My daisies! dey are fallin';
My han's are s'atin' so-
Oh dear! de weaf is boten;
Don't tare! I want to do.

I know dere's somesin' live dere:
See, now! dere's two bid eyes
A lootin' yight stwaight at me-
Dod's 'way up in de sties.

Tan He tate tare of Daisy?
I see a deat, blat head'
A tomin' foo de bus'es;

But den I'm not af'aid:
Only-I want my mamma-
I dess dat is a bear;
Bears eat up 'ittle chillens!
I wis' dat Dod was here!

Ow! ow! I tant help steamin';
Oh dear! I so af'aid!
Tome, mamma! Oh! tome twitly
To help oor 'ittle maid.
Dod has fordot oor Daisy;

Dat bear is tomin' fast

Why! 'tis our dear old Yover

Tome home f'om town at last.

O Yover! dear ole dordy,

What made oo f'wight-well, no,

I'm not af'aid-for, Yover,

Dod tares for me, oo know;

He would let nossin' hurt me-
Dere's mamma lootin', too.

We'll mend dat weaf now, Yover,
Mamma will lite it so.

WHAT INTEMPERANCE DOES.

I am aware there is a prejudice against any man engaged in the manufacture of alcohol. I believe from the time it issues from the coiled and poisonous worm in the distillery until it empties into the hell of death, that it is demoralizing to everybody that touches it, from the source to where it ends. I do not believe that anybody can contemplate the subject without being prejudiced against the crime. All

they have to do is to think of the wrecks on either side of the stream of death, of the suicides, of the insanity, of the poverty, of the destruction, of the little children tugging at the breast, of weeping and despairing wives asking for bread, of the man struggling with imaginary serpents produced by this devilish thing; and when you think of the jails, of the almshouses, of the asylums, of the prisons, and of the scaffolds, on either bank, I do not wonder that every thoughtful man is prejudiced against this vile stuff called alcohol.

Intemperance cuts down youth in its vigor, manhood in its strength, and age in its weakness. It breaks the father's heart, bereaves the doting mother, extinguishes natural affection, erases conjugal love, blots out filial attachment, blights parental hope, and brings down mourning age in sorrow to the grave. It produces weakness, not strength; It makes wives sickness, not health; death, not life.

widows, children orphans, fathers fien ls, and all of them paupers and beggars. It feeds rheumatism, nurses gout, welcomes epidemics, invites cholera, imports pestilence, and embraces consumption. It covers the land with idleness, poverty, disease, and crime. It fills your jails, supplies your almshouses, and demands your asylums. It engenders controversies, fosters quarrels, and cherishes riots. It crowds your penitentiaries, and furnishes the victims for your scaffolds. It is the life-blood of the gambler, the aliment of the counterfeiter, the prop of the highwayman, and the support of the midnight incendiary. It countenances the liar, respects the thief, and esteems the blasphemer. It violates obligation, reverences fraud, and honors infamy. It defames benevolence, hates love, scorns virtue, and slanders innocence. It incites the father to butcher his helpless offspring, helps the husband to massacre his wife, and aids the child to grind the parricidal axe. It burns up man and consumes woman, detests life, curses God, and despises heaven. It suborns witnesses, nurses perjury, defiles the jury-box, and stains the judicial ermine. It bribes voters, disqualifies votes, corrupts elections, pollutes our institutions, and endangers our Government. It degrades the citizen, debases the legislator, dishonors the statesman, and disarms the

MMMMM

patriot. It brings shame, not honor; terror, not safety; despair, not hope; misery, not happiness. And with the malevolence of a fiend, it calmly surveys its frightful desolations; and, insatiated with havoc, it poisons 'felicity, kills peace, ruins morals, blights confidence, slays reputation, and wipes out national honor, then curses the world and laughs at its ruin.

It does all that and more. It murders the soul. It is the sum of all villainies; the father of crimes; the mother of all abominations; the curse of curses; the devil's best friend, and God's worst enemy.

PYRAMUS AND THISBE.-JOHN G. SAXE.

This tragical tale, which, they say, is a true one,
Is old; but the manner is wholly a new one.
One Ovid, a writer of some reputation,
Has told it before in a tedious narration;
In a style, to be sure, of remarkable fullness,
But which nobody reads on account of its dulness.

