Und dravel der ped-room midout many clo'es

Vhile der chills down der shpine off mine pack quickly goes;

Dose leedle shimnasdic dricks vasn't so fine,

Dot I cuts oop at night mit dot baby off mine.
Vell, dese leedle schafers vas goin' to pe men,
Und all of dese droubles vill peen ofer den;
Dey vill vear a vhite shirt vront inshted off a bib,
Und vouldn't got tucked oop at nighdt in deir crib-
Vell! Vell! ven I'm feeple und in life's decline,
May mine oldt age pe cheered py dot baby off mine.

THE LEADSMAN'S SONG.

ON BOARD U. S. BARK "VOLTIGEUR."
From Harpers' Magazine.

'Twas a seaman bold on the ship's lee side,
When the green waves rollicked far and wide-
When keen winds whistled through ragged sails
With a dreary gamut of shrieks and wails-
When cloudy masses obscured the sun
With a tangled vapor, dark and dun-

When the stout ship reeled with the tempest's blows,
And the voice of prayer 'mid the storm arose
As the jagged line of the dread lee-shore
Came dim to herald the breakers' roar!-
"Twas then that the seaman swung the lead
With a circling sweep round his rain-beat head,
And launching it down in the troubled sea,
Sang loudly and clear this song to me:

I.

"Quarter less four !-Quarter less four!
чark! how the breakers roar a-lee,
Chanting aloud, in devilish glce,
Chorusing ever, 'One ship more!'

Wrecks ashore I can plainly see;
Corpses are lying there-corpses four;
There, alack! we shall shortly be-
Three fathoms only!-Quarter less three !

II.

Three and a half! It deepens at last!
Quarter less four! There's a channel here,
Courage, pilot, and take good cheer.
Five!-the danger is overpast!
Six!-huzza! for it deepens fast.
Quarter less eight!—Quarter less eight!
Now may the breakers lie and wait,
Dragging the shoals with their foamy net:
Others may meet with the sailor's fate,
We shall be snared-not yet, not yet!
Nine fathoms clear!-Nine and a half!
Now, in sooth, we can bravely laugh;
For the distant breakers, I wot, confess,
With their sullen roaring, 'One ship less!'"
And his song to me, as I swayed the wheel
(For the good ship's woe, or the good ship's weal!)
With the nervous grasp of a trained athlete,
Had a melody in its close most sweet;

For I thought, as the keel passed the fearful shoal
And I held our course to the open sea,

That another pilot had stood by me,
Keeping the ship toward the rocky goal!
A shadowy helmsman, stern and dark,
Terribly steering my fated bark;

A spectre pilot, of fleshless bone,

With icy fingers upon mine own,

With hollow eyes fixed on the corse-strewn shore,
And jaws ever grinning-" One ship more !”

WHERE MAN SHOULD DIE.

ANON.

How little recks it where men die, when once the moment's past In which the dim and glazing eye has looked on earth its last; Whether beneath the sculptured urn the coffined form shall rest, Or, in its nakedness, return back to its mother's breast!

Death is a common friend or foe, as different men may hold,
And at its summons each must go-the timid and the bold;
But when the spirit, free and warm, deserts it, as it must,
What matter where the lifeless form dissolves again to dust?
'Twere sweet, indeed, to close our eyes with those we cherish near,
And, wafted upwards by their sighs, soar to some calmer sphere;
But whether on the scaffold high, or in the battle's van,
The fittest place where man can die is where he dies for man!

THE CIRCUS CLOWN.

From the Clipper.

There he stands, in his pitiful parti-hues,

NATHAN D. URNES.

With his painted face, and his coxcomb crest,
And his shrill, cracked voice, for his nightly dues-
The crowd's rough laugh at his senseless jest,
His ribald puns, and his antics strange

That make the little ones roar again,

Till you'd deem his life but a merry change
From laugh to laugh, and devoid of pain.
But follow me, upon fancy's wing,

To the dim tent corner he swiftly seeks,
When he tumbles off from the lighted ring
For a respite brief. Lo! his painted cheeks
Are wet and furrowed with coursing tears,
The hollow groan from his breast ascends,
As there by a pallet, whereon appears
The wasted form of his wife, he bends.
He holds her hand-like a man he strives
To choke the sobs from her dying ear;
While before his fancy their wretched lives
Unroll their length like a desert sere.
And she, poor soul! while his faithful hand
She presses in token of love and pride,
How the dying eyes for a space expand

As the roar comes in from the ring outside!

What queen of the saddle or spangled prince
Calls forth those plaudits that once were hers,
Ere the illness crept to her lungs that since

Hath dragged her down with its subtle curse?
But hush! the gloom in those eyes returns,
Her hand grows icy, the pulse flies fast.
Nearer he bends, while the life-light burns
At its last wild flicker: 'tis out at last!

Alone with his dead! Now, dazed, appalled,
The sobs burst forth-he would voice his grief.
But no, his name from the flies is called;

His cue is on-there is no relief!

A moment more, and he's there again,

With the cap and bells, in the cirque's expanse;
Though little they guess with what awful strain
Quip, joke and jest for their laughter glance.

And how many and many there are, think you,
In the world's arena, whose heavy task
Is ever hidden from searching view

By the jester's garb, as a laughing mask?
Masks and faces together go;

Ill would it fare with us, rich or poor,
To unveil the heart, with the secret woe,
The cares and troubles, that most endure.

CARMEN.

MATER ANSER'S MELODIES.

Cano carmen sixpence, a corbis plena rye,
Multas aves atras percoctas in a pie;
Ubi pie apertus tum canit avium grex;
Nonne suavis cibus hoc locari ante rex?
Fuisset rex in parlor, multo de nummo tumens;
Regina in culina, bread and mel consumens;
Ancilla was in horto, dependens out her clothes,
Quum venit parva cornix, demorsa est her nose.

ADDRESS TO LITTLE BOYS AND GIRLS.

JOHN QUILL.

They had a Sunday-school stereopticon exhibition uptown last week, and after the pictures were all shown, the superintendent asked me to address the children. I spoke about as follows: I shan't say very much to the little boys and girls here to-day, because I haven't got much to say. Although I used to be a little boy and girl myself a great many years ago, I don't think of anything that would interest them just now. You remember that beautiful picture you have just seen of Elijah and the bad boys. Elijah had a bald head, and these wicked boys made a good deal of fun of him, and called him hard names, and before they could think almost, two bears came out of the woods and ate them right up. Now this should be a warning to you never to holler at a bald-headed man when you see him, but to just go up quietly to him, like a little gentleman, and tell him he ought to buy a wig. Or, if your father is a barber, ask him to please buy some hair restorative. Never holler at him, and make fun of him, for wherever there is a bald head, there's most always more or less bare about somewhere.

Of course you all read your library books that you get from Sunday-schools, and you like them very much. Now you've noticed how the good boys in them always die before they grow up and have half a chance of enjoying life. It's my belief that good boys always do die young, for I can't go back on the Sunday-school books. Therefore, I don't want to advise you to be good, for you'll certainly die, and as I don't care to have you die, I'd recommend you to go in anu get just as wicked as you possibly can. Most any insurance company will insure your life if you're desperately wicked. For they can afford to do it, you see.

And you

must always be careful, my dear children, to love your relations. You boys ought to be very kind to your little sis