ASK MAMMA !-(A. Melville Bell.)

By kind permission of the Author.

A BACHELOR squire of no great possession, long come to what should have been years of discretion, determined to change his old habits of life, and comfort his days by taking a wife. He had long been the sport of the girls of the place they liked his good, simple, quiet, cheery, fat face; and wherever he went to a teadrinking party, the flirts were in raptures—our friend was so hearty! They'd fasten a cord near the foot of the door, and bring down the jolly old chap on the floor: they'd pull off his wig while he floundered about, and hide it, and laugh till he hunted it out: they would tie his coat-tails to the back of his seat, and scream with delight when he rose to his feet; they would send him at Christmas a box full of bricks, and play on his temper all manner of tricks. One evening they pressed him to play on the flute, and he blew in his eyes a rare scatter of soot! He took it so calmly, and laughed while he spoke, that they hugged him to pardon their nasty "black joke". One really appeared so sincere in her sorrow, that he vowed to himself he would ask her to-morrow-and not one of the girls but would envy her lot, if this jolly old bachelor's offer she got; for they never had dreamed of his playing the beau, or doubtless they would not have treated him so. However, next day, to fair Fanny's amazement, she saw him approach as she stood at the casement; and he very soon gave her to know his desire, that she should become the dear wife of the squire. "La! now, Mr. Friendly, what would they all say?"--but she thought that not one of them all would say nay :-she was flustered with pleasure, and coyness, and pride, to be thus unexpectedly sued for a bride. She did not refuse him, but yet did not like to say, "Yes," all at once-the hot iron to strike :

so, to give the proposal the better eclat, she said, "Dear. Mr. Friendly-you'd best ask mamma !” "Good morning then, Fanny, I'll do what you say: as she's out, I shall call in the course of the day." Fanny blushed as she gave him her hand for goodbye, and she did not know which to do first-laugh or cry to wed such a dear darling man, nothing loth, for variety's sake, in her joy she did both! "Oh, what will mamma say, and all the young girls?" she thought as she played with her beautiful curls. “I wish I had said yes at once-'twas too bad not to ease his dear mind-Oh, I wish that I had! I wish he had asked me to give him a kiss,—but he can't be in doubt of my feelings-that's bliss! Oh, I wish that mamma would come home for the news; such a good, dear, kind soul, she will never refuse! There's the bellhere she is―O mamma!"- "Child, preserve us! What ails you, dear Fanny? What makes you so nervous?" "I really can't tell you just now,—by and bye Mr. Friendly will call-and he'll tell you-not I." "Mr. Friendly, my child! what about him, I pray? 'O mamma-he's to call-in the course of the day. He was here just this moment, and shortly you'll see he'll make you as happy as he has made me. I declare he has seen you come home, that's his ring: I will leave you and him now to settle the thing." Fanny left in a flutter: her mother-the gipsy-she'd made her as giddy as though she'd been tipsy! Mr. Friendly came in, and the widow and he were soon as delighted as Fanny could be: he asked the dear widow to change her estate ;-she consented at once, and a kiss sealed her fate. Fanny came trembling in-overloaded with pleasure-but soon she was puzzled in as great a measure. Dear Fanny," said Friendly, "I've done what you said;"-but what he had done never entered her head-"I have asked your mamma, and

she's given her consent." Fanny flew to his arms to express her content. He kissed her, and said-as he kissed her mamma,- -"I'm so glad, my dear Fan, that you like your papa !" Poor Fanny now found out the state of the case, and she blubbered outright, with a pitiful face; it was all she could do, under heavy constraint, to preserve herself conscious, and keep off a faint. She determined, next time she'd a chance, you may guess, not to say, "Ask mamma," but at once to say “Yes!”

THE JACKDAW.-(Cowper.)

