering and playing its pranks;
Whistling with reeds on the broad river's banks;
Puffing the birds as they sat on the
spray,
Or the traveler grave, on the king's highway.
It was not too nice to hustle the bags
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags;
'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke
With the doctor's wig, and the gentleman's cloak.
Through the forest it roared and cried gayly, "Now,
You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow!"
And it made them bow without more ado,
And cracked their great branches through and through.
Then it rushed like a monster on cottage and farm,
Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm,
And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm.
There were dames with their 'kerchiefs tied over their caps,
To see if their poultry were free from mishaps.
The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud,
And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd;
There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on,
Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.
But the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane
With a shool-boy, who panted and struggled in vain ;
For it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and he stood
With his hat in a pool, and his shoe in the mud. [Howitt.
THE COLD-WATER MAN.
THERE lived an honest fisherman,
I knew him passing well,—
Who dwelt hard by a little pond,
Within a little dell.
grave and quiet man was he, Who loved his hook and rod; So even ran his line of life,
His neighbors thought it odd.
For science and for books, he said,
He never had a wish;
No school to him was worth a fig
Except a "school" of fish.
This single-minded fisherman,
A double calling had,—
To tend his flocks, in winter-time,
In summer, fish for shad.
In short, this honest fisherman,
All other toils forsook ;
And though no vagrant man was he,
All day that fisherman would sit
Upon an ancient log,
And gaze into the water like
Some sedentary frog.
A cunning fisherman was he;
His angles all were right;
And, when he scratched his aged poll,
You'd know he'd got a bite.
To charm the fish he never spoke,
Although his voice was fine;
He found the most convenient way,
Was just to "drop a line."
And many a "gudgeon" of the pond,
If made to speak to-day,
Would own with grief, this angler had
A mighty "taking way.”
One day, while fishing on the log,
He mourned his want of luck,—
When, suddenly, he felt a bite,
A jerking, caught a duck!
Alas! that day, the fisherman
Had taken too much grog;
And being but a landsman, too,
He couldn't keep the log."
In vain he strove with all his might,
And tried to gain the shore ;-
Down, down he went to feed the fish,
He'd baited oft before!
The moral of this mournful tale
To all is plain and clear :
A single "drop too much" of rum,
May make a watery bier.
THE ATHEIST AND ACORN.
"METHINKS the world seems oddly made,
And everything amiss;"
A dull complaining atheist said,
As stretched he lay beneath the shade,
And instanced it in this:
"Behold," quoth he, "that mighty thing,
A pumpkin large and round,
Is held but by a little string,
Which upward can not make it spring,
Nor bear it from the ground.
"While on this oak an acorn small,
So disproportioned grows,
That whosoe'er surveys this all,
This universal casual ball,
Its ill contrivance knows.
"My better judgment would have hung
The pumpkin on the tree,
And left the acorn slightly strung,
'Mongst things that on the surface sprung,
And weak and feeble be."
No more the caviler could say,
No further faults descry;
For upward gazing, as he lay,
An acorn, loosened from its spray,
Fell down upon his eye.
The wounded part with tears ran o'er,
As punished for that sin:
Fool! had that bough a pumpkin bore,
Thy whimseys would have worked no more,
Nor skull have kept them in.
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