Can he rade? Sure me Ted has the makin' iv a beautiful

rader, indade,

And lairn't all his lett'hers, but twinty, in three months' attindance at school:

But the mast'her got mad at me Teddy, becase iv a joke that was played

Wid a pin, that persuaded the mast'her quite suddint to rise from his stool.

Teddy niver cu'd plaze the school-mast'her wid ony iv thim playful t'hricks;

So, wid his edication unfinished, Ted found it convanient to lave.

But, barrin' the larnin', I'll match him, fur kaneness, ferninst ony six,

In butt'herin' paple wid blarney, and playin' nate t'hricks to desave.

Thim Hooligan b'ys is all raders, but Teddy jist skins 'em alive:

Wid their marbles, and paynuts, and pennies, iv'ry wan iv his pockets he'll fill

By the turn iv his wrist, ur such tactics as Teddy knows how til cont'hrive:

They'd gladly t'hrade off their book-larnin' fur Teddy's suparior skill!

Politeness comes aisy til Ted, fur he's had me to tache him the thrick

Iv bowin' and scrapin' and spakin' to show paple proper respict.

Spake up til the gintlemon, Teddy! Whist! Aft wid yer cap first, ye stick!

He's shapish a t'hrifle, yer honor; he's allus been brought up that strict.

Come! Spake up, and show yer foine bradin! Och! Hear that! "How are yez, Owld Moke?"

Arrah, millia murther! Did iver yez hear jist the aqual iv that?

"How are yez, Owld Moke?" says he! Ha! Ha! Sure, yer honor, he manes it in joke!

He's the playfullest b'y! Faith, it's laughin' at Teddy that makes me so fat!

Honest? Troth, he is that! He's that honest, he was niver tuk by the perlace,

Barrin' wanst that Owld Hooligan swore that Teddy had stole his b'y's knife

Wid niver a blade. And the jidge he remaiṛked, wid contimpt, 'twas the t'hriflinest case

To bod'her a dignified Coort wid, he iver had known in his life!

FFFFF

Yez can thrust him wid onything. Honest! Does he luk like a b'y that 'ud stale?

Jist luk in the swate, open face iv him, barrin' the eye wid the wink:

Och! Teddy!! Phat ugly black st'hrame is it runnin' down there by yer hale!

Murtheration!

bottle iv ink!!

* * *

Yer honor, me Teddy has spilt yer fine

Phat? How kem the ink in his pocket? I'm thinkin' he borry'd it, sur:

And yez saw him pick up yer pen-howlder and stick it inside iv his slaive!

And yez think that Ted mint til purline 'em!! Ah, wirra! The likes iv that slur

Will d'hrive me,-poor, tinder, lone widdy,-wid sorrow down intil me grave!

Bad cess til yez, Teddy, ye spalpeen! Why c'u'dn't yez howld on, the day

Ye thafe iv the world!-widout breakin' the heart iv me? No. Yez must stale!

I'll tache yez a t'hrick, ye rid-headed, pilferin', gimlet-eyed flay!-

Ye freckle-faced, impident bla'guard!-Och! whin we git home yez 'll squale!

-Bric-a-Brac in Scribner's Monthly.

THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.-R. COATES.

Dark is the night! How dark! No light, no fire!
Cold, on the hearth, the last faint sparks expire!
Shivering, she watches by the cradle side,

For him, who pledged her love—last year a bride!
"Hark! "Tis his footstep. No!-'tis past!-'tis gone!"
Tick! Tick!" How wearily the time crawls on!
Why should he leave me thus? He once was kind!
And I believed 'twould last!-How mad!-How blind!

"Rest thee, my babe!-Rest on!- 'Tis hunger's cry
Sleep! For there is no food!-The fount is dry!
Famine and cold their wearying work have done,
My heart must break! And thou!" The clock strikes one.
"Hush! 'tis the dice-box! Yes, he's there! he's there!
For this!-for this he leaves me to despair!

