are sufficiently clear to see at once that this jingle of words is only a round-about way of saying that "this man" was the speaker's son.

CLXXVI. EARLY RISING.

God bless the man who first invented sleep!"
So Sancho Panza said, and so say I;
And bless him also, that he didn't keep
His great discovery to himself, nor try
To make it, as the lucky fellow might,
A close monopoly by patent-right!

Yes, bless the man who first invented sleep
(I really can't avoid the iteration),

But blast the man with curses loud and deep,
Whate'er the rascal's name or age or station,
Who first invented, and went round advising,
That artificial cut-off, early rising.

"Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed,"
Observes some solemn, sentimental owl;
Maxims like these are very cheaply said;
But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl,
Pray just inquire about his rise and fall,
And whether larks have any beds at all!

The time for honest folks to be abed

Is in the morning, if I reason right;
And he who can not keep his precious head
Upon his pillow till it's fairly light,
And so enjoy his forty morning winks,
Is up to knavery, or else—he drinks!

Thomson, who sung about the "Seasons," said
It was a glorious thing to rise in season;
But he said it lying in his bed

At ten o'clock A. M., the very reason

He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is,
His preaching was n't sanctioned by his practice.

'Tis doubtless well to be sometimes awake,

Awake to duty, and awake to truth,

But when, alas! a nice review we take

Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood, or asleep!

'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile

For the soft visions of the gentle night;
And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,
To live as only in the angels' sight,
In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in,
Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!
So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.
I like the lad who, when his father thought
To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase

Of vagrant worm by early songster caught,
Cried, "Served him right! it's not at all surprising;
The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!"
-John G. Saxe.

CLXXVII.-GOSSIP.

POETS of old have sung of tea and scandal;
They go together, and they indicate
Refinement. It is true, no Goth nor Vandal
Was ever known to gossip; and of late
I have been thinking this place a nonsuch
For this same thing; it really "beats the Dutch."

"I didn't tell you, did I, what I heard

About a certain lady-you know who?
I would n't have it known I said a word.
It is a secret, but I'll just tell you.
I wouldn't have you mention it at all—
Not for the world-but pride must have a fall.
"I had it too from good authority.

Well-Madam X told me she really saw
That certain lady-you know—Mrs. Z--
She saw her just as tipsy as a squaw;

And Madam Y said she was always so,

But then folks will make up reports, you know.

'However, I should think that might be true,

But I don't know-and so I would n't let it

Go further." "No," said Madam W.

She's promised, but she'll easily forget it;
But if she tells, it will make mischief-fudge it
Is the very beauty of a budget.

So she walks out to call on Mrs. U.

"And now I think of it, pray did you hear That Madam Z gets drunk?"

Why, no; it's new To me." Indeed! Well, I do really fear She'll not get over it. She gets dead drunk!” A mustard seed will swell to a huge chunk

If handled freely by a tattler's tongue;

And barrel'd water can't more freely run When you have turned it down and pulled the bung, Than secret scandal: and indeed the fun

Is not in having secrets, but it is

In telling secrets, that's the tattler's bliss.

Next, Madam U went out a-shopping, and she
Just dropped in to call on Madam V-
Talked over matters as they came in hand,

And soon inquired, "Did you know Madam Z
Gets clear dead drunk, and that too every day?
You don't believe it! Why, yes-so they say."
But both believed it long before the call

Was finish'd. Thus a story runs and grows And gathers size and weight, just like a ball Of snow; and all the while there's no one knows Just how it is. This tale's an illustration.

Th' amount of Madam Z's intoxication

Was that she now and then did take a little,
A very little, for her head was shallow,
(Rare thing in a tattler!) and the smallest tittle
Would set it swimming—even a moderate swallow.
A "friend" once caught her in the very act,
And in a week it got to be a fact"

(I. e., a current falsehood) through the town
That Madam did get drunk every day!
Good Christians would assert it up and down;
Ask them their reason for 't-"Why, so they say."

CLXXVIII.-THE CHAMPION SNORER.

It was the Cedar Rapids sleeper. Outside it was as dark as the inside of an ink-bottle. In the sleeping-car people slept. Or tried it.

Some of them slept like Christian men and women, peacefully, sweetly, and quietly.

Others slept like demons, malignantly, hideously, fiendishly, as though it was their mission to keep every body else awake.

Of these the man in lower number three was the worst.

We never heard any thing snore like him. It was the most systematic snoring that was ever done, even on one of these tournaments of snoring, a sleeping-car. He didn't begin as soon as the lamps were turned down and every body was in bed. Oh, no! There was more cold-blooded diabolism in his system than that. He waited until every body had had a taste of sleep, just to see how nice and pleasant it was; and then he broke in on their slumbers like a winged, breathing demon, and they never knew what peace was again that night.

He started out with a terrific

"Gu-r-r-rt!"

that opened every eye in the car. We all hoped it was an accident, however; and trusting that he would n't do it again, we all forgave him. Then he blasted our hopes and curdled the sweet serenity of our forgiveness by a longdrawn

"Gw-a-h-h-hah!"

that sounded too much like business to be accidental. Then

every head in that sleepless sleeper was held off the pillow for a minute, waiting in breathless suspense to hear the worst; and the sleeper in "lower three" went on in longdrawn, regular cadences that indicated good staying qualities,

"Gwa-a-a-h! Gwa-a-a-a-h! Gahwayway! Gahwaywah! Gahwa-a-ah!"

Evidently it was going to last all night; and the weary heads dropped back on the sleepless pillows, and the swearing began. It mumbled along in low, muttering tones, like the distant echoes of a profane thunder-storm. Pretty soon "lower three" gave us a little variation. He shot off

a spiteful
"Gwook!"

which sounded as though his nose had got mad at him and was going to strike. Then there was a pause, and we began to hope he had either awakened from sleep or strangled to death-nobody cared very particularly which. But he disappointed every body with a guttural

"Gurroch!"

Then he paused again for breath; and when he had accumulated enough for his purpose he resumed business with a stentorious

"Kowpff!"

Then he went on

that nearly shot the roof off the car. playing such fantastic tricks with his nose, and breathing things that would make the immortal gods weep, if they did but hear him. It seemed an utter, preposterous impossibility that any human being could make the monstrous, hideous noises with its breathing machine that the fellow in "lower three" was making with his. He then ran through all the ranges of the nasal gamut; he went up and down a very chromatic scale of snores; he ran through intricate and fearful variations until it seemed that his nose must be out of joint in a thousand places. All the night and all the day through he told his story;