And it crossed me mind that minit consarning Thady Mulligan's supper and dance,

Says I, "It's not Mary Magee, ma'am, that can stay for ladies coming from France."

"Mary," says she, "two afternoons each week--ivery Wednesday and ivery Monday

Ye've always had, besides ivery early Mass, and yer Vespers ivery other Sunday,

And yer friends hev visited at me house, two or three of them ivery night."

"Indade thin," says I, "that was nothin' at all but ivery dacent girl's right!"

"Very well, thin," says she, "ye can lave the house, and be sure to take wid ye yer right;'

And if Michael and Norah think just as ye do, ye can all of ye lave to-night."

So just for St. Patrick's glory we wint; and, as sure as Mary Magee is me name,

It's a house full of nagurs she's got now, which the same is a sin and a shame.

Bad luck to them all! A body, I think, had need of a comfortable glass;

It's a miserable time in Ameriky for a dacent Irish-born lass,

If she sarves the saints, and is kind to her friends, then she loses her home and her pay,

And there's thousands of innocent martyrs like me on ivery St. Patrick's Day.

THE ROSARY OF MY YEARS.-FATHER RYAN.

Some reckon their ages by years,
Some measure their life by art-

But some tell their days by the flow of their tears,
And their life by the moans of their heart.

The dials of earth may show

The length, not the depth of years,

Few or many they come, few or many they go-
But our time is best measured by fears.

Ah! not by the silver gray

That creeps through the sunny hair,

And not by the scenes that we pass on our way—
And not by the furrows the finger of care

On the forehead and face have made-
Not so do we count our years;
Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade
Of our souls-and the fall of our tears.

For the young are ofttimes old,
Though their brow be bright and fair;

While their blood beats warm their heart lies cold-
O'er them the spring-time, but winter is there.
And the old are ofttimes young
When their hair is thin and white,
And they sing in age as in youth they sung,
And they laugh, for their cross was light.

But bead by bead I tell

The rosary of my years;

From a cross to a cross they lead-'tis well!
And they're blessed with a blessing of tears.
Better a day of strife

Than a century of sleep;

Give me instead of a long stream of life,
The tempest and tears of the deep.

A thousand joys may foam

On the billows of all the years;

But never the foam brings the brave bark home:
It reaches the haven through tears.

THE HOLE IN THE FLOOR.-LIZZIE CLARK HARDY

In the primitive days of our grandfathers' time,
When the fire-place, genial and bright,
Its cavernous recesses glowing with flame,

Filled the old-fashioned kitchen with light;
They used often to gather at close of the day,
Round the hearth-stone, that altar of yore,
But men of this modern and glorified age
Collect round-a hole in the floor.

The grandfather sat in the chimney nook,
In an old-fashioned splint-bottomed chair,
And solemnly read from the blessed old Book,
Then knelt with the household in prayer;
Their altar the time-honored hearth-stone with gleams
Of the fire-light flickering o'er.

We moderns all worship 'neath fresco and gas,
Our altar-a hole in the floor.

When from the old hearth-stone the children went forth To join in the soul-thrilling strife

And win themselves laurels or valiantly brave

The buffeting surges of life,

Then with world-wearied hearts yearning sadly for rest,

They would seek the old hearth-stone once more;
But we, when aweary with toil, and oppressed,
Return to the hole in the floor.

When the tumult of war overshadowed our land
And our forefathers rushed to the fray,

To repel the invaders that threatened their homes,
Leaving mothers and daughters to pray-

The thoughts of their hearth-stones gave strength to their

arms

And thrilled their brave hearts to the core,

But our heroes when called on their homes to defend,
Must fight for-a hole in the floor.

Then let us rejoice that we live in an age

When instead of the hearth-stone's bright glow,

Or the cavernous fire-place cheery with flames,'
We have "modern improvements," you know.
And when we converse of those primitive times,
And the jolly old customs of yore,

We will laugh as we think of their old-fashioned ways,
As we sit round-the hole in the floor.

LORD DUNDREARY ON MENTAL PHOTOGRAPHS. [Enter LORD DUNDREARY, sniffing a perfumed note.]

What a fwagwant cweachaw she ith! "Yours, Awabella." My Awabella! Not if I know it. (Sniffs note again.) Awamatic Awabella! What a pwetty idea! Awamatic Awabella." 'Pon my life, it would pay some fellah to follow me about and jot down my pwetty ideas, like what's-his-name used to do with Dr. Watths. No, not Dr. Watths;-he wath the "Bithy Bee" man, but the other fellah, Old Dicthonary. (Reads note.)