Leaves love, leaves truth, his wife, his child! for what?
The wanton's smile-the villain-and the sot!

"Yet I'll not curse him. No! 'tis all in vain! "Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again! And I could starve, and bless him, but for you, My child!-his child! Oh, fiend!" The clock strikes two. "Hark! How the sign-board creaks! The blast howls by. Moan! moan! A dirge swells through the cloudy sky. Ha! 'tis his knock! he comes!-he comes once more!"

'Tis but the lattice flaps. Thy hope is o'er.

Can he desert us thus? He knows I stay,
Night after night, in loneliness, to pray
For his return-and yet he sees no tear!
No! no! It cannot be. He will be here!

“Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart!

Thou'rt cold! Thou'rt freezing! But we will not part!
Husband!-I die!-Father!-It is not he!

O God! protect my child!" The clock strikes three.

They're gone, they're gone! the glimmering spark hath fled! The wife and child are numbered with the dead.

On the cold earth, outstretched in solemn rest,

The babe lay frozen on its mother's breast;

The gambler came at last-but all was o'er

Dread silence reigned around;—the clock struck four!

THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG.-H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet,

His chestnut steed with four white feet,
Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou,

Son of the road and bandit chief,
Seeking refuge and relief,

Up the mountain pathway flew.

Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed,
Never yet could any steed,

Reach the dust-cloud in his course.
More than maiden, more than wife,
More than gold and next to life

Roushan the Robber loved his horse.

In the land that lies beyond

Erzeroum and Trebizond,

Garden-girt his fortress stood!

Plundered khan, or caravan

Journeying north from Koordistan,

Gave him wealth and wine and food.

Seven hundred and fourscore
Men at arms his livery wore,

Did his bidding night and day. Now, through regions all unknown, He was wandering, lost, alone, Seeking without guide his way.

Suddenly the pathway ends,
Sheer the precipice descends,

Loud the torrent roars unseen;
Thirty feet from side to side
Yawns the chasm; on air must ride
He who crosses this ravine.

Following close in his pursuit,
At the precipice's foot,

Reyhan the Arab of Orfah
Halted with his hundred men,
Shouting upward from the glen,
"La Illáh illa Alláh !"

Gently Roushan Beg caressed
Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast;
Kissed him upon both his eyes;

Sang to him in his wild way,
As upon the topmost spray
Sings a bird before it flies.

O my Kyrat, O my steed,
Round and slender as a reed,
Carry me this peril through!
Satin housings shall be thine,
Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine,

O thou soul of Kurroglou!

"Soft thy skin as silken skein,
Soft as woman's hair thy mane,
Tender are thine eyes and true;
All thy hoofs like ivory shine,
Polished bright; Oh, life of mine,”
Leap, and rescue Kurroglou !

Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet,
Drew together his four white feet,
Paused a moment on the verge,
Measured with his eye the space,
And into the air's embraco

Leaped as leaps the ocean surge.
As the ocean surge o'er sand
Bears a swimmer safe to land,
Kyrat safe his rider bore;

Rattling down the deep abyss,
Fragments of the precipice
Rolled like pebbles on a shore.
Roushan's tasseled cap of red
Trembled not upon his head,
Careless sat he and upright;
Neither hand nor bridle shook,
Nor his head he turned to look,
As he galloped out of sight.

Flash of harness in the air,
Seen a moment, like the glare

Of a sword drawn from its sheath;
Thus the phantom horseman passed,
And the shadow that he cast

Leaped the cataract underneath.
Reyhan the Arab held his breath
While this vision of life and death
Passed above him. "Allahu!"
Cried he. "In all Koordistan
Lives there not so brave a man

As this Robber Kurroglou!"

-Atlantic Monthly.

THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR.-W. M. THACKERAY.

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.
To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day

Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks
With worthless old nick nacks and silly old books,

And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,

Cracked bargains from brokers,cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked),

Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;

A two-penny treasury wondrous to see;

What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require,

Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.