How many apples have you had?"
She answered, "Only seven!"

"And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid ? " quoth I;

66

Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four,
But they were in a pie!"

"If that's the case," I stammered out,
"Of course you've had eleven;
The maiden answer'd with a pout,
"I ain't had more nor seven!"

I wondered hugely what she meant,
And said, "I'm bad at riddles ;
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling taradiddles.

"Now, if you won't reform," said I,
"You'll never go to heaven."
But all in vain; each time I try,
That little idiot makes reply,
"I ain't had more nor seven

POSTSCRIPT.

To borrow WORDSWORTH's name were wrong,

Or slightly misapplied;

And so I'd better call my song,

66 Lines after ACHE-INSIDE.'

(From "Carols of Cockayne," by permission of Messrs. Chatto & Windus.)

WANTED-A LANDLADY!

LEOPOLD WAGNER.

A LANDLADY Worthy the name, you must know,
(Not one of the slatternly sort),

A woman that's motherly, homely and clean,
Discharging her work as she ought;

Contented to let off her rooms with a view
Of meeting the rent that's so great,
Because she has taken a much larger house,
Than warranted by her estate.

A landlady, then, with a bedroom to spare,
And the use of a parlour, we'll say;
Whose house-front looks tidy to each passer-by;
Whose door-step gets clean'd ev'ry day;

Whose rooms are not stuffy for lack of a scour;
Whose furniture harbours no dust;

Whose ceilings are free from the cobwebs we loath;
Whose fenders are free from all rust.

A landlady careful to air her clean sheets
Before they are put on the bed;

Who closes her windows when evening sets in,
To keep out the damp overhead;

Who thinks of her lodger as well as herself;
Who's sorry if he should catch cold;

Who's willing to stitch up a rent in his clothes;
And darn up his socks when they're old.

A landlady clever at counting the time,
And blest with a memory too;

Who never forgets that her lodger exists,
No matter whate'er she may do;

Who sees that his breakfast is ready betimes;
Who's ready again with his tea;

Who'll polish his boots at the heels as elsewhere;
And who's smart in each minor degree.

A landlady prone to be generous and kind,
Whenever of luck there's a dearth;

Who'd scorn to be hard on her lodger because

He may be in want of a berth;

Who'll nurse him thro' sickness, who'll cheer him in health; Who'll strive to be homely and nice

If only a creature like this could be found,

A lodger might know Paradise!

(Copyright of the Author.)

THE OWL CRITIC.

JAMES T. FIELDS.

"WHO stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop

The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop!

The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading

The Daily, the Herald, the Post, little heeding

The young man who blurted out such a blunt question;
Not one raised a head or even made a suggestion;

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mister Brown,"
Cried the youth with a frown,
"How wrong the whole thing is,
How preposterous each wing is,

How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is-
In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis !

I make no apology,

I've learned owl-eology.

I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections

Arising from unskilful fingers that fail

To stuff a bird right from his beak to his tail.
Mister Brown! Mister Brown!

Do take that bird down,

Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've studied owls,

And other night fowls,

And I tell you

What I know to be true;

An owl cannot roost

With his limbs so unloosed.
No owl in this world

Ever had his claws curled,
Ever had his legs slanted,

Ever had his bill canted,
Ever had his neck screwed
Into that attitude.

'He can't do it, because
'Tis against all bird laws,
Anatomy teaches,
Ornithology preaches,
An owl has a toe

That can't turn out so!

I've made the while owl my study for years,

And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!

Mister Brown, I'm amazed

You should be so gone crazed

As to put up a bird

In that posture absurd!

To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness;

The man who stuffed him don't half know his business

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes,
I'm filled with surprise
Taxidermists should pass

Off on you such poor glass;
So unnatural they seem
They'd make Audubon scream,
And John Burroughs laugh
To encounter such chaff.
Do take that bird down:

Have him stuffed again, Brown!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark

I could stuff in the dark
An owl better than that.
I could make an old hat
Look more like an owl
Than that horrid fowl,

Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather,
In fact, about him there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,
The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,
Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic
(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic.
And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:
"Your learning's at fault this time, anyway;
Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.

I'm an owl; you're another, Sir Critic, good day!"
And the barber kept on shaving.

(From "Harper's Magazine.")

THE COCKNEY.

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

[An American author, born in 1816. He is a prolific contributor of humorous verse to the U.S. periodicals.]

It was in my foreign travel,

At a famous Flemish inn,
That I met a stoutish person
With a very ruddy skin;

And his hair was something sandy,

And was done in knotty curls,

And was parted in the middle,
In the manner of a girl's.

He was clad in checkered trousers,
And his coat was of a sort
To suggest a scanty pattern,
It was bobbed so very short;
And his cap was very little,

Such as soldiers often use;
And he wore a pair of gaiters
And extremely heavy shoes.

I addressed the man in English,

And he answered in the same,
Though he spoke it in a fashion
That I thought a little lame;
For the aspirate was missing

Where the letter should have been,
But where'er it wasn't wanted
He was sure to put it in.

When I spoke with admiration
Of St. Peter's mighty dome,
He remarked: ""Tis really nothing
To the sights we 'ave at 'ome!"
And declared upon his honour,—
Though of course 'twas very queer,—
That he doubted if the Romans
'Ad the hart of making beer.

When I named the Colosseum,
He observed, ""Tis very fair;
I mean, you know, it would be
If they'd put it in repair;
But what progress or himprovement
Can those curst Hitalians 'ope,
While they're under the dominion
Of that blasted muff, the Pope ?"

Then we talked of other countries,
And he said that he had heard
That Hamericans talked Hinglish,
But he deemed it quite habsurd;
Yet he felt the deepest hinterest
In the missionary work,
And would like to know if Georgia
Was in Boston or New York!

When I left the man in gaiters,
He was grumbling o'er his gin,
At the charges of the hostess

Of that famous Flemish inn;
And he looked a very Briton
(So, methinks, I see him still),
As he pocketed the candle

That was mentioned in the bill!

LAUGH AND GET FAT.

W. M. PRAED.

[See page 505.]

THERE's nothing here on earth deserves One half the thought we waste about it, And thinking but destroys the nerves, When we could do as well without it.