aching heart; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies are awak. ened. My client's hopes and prospects are ruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down -but there is no tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass and repass -but there is no invitation for them to inquire within or without. All is gloom and silence in the house, even the voice of the child is hushed; his infant sports are disregarded when his mother weeps; his “alley-tory” and his “commoneys" are alike neglected; he forgets the long familiar cry of "knuckle down" and at tip-cheese or odd and evenhis hand is out. But Pickwick, Gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell street-Pickwick, who has choked up the well and thrown ashes on the sward-Pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless Tomato sauce and warming pans-Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes, without a sigh, on the ruin he has made. Damages, Gentlemen-heavy damages is the only penalty with which you can visit him; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for these damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative jury of her civilized countrymen.

With this beautiful peroration Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz sat down and Mr. Justice Stareleigh woke up!

[This piece may be recited with good effect, by a little girl, the clas ropeating

the last four lines of each verse.)

MUD PIES.

GEORGE COOPER.
Tell me, little housewives,

Playing in the sun,
How many minutes

Till the cooking's done.
Johnny builds the oven,

Jenny rolls the crust,

Katy ouys the flour

All of golden dust.
Pat them here, and pat them there,

What a dainty size !
Bake them on a shingle-

Nice mud pies!
Don't you hear the bluebird

High up in the air?
"Good morning, little ones, .

Are you busy there ?"
Pretty Mister Squirrel

Bounces down the rail,
Takes a seat and watches,

Curls his bushy tail.
Twirl them so, and mark them so

(Looking wondrous wise),
All the plums are pebbles-

Rich mud pies !
Arms that never weary,

Toiling dimple-deep;
Shut the oven door, now,

And soon we'll take a peep.
Wish we had a shower-

Think we need it som
That would make the road-side

Such a heap of dough!
Turn them in and turn them out;

How the morning fies;
Ring the bell for dinner-

Hot mud pies !

DER SHOEMAKER'S BOY. .

(A Parody on “Mistletoe Bough.") Der meat-chopper hanged on der vitevashed wall, For no gustomers comed to der putcher's stall; Der shoemaker's poy comed there to blay, Cause der putcher poys all had a holiday.

On der door of der cellar mit dem to shlide, -
Ven nopody vas looking he shtealed inside ;
Mit der sassage machine he begin to make free,
Und he gried, “Dere ish nopody looking at me."

Oh ! der shoemaker's poy,
Und oh! der shoemaker's poy!

Der day goed away und der night comed on,
Und der shoemaker found dat his poy vas gone;
He called up his frau, und der search pegan,
To seek for der leetle poy und found him if dey can;
In der garret, der cellar, und effery blace round,
At der putcher's, der paker's, und in der tog pound,
At der lager peer cellar und shtation house,
But der answer dey getted vas, “Nix cum arous.”

Oh! der shoemaker's poy,
Und oh! der shoemaker's poy!

Dey seeked him all night and dey seeked him next day,
Und for more as a month vas der tuyvel to pay;
Dey seeked him in vain until weeks vas bassed,
Und der shoemaker goed to his awl at last;
His frau she looked solemn und viped her eye
Mit her apron, und den she sat down to gry;
Und ven lie'd pass by all der beeples vould gry,
Dere goes der poor shoemaker vot losed his poy.

Ohl der shoemaker's poy,
Und oh! der shoemaker's poy!

At length der meat-chopping mashine vas in need,
Der putcher goed to it und dere he seed
A pundle of pones und der shoes vas dere,
Vat der long-lost shoemaker's poy did vear;
His jaws vas still vaggin' und seemed to say,
Ven nopody vas looking I got in to blay;
It closed mit a spring, und der poy so green,
Vas made sassage meat mit der chopping machine.

Oh! der shoemaker's poy,
Und oh! the shoemaker's poy!

A TRAGIO STORY.

CHAMISSO:
There lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pigtail wore,
But wondered much and sorrowed more

Because it hung behind him !

He mused upon this curious case,
And swore he'd change the pigtail's place,
And have it hanging at his face,

Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, “ The mystery I've found;
I'll turn me round." He turned him round,

But still it hung behind him!

Then round and round, and out and in,
All day the puzzled sage did spin;
In vain-it mattered not a pin-

The pigtail hung behind him!

And right and left, and roundabout,
And up and down, and in and out
He turned, but still the pigtail stout

Hung steadily behind him!

And though his efforts never slack,
And though he twirl and twist and tack,
Alas! still faithful to his back,

The pigtail hangs behind him.

MOSQUITOES. True mosquitoes are small at the waist, delicate in their organization, round-shouldered, and inclined to consumption. Their disposition is flighty. Some people think mosquitoes are a humbug; but they are not. There is nothing so real as inosquitoes. You can see 'em. When you can't see 'em, you can hear 'em. When you don't hear 'em, you can feel 'em. And when you neither see, hear, nor feel

em, you may know they've been around, because they've made their mark.

We all love mosquitoes so well that we offer them our hand, and are always wanting to squeeze them; and although they like us, being shy, they reject our proposals at first, and then take us when we are least prepared for them.

Mosquitoes are well educated. In music they use the Italian school of singing, -thrills, shakes, quavers, flying notes, and words not understood. It is decidedly sensation music, and, like all sensation music generally, it is thrilling in its effect; but one soon tires of it. Lying in bed, you hear the distant song of the mosquito: a feeling of dread comes over you, succeeded, as the song sounds come nearer, by a thrilling of the nerves, and, when close to your ears, the excitement becomes such as to cause your blood to boil, and your hands to strike forcibly your own head and.ears. If such is the effect of a single mosquito's song on a single individual, wliat a perfect furore of excitement might be created by a singing band of mosquitoes over a Boston Music Hall audience! Operatic impressarios are welcome to this hint. Everybody knows that mosquitoes draw well.

Mosquitoes are philosophers. They understand gravitation. If a hand or other weighty substance should fall, they know there's danger, and get out of the way. And they understand suction so well, that they put a steam fire engine to the blush.

Mosquitoes are educated in the allopathic school of medicine : they believe in bleeding. They differ from men in applying the theory: they first present their bill, and then bleed you. They don't understand human nature enough to know that no man likes to have a bill presented before the work is done. Mosquitoes also know how to develop humor-a bad humor: they will pity a man so much in one night, that his face will look very humorous next morning. As mathematicians, mosquitoes understand subtraction, and also multiply very fast.

As base ballists mosquitoes are a success. They always come in "on a fly," and rarely go out on one. As "pitchers," they always pitch in, never mind who their opponents are. As "catchers," they