LESSON LXXIX.

THE MISER AND HIS THREE SONS.

GOLDSMITH.

1. POOR Dick, the happiest silly fellow I ever knew, was of the number of those good-natured creatures that are said to do no harm to any but themselves. Whenever he fell into any misery, he called it "seeing life." If his head was broken by a chairman, or his pocket picked by a sharper, he comforted himself by imitating the Hibernian dialect of the one, or the more fashionable cant of the other. Nothing came amiss to him.

2. Although the eldest of three sons, his inattention to money matters had incensed his father to such a degree that all intercession of friends was fruitless. The old gen

tleman was on his death-bed. The whole family (and Dick among the number), gathered around him. "I leave my second son Andrew," said the expiring miser, "my whole estate; and desire him to be frugal." "Ah! father," said Andrew, in a sorrowful tone (as is usual on these occasions), "may heaven prolong your life and health to enjoy it yourself."

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3. "I recommend Simon, my third son, to the care of his elder brother; and leave him, besides, four thousand pounds." "Ah! father," cried Simon (in great affliction, to be sure), may heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself!" 4. At last, turning to poor Dick, "As for you, you have always been a sad dog; you'll never come to good; you'll never be rich; I'leave you a shilling to buy a halter." "Ah! father," cries Dick, without any emotion, "may heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself!"

QUAINT PUN.

AN old author quaintly remarks:-Avoid argument with ladies. In spinning yarns among silks and satins, a man is sure to be worsted; and when a man is worsted, he may consider himself about the same as wound up.

LESSON LXXX.

FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY.

A humorous punning Ballad.-THOMAS HOOD.

[THOMAS HOOD, born in London, England, in 1798; died in 1845. He wrote much for various periodicals; and his life was one of incessant exertion, embittered by ill health and all the disquiets and uncertainties of authorship. In most of his writings, even in his puns and levities, there is a "spirit of good" directed to some kindly or philanthropic object.]

1. BEN BATTLE was a soldier bold,
And used to war's alarms;
But a cannon-ball took off his legs,
So he laid down his arms.

2. Now, as they bore him off the field,
Said he, "Let others' shoot;
For here I leave my second leg,
And the Forty-second foot."

3. The army surgeons made him limbs';
Said he, "They're only pegs',

But they're as wooden members quite
As represent my legs."

4. Now Ben, he loved a pretty maid',
Her name' was Nelly Gray';
So he went to pay her his devoirs'a,
When he'd devour'd his pay.

5. But when he called on Nelly Gray,
She made him quite a scoff,

And when she saw his wooden legs,
Began to take them off.

6. "Oh Nelly Gray'! oh Nelly Gray'!
Is this your love so warm'?
The love that loves a scarlet coat
Should be more uniform.”

a Dev oirs' (dev wor'), French; respects: due acts of civility.

10. "I wish I ne'er had seen your face;
But now, a long farewell!
For you will be my death';-alas'!
You will not be my NELL!"

11. Now when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got',

And life was such a burden grown',
It made him take a knot'.

12. So, round his melancholy neck
A rope did he entwine',
And for the second time in life,
Enlisted in the Line.

13. One end he tied around a beam,
And then removed his pegs',
And, as his legs were off, of course,
He soon was off his legs.

14. And there he hung till he was dead As any nail in town':

For though distress had cut him up',
It could not cut him down.

LESSON LXXXI.

MR. NOBODY.

[A humorous satire on that very common propensity of human nature-found not in children and servants alone-to ignore our petty shortcomings:-it is so very 'convenient to make Mr. Nobody a scapegoat for them.]

1. I KNOW a funny little man,

As quiet as a mouse,

Who does the mischief that is done

In every body's house.

There's no one ever sees his face,

And yet we all agree,

That every plate we break was cracked
By Mr. No-bod-ee.

2. 'Tis he who always tears our books,
Who leaves our doors ajar;

He pulls the buttons from our shirts,
And scatters pins afar.

That squeaking door will always squeak,
For, prithee, don't you see,

We leave the oiling to be done
By Mr. No-bod-ee?

3. The finger-marks upon the doors

By none of us are made;

We never leave the blinds unclosed
To let the curtains fade;

The ink we never spill; the boots

That lying round you see,

Are not our boots! They all belong
To Mr. No-bod-ee.

LIVING AND DYING.

Pyrrho used to say, "There is no difference between living and dying." A person asked him, "Why, then, do you not die' ?" "Because," he replied, "there is no difference."

LESSON LXXXII.

THE BOYS.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

[The following poem was addressed to the class of 1829, in Harvard College, some thirty years after their graduation. The author, ignoring the lapse of time, and imagining his classmates to be gathered around him as of old, and conceiving them still to be "boys," addresses them as such, while he treats the honors and reputation they had acquired as "a neat little fiction," which the world fancies to be "true!" This piece is a fine example of combined wit and humor, and requires much variety of imitation in the reading. It begins with the tone of mock indignation, which is dropped at the close of the second verse,-continues in the milder tone of comic seriousness, and most happily closes with a touching appeal that gives point and force to the whole.]

1. Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys'?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
Hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite'!
Old Time is a liar'! we're twenty' to-night!

2. We're twenty'! We're twenty'! Who says we are more'?

He's tipsy, young jackanapes'!-show him the door'! "Gray temples at twenty'?"-Yes'! white' if we please'; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest' there's nothing can freeze'!

3. Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close, you will see not a sign of a flake!
We want some new garlands for those we have shed,
And these are white roses in place of the red.

4. We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been Of talking (in public) as if we were old;

[told,

That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;" It's a neat little fiction, of course it's all fudge.

5. That fellow's the "Speaker," the one on the right; "Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; There's the "Reverend"-what's his name ?-don't make me laugh.