WHAT BIDDY SAID IN THE POLICE COURT.
E. T. CORBETT.

Yis, luk at me now, if ye can, Tim,
Luk in me face if ye dare!

It's bruised an' it's ugly-I know it—
But sorra a bit do ye care,

Ye dhrunken-I'm ready, yer Honor,
I'll show ye's the mark of Tim's fist,

An' the black an' blue bruise on me shoulther
Where he pushed me agin the ould chist.

Sure I will-don't be winkin' at me, Tim,
I'm done wid ye now, ye can say,
An' if ye're sint up for a twelvemonth
It's rejoicin' I'd be ivery day,

Whisht, officer-what's that ye're sayin'?

"Me complaint?" why, what's ailin' ye, man? For sure an' I'm afther complainin',

Yer Worship, as fast as I can!

Whin ye kim home last night, now that's thrue, Tim, The place was so purty an' nate,

Wid such ilegant corn bafe an' inyons

Set out on me blue chaney plate;

An' Molly a-waitin' to show ye
The beautiful medal she'd got;
An' me, wid my fut on the cradle,
A kapin' the tay good an' hot.

But, Tim, ye'd bin dhrinkin', ye blackguard,
Yer wages was gone, ivery cint;

An' ye b-a-ate an' abused me a-an' M-ol-ly
For sphakin' a word of the r-r-rint.

But whin ye turned over the table,

An' smash! wint me plate on the floor,

An angel cud never kape silence,

So thin-I'll confess it-I swore!

Jist wance, an' ye needn't have minded,
Well knowin' me timper is quick,

But wurra! ye knocked down the shtove, Tim,
And batthered the wall wid yer shtick,
Yis, an' broke the best chair, too, ye spalpeen!
No wonder the naybors tuk fright,

Wid Molly an' Patsy, both scramin'
Outside, in the cowld winter's night.
What! fine him tin dollars, yer Honor?
Och, sure now, that's hard on poor Tim.
"Twas just the laste bit of a scrimmage,

There's husbands far worser nor him!

But niver mind, darlint, here's money,—
I'd saved up a thrifle, ye see,
By washin' an' clanin'-I'll spind it,
Mavourneen, to let ye go free.

So come along home wid yer Biddy,
There's breakfast expectin' ye there,
Sure ye're needin' the bit an' the sup, Tim,
Ye're lukin' so white, yis an' quaire,
See! Molly's outside there, a smilin',
An' fifty cints left yit, asthore.

Come on, Tim--good mornin', yer Honor,
I won't be a throublin' ye's more!

SOMETIME.-HOSEA Q. BLAISDELL.

I am waiting for the shadows round me lying
To drift away;

I am waiting for the sunlight, always flying,
To come and stay;

I know there's light beyond the cloudy curtain,
A light sublime!

That it will shine on me I now am certain,
Sometime! sometime!

I am waiting for the summer's golden lustre,—
Now far away,-

When golden fruits around my life shall cluster
Each sunny day!

We read of fadeless flowers in fabled story,

In far-off clime,

And I shall pluck them in their pristine glory,
Sometime! sometime!

Then I shall hear the voice of loved ones call me
To their dear side;

And I shall then, whatever may befall me,
Rest satisfied!

For on my ear sweet notes of love shall tremble
In matchless rhyme,

From heart and lips that never can dissemble,
Sometime! sometime!

I am waiting; but at times I grow so weary,-
Far seems the day

When all the pain which makes our life so dreary
Shall pass away.

I know the heart oft filled with tones of sadness,
Like funeral chime,

Shall echo with songs of love and gladness,
Sometime! sometime!

THE FIRE-FIEND.-JESSIE GLENN.

Hark! hark! o'er the city, alarm bells ring out,
Cling, clang! "fire, fire!" each tone seems to shout.
"Come on," cries a voice," there is work to be done,
So forth for our steamer and hose-cart we run!
Here they are! Roll them out! now quick, let us fly!
Clear the track! turn out! fire! fire! is our cry.

"Ha! ha! here we are! Yes, the Fire-Fiend is out!
Just see the smoke roll, while the flames leap about;
Unroll the hose, quick; pull to the tank, boys;
Make fast the steamer now! listen to its noise!
There go the water-jets high in the air!

Dash them on! higher! higher! flames everywhere."

But stay! a wild cry rises loud o'er the din,
A woman is shrieking, "my child sleeps within,
Help! help! can ye stand, oh men, here, and see

A little child die, yet do nothing for me?

She burns! she is lost!" shrieks the mother, half wild,
"Are ye men? have ye hearts? then help my poor child."

