CATCHING SUNSHINE.

From the Rural Home.

My next door neighbor's little girl,

A cunning two-year old,

Wondered one day why drooped her flowers,
And pleaded to be told.

Then said her mamma: "Here-in-doors

The sunshine doesn't come

To warm and bless and gladden them,
And drive away their gloom.

And so they droop, as children do
Who get no tender love

To cheer them on that upward way
Whereon we all must move."

Next day, when mamma went to seek
Her darling at her play,

She found her standing in the sun
In just the queerest way.

For there she held aloft a cup

Above her pretty head,
"What are you doing, Lulu, dear?"
Mamma, astonished, said.

And she, her cup still held aloft-
Bless her, ye heavenly powers!
"I'm catching sunshine, mamma, dear,
To give my 'ittle flowers."

Type of all children there was she;
Who in life's garden stand,

Still holding patiently aloft
Their life-cups in their hand.

We, buried in our sordid cares,

Are flowers that droop and die; They catch God's sunshine as its pours Forever from on high.

ANON.

Upon our weary, aching hearts
They let its blessings fall;
Their office this in every land,
In cottage, hut, or hall.

And so the world is kept alive,
And freshened every minute,
By the dear grace that overflows
In children who are in it.

THE CONSOLIDATION IN THE HOUSEHOLD.

From the Liederkranz Carnival Gazette.

ANON.

A Yorkville man the other day saw a citizen sitting disconsolately on the top of the railroad tunnel, gazing down an air-hole.

"What is the matter?" he inquired.

The citizen raised his head and looked vaguely at the questioner.

Then he asked: "Are you Jay Gould?"

"No," replied the other man.

"Is your name Eckert ?”

"No."

"Are you, perhaps, the President of the Atlantic and Pacific Telegraph Company?"

"No."

66 Well, have you got a chew of tobacco about you?" He got the chew, and continued:

"Are you acquainted with this consolidation business? I ask only because there has been some consolidation in my house."

"Who has been consolidated?" asked the citizen.

"That's just what I want to find out," the other man said, as he mournfully removed his hat and showed a bald head that looked like a circus ring after the grand triumphal entrée: "you see, my wife and her mother kinder

pooled their issues this morning, and I first became aware of an uneasy feeling in the market when the question of getting up to light the fire came before the board. I voted to appoint my wife a committee of one, and the vote on that motion was a dead tie. Then in came my motherin-law, and I suppose she held some proxies, for I found myself outvoted all of a sudden."

"How was that?" asked the sympathizing citizen.

"Well, maybe it was the shock to my modesty at having to receive the old lady in that informal way. Maybe it was the rolling-pin she had with her. I'm inclined to think it was a mixture of the two, with the rolling-pin ruling high. Anyway, I did the igniting. Then I went short on a proposition to split the wood, and the bull movement was too strong for me. So I thought I would change my tactics, and I undertook to make a corner in griddle cakes, when breakfast time came round. But somehow or other that boom flattened out prematurely." Here he paused, and looked sadly over toward the emigrant pen on Ward's Island.

66 Yes," ," he resumed, "I undertook to cover my shorts once or twice; but I didn't get much ahead. The motherin-law was firm at fifty-seven, and I took a tumble. Well, about an hour ago the combination declared an assessment of fifteen dollars on my stock to establish a sinking fund for a new bonnet. Then I was kinder sold out under the rule-and the rolling-pin. Which should you say was the consolidation end of that transaction? Is it the operators in the ring, or is it the party who is outside and who gets left?"

The citizen said he guessed it must be the allied forces. "That's what I thought, that's what I thought," said the man, wearily; "and if that's the case, there's a consolidation in the Hooplehorn family, and I'm outside of it."

And then he got up and walked down to the police-boat

wharf, and sat on the string-piece and watched for a break in the floating cakes of ice.

MIKE'S CONFESSION.

From Scribner's Magazine.

Now Mike was an ostler of very good parts,

Yet sly as a church-mouse was he;

And he came to confess to the new parish priest,

Like a pious and true devotee.

ANON.

When his sins were reeled off till no more could be found,
Said the priest: "Are you sure you've told all?
Have the mouths of the horses never been greased,
So they couldn't eat oats in the stall ?"

"With rispect to yer riv'rence," said Mike, with a grin,
"Sure for that ye may lave me alone;

I've scraped till there's niver a sin left behoind-
Me conscience is clane to the bone!"

So absolved, happy Mike went away for more sins,
Till the day came around to tell all;

And the very first thing he confessed :-He had greased
The mouth of each horse in the stall!

"How is this?" said the priest. "When here, but last week,
You never had done this, you swore?"

“Faith, thanks to yer riv'rence,” said Mike, “sich a thing I niver had heerd of before!"

BRIC-A-BRAC.

OBSERVATIONS OF REV. GABE TUCKER.

From Scribner's Magazine.

You may notch it on de palin's as a mighty resky plan
To make your judgment by de clo'es dat kivers up a man;
For I hardly needs to tell you how you often come ercross

ANON.

A fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss.

An', wukin in de low-groun's, you diskiver, as you go,
Dat de fines' shuck may hide de meanes' nubbin in a row!

I think a man has got a mighty slender chance for Heben
Dat holds on to his piety but one day out o' seben;
Dat talks about de sinners wid a heap o' solemn chat

An' nebber draps a nickel in de missionary hat;

Dat's foremost in de meetin'-house for raisin' all de chunes,
But lays aside his ligion wid his Sunday pantaloons!

I neber judge o' people dat I meets along de way

By de places whar dey come fum an' de houses whar dey stay;
For de bantam chicken's awful fond o' roostin pretty high,
An' de turkey-buzzard sails above de eagle in de sky;

Dey kotches little minners in de middle ob de sea,

An' you finds de smallest' 'possum up de bigges' kind o' tree!

Passing along the wharves the other day, I sat down to rest upon the end of a pile of lumber. In a few moments I heard voices in earnest conversation, and, partially hidden by the lumber, I observed two persons, one of whom I instantly recognized as Uncle Joel. The African philosopher's companion was also a colored man, old enough to be with a side show, and funny enough in appearance to stand as a model for a minstrel cut. After a short pause, I heard the following conversation:

"Does yo' b'leebe eberyting in de nusepapahs, Uncle Joel?" queried the unknown, in a voice that sounded like a snare drum without the snares.

"Mistah Jacksen, yo' might ez well ax me ef I eat eberyting in de maakit. I doan' see eberyting in de nuse