THERE is a bird, who, by his coat, and by the hoarseness of his note, might be supposed a crow; a great frequenter of the church, where, bishop-like, he finds a perch and dormitory too. Above the steeple shines a plate that turns and turns, to indicate from what point blows the weather : look up your brains begin to swim; 'tis in the clouds-that pleases him; he chooses it the rather. Fond of the speculative height, thither he wings his airy flight; and thence securely sees the bustle and the raree-show that occupy mankind below-secure and at his ease. You think, no doubt, he sits and muses on future broken bones and bruises, if he should chance to fall: no, not a single thought like that employs his philosophic pate, or troubles it at all. He sees that this great roundabout, the world, with all its motley rout, church, army, physic, law, its customs and its businesses, are no concern at all of his, and says-what says he?— Caw! Thrice happy bird! I, too, have seen much of the vanities of men; and, sick of having seen them, would cheerfully these limbs resign for such a pair of wings as thine, and-such a head between them.

THE QUARREL.-(Charles Mackay.)

By kind permission of the Author.

"HUSH, Joanna! 'tis quite certain that the coffee was not strong :—own your error,—I'll forgive you !why so stubborn in the wrong?" "You'll forgive me? sir, I hate you! you have used me like a churl: have my senses ceased to guide me? do you think I am a girl?” “Oh, no! you're a girl no longer, but a woman formed to please, and it's time you should abandon childish follies such as these." Oh! I hate you! but why vex me? if I'm old, you're older still: I'll no longer be your victim, and the creature of your will." "But, Joanna, why this pother? it might happen I was wrong: but, if common sense inspire me, still, that coffee was not strong." "Common sense! you never had it! Oh! that ever I was born to be wedded to a MONSTER who repays my love with scorn." "Well, Joanna, we'll not quarrel: what's the use of bitter strife? but I'm sorry I am married :— :-I was mad to take a wife !" "Mad indeed! I'm glad you know it; but if law can break the chain, I'LL BE TIED TO YOU NO LONGER in this misery and pain.” "Hush, Joanna! shall the servants hear you argue ever wrong? can you not have done with folly? own -the coffee was not strong." "Oh! you goad me past endurance, trifling with my woman's heart; but I loathe you and detest you! villain! monster! let us part." Long this foolish quarrel lasted; till Joanna, half afraid that her empire was in peril, summoned never-failing aid,—summoned tears in copious torrents -tears, and sobs, and piteous sighs: well she knew the potent practice, the artillery of the eyes. And it chanced as she imagined: beautiful in grief was she, beautiful to best advantage, and a tender heart had he. Kneeling at her side, he soothed her " Dear Joanna! I was wrong! never more I'll contradict you, -but, oh, make my coffee strong!"

THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.—(Colman.) A MAN in many a country town we know, professing openly with death to wrestle: entering the field against the grisly foe, armed with a mortar and a pestle. Yet some affirm, no enemies they are; but meet just like prize-fighters in a fair, who first shake hands before they box, then give each other plaguy knocks, with all the love and kindness of a brother. So, many a suffering patient saith,-though the Apothecary fights with Death, still they're sworn friends to one another. A member of this Esculapian line lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne: no man could better gild a pill, or make a bill, or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister, or draw a tooth out of your head, or chatter scandal by your bed, or spread a plaster. His fame full six miles round the country ran; in short, in reputation he was solus: all the old women called him "A fine man!"—his name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade-which oftentimes will genius fetter-read works of fancy, it is said, and cultivated the Belles Lettres. And why should this be thought so odd? can't men have taste who cure a phthisic? Of poetry, though patron god, Apollo patronises physic. Bolus loved verse; and took so much delight in't, that his prescriptions he resolved to write in't. No opportunity he e'er let pass of writing the directions on his labels, in dapper couplets-like Gay's Fables, or rather like the lines in Hudibras. Apothecary's verse!—and where's the treason? 'Tis simple honest dealing-not a crime: when patients swallow physic without reason, it is but fair to give a little rhyme.

He had a patient lying at death's door, some three miles from the town-it might be four-to whom one evening, Bolus sent an article, in pharmacy that's called cathartical; and on the label of the stuff he