"Be calm," cried a fireman, young, sturdy, and brave,
I die in yon flames, or your child I will save!
Ho! ladders, quick! quick! hoist them up to the wall,—
Now, steady! God help me! Oh, what if I fall?"
One glance up to heaven, one short prayer he spoke,
Sprang up, and was hidden by darkness and smoke.

On her knees sank the mother, lips moving in prayer,
While fear sent a thrill through the crowd gathered there.
Breathless silence prevailed, none speaking a word,
While puffs from the engine alone could be heard.
All eyes remained fixed on the window above,
Where last stood a hero whom angels might love.

"Will he ever come back?" No sound in reply
Save the Fire-Fiend's laugh, as he leaps up so high,
Catching windows and doors, woodwork, lintel, and all,
While "burn with all speed," seems his conquering call,
"Spare nothing, speed onward! In this I delight!
Two victims are mine! I am king here to-night."

Not so! Oh, not so! for mid joy-speaking cheers,
A fireman and child on the ladder appears;
Blackened, yet safe, he descends to the ground,
Gives the babe to its mother, then looks calmly round,
"Thank God, that he gave me the strength this to do!"
"We will," cried a voice, "but we also thank you!"

The Fire-Fiend rushed by on his merciless path,
At losing his victims he seemed full of wrath;
He sputtered and hissed his unceasing reproof,
Until with a crash, inward tumbled the roof.
Then, mid water and work, mid laughter and shout,
The Fiend slunk away, and the fire was put out.

MRS. POTTS' DISSIPATED HUSBAND.

One night during the recent troubles in the Pennsylvania coal regions, Judge Potts' brother, Thomas Potts, was round at a meeting of mine-owners, and after the adjournment he stepped into a tavern.

While there he met some friends, and in the course of an hour or two he got very intoxicated.

On the way home he lost his hat, and a miner who knew him, feeling compassion for him, clapped on his head a miner's hat; and in order to make the dark street look brighter, he lighted the lamp in front of the hat.

When Potts reached the house his wife had gone to bed, and the lights were out; but Potts felt certain the lamp was burning in the hall, yet he couldn't for the life of him tell where it was.

He looked at the regular lamp, and it seemed to be out; then he hunted in every direction for the light, but was unable to find it, although it seemed to shine brightly wherever he went.

Presently he happened to stop in front of the mirror in the hat-rack, and then he saw precisely where the light was. After a brief objuration upon Mrs. Potts for leaving a light in such a place, he went up to the mirror, and tried to blow it out. He blew and blew, but somehow the flame burned as steadily as before.

"That," said Potts, "is the most extraor'nary lamp's ever been my misfortune t'encounter."

Then he took off his coat, and holding it in front of him, crept cautiously up to the mirror, and tried to crush the coat over the lamp, which still burned brightly. He said: "That's cer'ingly very extro'nary! Moz' 'stonishin' circumstanz ever come un'er my obzervation. Don't know how t'count for it!"

It occurred to him that perhaps he might smash the lamp with an umbrella. Seizing the weapon he went up to the hat-rack, and aiming a terrible blow at the light he brought the umbrella down. He missed, and smashed his Sunday hat into chaos. He took aim again, and caught the um. brella in the lamp overhead, bringing it down with a crash. Then he tried a third time, and plunged the ferrule of the umbrella through the mirror, smashing it to atoms; he felt exultant for a moment as the light disappeared from his vision, but he was perplexed to find that there was another light somewhere, he did not know exactly where. So he sat down on the stairs, and remarked:

"Moz' 'stonishin' circumstanz ever come un'er my obzervation. Whaten thunder doz it mean, anyhow? light's gone, and yet it's shinin'! Perfectly incomprehensible! Wish t'gracious Mrs. Potts 'd wake up an' 'splain it. Blamed 'f I know what I had better do."

Finally Potts took off his hat to scratch his head in the hope that he might scare up an idea, and then the truth flashed upon him. Gazing at the lamp for a moment, until he drank in a full conception of the trouble it had caused him, he suddenly smashed it down on the floor in a rage, and extinguished it after covering two yards of carpet with grease.

Then he went to bed, and in the morning Mrs. Potts informed him that some of those awful miners had broken into the house the night before, and left one of their hats with a lamp.

Potts turned over in bed so that she could not see his face, and said if the stern hand of the law wasn't laid upon those ruffians soon, nobody's life would be safe.

INDIRECTION.-RICHARD RealF.

Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle sug gestion is fairer;

Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it

is rarer;

Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it

is sweeter;

And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning outmaste.ed the metre.