"Dear Lord Dundweary,

"Knowing your lordship's cwitical taithte, I have ventured to thend you my Mental Phothogwaph Album, in the hope you will kindly fill in one of its pages from your own pen."

"My own pen!" Why, why-what the dooth does she mean? Does she think I'd steal thome other fellah's pen! Her" Mental Phothograph Album." Wants my phothograph, I thuppose. Well, I can't blame her for that, you know. (Opens album.) "Question No. 1.-Whath your fav'wite name for a lady?" Now, Awamatic Awabella, that won't do. You ekthpect I'm going to fill in your own name;you know you do, and then you'd have an acthon for bweach of-bweach of what-you-call-it against me. That's just how my brother Tham was caught. Auguthta Gadfly, a vewy knowing girl, and who got up pwetty early in the morning, pwetended one day to be thick. So poor Tham (he wathsuch an impulsive fellah, was Tham)-sends her a pot of pweserved peaches, and composes a label like this, which he stwings on it :

"Anguthta, when you take this jam, I hope you'll twy and think of Tham." "Think of him!" By George, she did think of him,—and so did old Gadfly and the whole crew, and, between 'em all, they scared poor Tham into believing he had wuined Auguthta's peace of mind, and that the only escape from £10; 000 damages was to marry the girl at once. I don't want to be let in for a scwape of that sort:

"What's your fav'wite name for a gentleman?" Well, I've always thought "Dundweary" rather a pwetty name. It's so ew-eu-something or other-uniform-no—unicorn-no--cuphonious. Talking of names, who should I meet in the park to-day but Perky Pilkington! Hadn't seen him for years. "Hallo, Pilkington!" I cwied, "glad to meet you again, old fellah, but how you have changed;-would hardly know you again!" "You're mistaken," says he, “my name isn't Pilkington." And the fellah bobs his head and passes on. Why, you see, his vewy name must have changed too; or, perhaps, after all, he was some other fellah. But then, if he wath some other fellah, how on earth- could he have been Pilkington? And then if he wath Pilkington, why wathn't "Pilkington" his name? Unleth, of course, he look like that. Thome

had got married; but then he didn't thing doosid odd about it all.

She next wants to know "what's my fav'wite widdle?"

Now, hang it, when a fellah comes to think of it, I don't quite see why Awabella should take such a vewy tender concern in me. Confound it, I don't care what her fav'wite widdle is. She'll want to know next which is my fav'wite corn. And I never did think much of widdles. Never can see where the laugh comes in. And so I have to pwetend to enjoy them so awfully and be a regular hip-hip-hippopotamus -no, that's not it-hypocrite. The best widdle I ever heard, and that wath a good one, my bwother Tham uthed to ask it evewywhere-said it was his own, that—that was a good one. (Chuckles in relish of the riddle.) What was it? "Why"-I know it began with "why." A good many of Tham's widdles used to begin with "why." "Why was"well, I don't quite wekomember the first part, but the anther wath awfully good: "Becauth it makth the buttercup." I always uthed to laugh when Tham athked that widdle. Poor Tham! Poor Tham! (Wipes away a tear.) Auguthta Gadfly wath too much for him. “Gadfly”—of courth, I wekomember now. The anther wathn't “Becauth it makth the buttercup," but the butterfly. Knew it had something to do with-butter.

I may as well see what else she wants to know. Ah! "Who's your fav'wite poet ?" Yeth, that's just what the girls are always asking me in quadrilles. I do hate questions of that sort. They thound so much like widdles. Only last night, little Laura Gushington was boring me with some doosid nonsense of this kind. Wanted to know if I didn't adore Tennyson? I told her no, I didn't care a—well, I let her know I managed to get along vewy well without him. Why should I adore Tennyson? I don't suppose he adores me. Perhaps, though, that's because he doesn't know me. And then, Was I fond of Longfellow? I told her again, no, nor of any other fellow.

And here comes No. 5: "Were you ever in love, and, if so, how much?" Well, I hope I may never make thuch ath of myself as that. Poor Tham uthed to ask, "Have you ever had the meathles, and, if tho, how many?" Talking of meathles-no, I mean of being in love—I suppothe that lovely Fwench widow I met at Lady Gelatine's last night will be dwopping in here in a moment. She said she wanted