But John P.

Robinson he

Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took,
An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country;
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry ;
An' John P.

Robinson he

Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lics;
Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum;

An' thet all this big talk of our destinies

Is half on it ignorance, an' t' other half rum;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life

Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P.

Robinson he

Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.

Wal, it's a marcy we 've gut folks to tell us

The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,— God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough; Fer John P.

Robinson he

Sez the world 'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

THE WIND IN A FROLIC-HOWITT

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 colts' 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 traveller grave on the king's highway.
It was not too nice too bustle 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, gaily, "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 ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm.

There were dame with their kerchiefs tied over their caps, To see if their poultry were free from mishaps.

f

The turkies 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 has passed on, and had met in a lane
With a schoolboy who panted and struggled in vain :
For it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and he stood
With his hat in the pool, and his shoe in the mud.

THE ROAD TO A WOMAN'S HEART.-HALIBURTON.

As we approached the Inn at Amherst, the Clockmaker grew uneasy. It's pretty well on in the evening, I guess, said le, and Marm Pugwash is as onsartin in her temper as a mornin in April; it's all sunshine or all clouds with her, and if she's in one of her tantrums, she'll stretch out her neck and hiss, like a goose with a flock of goslings.

Now, Marm Pugwash is like the Minister's apples, very temptin fruit to look at, but desperate sour. If Pugwash had a watery mouth when he married, I guess it's pretty puckery by this time. However, if she goes to act ugly, I'll give her a dose of soft sawder,' that will take the frown out of her frontispiece, and make her dial-plate as smooth as a lick of copal varnish. It's a pity she's such a kickin' critter, too, for she has good points-good eye-good foot-neat pastern-fine chest a clean set of limbs, and carries a good But here we are, now you'll see what 'soft sawder' will do.

f

When we entered the house, the travellers' room was all in darkness, and on opening the opposite door into the sitting room, we found the female part of the family extinguishing the fire for the night. Mrs. Pugwash had a broom in her hand, and was in the act (the last act of female housewifery) of sweeping the hearth. The strong flickering light of the fire, as it fell upon her tall fine figure and beautiful face, revealed a creature worthy of the Clockreker's gowwerts.

Good evening, Marm, said Mr. Slick, how do you do, and how s Mr. Pugwash? He, said she, why he's been abed this hour, you don't expect to disturb him this time of night 1 hope. Oh no, said Mr. Slick, certainly not, and I am sorry to have disturbed you, but we got detained longer than we expected; I am sorry that So am I, said she, but if Mr. Pugwash will keep an Inn when he has no occasion to, his family can't expect no rest.

Here the Clockmaker, seeing the storm gathering, stooped down suddenly, and staring intently, held out his hand and exclaimed, Well if that aint a beautiful child-come here my little man, and shake hands along with me-well, I declare, if that are little feller aint the finest child I ever seed-what, not abed yet? ah you rogue, where did you get them are pretty rosy cheeks; stole them from mamma, eh? Well, I wish my old mother could see that child, it is such a treat. In our country," said he, turning to me, the children are all as pale as chalk, or as yaller as an orange. Lor me, that are little feller would be show in our country-come to me, my man. Here the soft sawder' began to operate. Mrs. Pugwash said in a milder tone than we had yet heard, 'Go, my dear, to the gentlemango, dear.' Mr. Slick kissed him, asked him if he would go to the States along with him, told him all the little girls there would fall in love with him, for they didn't see such a beautiful face once in a month of Sundays. Black eyes-let me see-ah mamma's eyes too, and black hair also; as I am alive, why you are mamma's own boy, the very image of mamma. Do be seated, gentlemen, said Mrs. Pugwash-Sally, make a fire in the next room. She ought to be proud of you, he con tinued. Well, if I live to return here, I must paint your face, and have it put on my clocks, and our folks will buy the clocks for the sake of the face. Did you ever see, said he, again addressing me, such a likeness between one human and another, as between this beautiful little boy and his mother? I am sure you have had no supper, said Mrs. Pugwash to me; you must be hungry and weary, too—I will get you a cup of tea. I am sorry to give you so much trouble, said I. Not the

least trouble in the world, she replied, on the contrary a pleasure.

We were then shown into the next room, where the fire was now blazing up, but Mr. Slick protested he could not proceed without the little boy, and lingered behind to ascertain his age, and concluded by asking the child if he had any aunts that dooked like mamma.

As the door closed, Mr. Slick said, it's a pity she don't go well in gear. The difficulty with those critters is to git them to start, arter that there is no trouble with them if you don't check 'em too short. If you do they'll stop again, run back and kick like mad, and then Old Nick himself wouldn't start #lem. Pugwash, I guess, don't understand the nature of the critter; she 'll never go kind in harness for him. When 1 see a child, said the Clockmaker, I always feel safe with these women folk, for I have always found that the road to a woman's heart lies through her child.

THE PUBLIC GRINDSTONE.-GEN. RILEY.

The public grindstone is a great institution, sir-yes, sir, a great institution-one of the greatest, perhaps, that ever rose, reigned, or fell. But, sir, there is too much private cutlery ground. The thing won't pay. Occasionally a big ax is brought in to be fixed up, ostensibly for the purpose of hew ing down the gnarled trunks of error, and clearing out the brushwood of ignorance and folly that obstruct the public highway of progress. The machine whirls; the ax is applied, The lookers-on are enchanted with the brilliant sparks clicited. The tool is polished, keenly edged; and, while the public stare in gaping expectancy of seeing the road cleared, the implement is slyly taken off to improve the private acres of some "faithful friend of the people."