Young Peter Pyramus-I call him Peter,
Not for the sake of the rhyme or the metre,
But merely to make the name completer;
For Peter lived in the olden times,
And in one of the worst of pagan climes
That flourish now in classical fame,
Long before either noble or boor
Had such a thing as a Christian name,—
Young Peter, then, was a nice young beau
As any young lady would wish to know;
In years, I ween, he was rather green,
That is to say, he was just eighteen,-
A trifle too short, a shaving too lean,
But "a nice young man" as ever was seen,
And fit to dance with a May-day queen!

Now Peter loved a beautiful girl
As ever ensnared the heart of an earl
In the magical trap of an auburn curl,—
A little Miss Thisbe, who lived next door
(They lived, in fact, on the very same floor,
With a wall between them and nothing more,
Those double dwellings were common of yore),
And they loved each other, the legends say,
In that very beautiful, bountiful way

That every young maid and every young blade
Are wont to do before they grow staid,
And learn to love by the laws of trade.
But (alackaday for the girl and boy!)
A little impediment checked their joy,
And gave them awhile the deepest annoy;-
For some good reason, which history cloaks,
The match didn't happen to please the old folks.

So Thisbe's father, and Peter's mother
Began the young couple to worry and bother,
And tried their innocent passion to smother
By keeping the lovers from seeing each other!
But who ever heard of a marriage deterred
Or even deferred

By any contrivance so very absurd

As scolding the boy and caging the bird?
Now Peter, who was not discouraged at all
By obstacles such as the timid appall,
Contrived to discover a hole in the wall,
Which wasn't so thick but removing a brick

Made a passage,-though rather provokingly small.
Through this little chink the lover could greet her,
And secrecy made their courting the sweeter,

While Peter kissed Thisbe, and Thisbe kissed Peter,-
For kisses, like folks with diminutive souls,

Will manage to creep through the smallest of holes!

'Twas here that the lovers, intent upon love,

Laid a nice little plot to meet at a spot

Near a mulberry-tree in a neighboring grove;

For the plan was all laid by the youth and the maid,

Whose hearts, it would seem, were uncommonly bold ones,

To run off and get married in spite of the old ones.

In the shadows of evening, as still as a mouse,

The beautiful maiden slipped out of the house,
The mulberry-tree impatient to find;
While Peter, the vigilant matrons to blind,
Strolled leisurely out, some minutes behind.

While waiting alone by the trysting tree,
A terrible lion as e'er you set eye on
Came roaring along quite horrid to see,
And caused the young maiden in terror to flee
(A lion's a creature whose regular trade is
Blood, and "a terrible thing among ladies"),
And losing her veil as she ran from the wood,
The monster bedabbled it over with blood.

Now Peter arriving, and seeing the veil
All covered o'er and reeking with gore,

Turned, all of a sudden, exceedingly pale,
And sat himself down to weep and to wail;
For, soon as he saw the garment, poor Peter
Made up his mind in very short metre,
That Thisbe was dead and the lion had eat her!
So, breathing a prayer, he determined to share
The fate of his darling, "the loved and the lost,"
And fell on his dagger, and gave up the ghost!

Now Thisbe returning, and viewing her beau
Lying dead by her veil (which she happened to know),
She guessed in a moment the cause of his erring;
And, seizing the knife that had taken his life,
In less than a jiffy was dead as a herring.

Young gentlemen!-pray recollect, if you please,
Not to make appointments near mulberry-trees.
Should your mistress be missing, it shows a weak head
To be stabbing yourself till you know she is dead.
Young ladies!-you shouldn't go strolling about
When your anxious mammas don't know you are out;
And remember that accidents often befall

From kissing young fellows through holes in the wall!

THE FAR AWA LAN'.

Nae ane's wae worn and weary,
Nae ane gangs dark an' dreary
I' the far awa lan'.

Nae frien' frae frien' is pairted,
Nae chokin' tear is stairted,
Nae ane is broken-hairted,
I' the far awa lan'.

Nae bairns greet their deid mither,
Like lammies i' could weather,
I' the far awa lan'.

Nae gude wife there will sicken,

Nae strang man down be stricken,
Nae sky in murk will thicken

I' the far awa lan'.

The heights are crowned in simmer,
The burns i' gladness glimmer

I' the far awa lan'.

As birds rin till their nestie,

As to its dam ilk beastie,

We'll rin till God's own breastie

I' the far awa lan'.