often catch their opponents napping, and rarely get caught themselves. Everybody likes them "in the field ;" and they often make "home runs." They fail at the "bat," but get a good many bats. As" tallyists," they make their "innings;" but they are not good " umpires," being apt to raise a row.

Mosquitoes, like dogs, have their days. In dog days, dogs are expected to go mad. Mosquito days begin with dog days, and end with the first frost. Then they die happy; they gather in large bands under the trees, and there, flying up and down, they sing Man exults in their death; the mosquitoes exult; all is exultant; and soon after the Governor appoints Thanksgiving.

their death song.

OUR MINISTER'S SERMON.

Our minister said last night, says he,
"Don't be afraid of givin';

If your life ain't worth nothin' to other folks,
Why, what's the use of livin' ?"

And that's what I say to my wife, says I,
"There's Brown, the mis'rable sinner,
He'd sooner a beggar would starve than give
A cent towards buyin' a dinner."

I tell you our minister is prime, he is;
But I couldn't quite determine,

When I heard him a givin' it right and left
Just who was hit by his sermon.

Of course there couldn't be no mistake
When he talked of long-winded prayin'
For Peters and Johnson they sat and scowled
At every word he was sayin'.

And the minister he went on to say,
"There's various kinds of cheatin',
And religion's as good for every day
As it is to bring to meetin'.

I don't think much of the man that gives
The loud amens at my preachin',
And spends his time the followin' week
In cheatin' and overreachin'!"

I guess that dose was bitter enough
For a man like Jones to swallow;
But I noticed he didn't open his mouth
Not once, after that, to holler;
Hurrah, says I, for the minister-
Of course, I said it quiet-

Give us some more of this open talk,
It's very refreshin' diet.

The minister hit 'em every time,

And when he spoke of fashion,

And riggin's out in bows and things,
As woman's rulin' passion,

And coming to church to see the styles,

I could't help a-winkin'

And a-nudgin' my wife, and says I, "That's you,"

And I guess it sot her thinkin'.

Says I to myself, that sermon's pat;

But man is a queer creation, ●

And I'm much afraid that most of the folks

Won't take the application.

Now, if he had said a word about

My personal mode of sinnin',
I'd have gone to work to right myself,
And not set there a-grinnin'.

Just then the minister says, says he,
"And now I've come to the fellers
Who've lost this shower by usin' their friends
As a sort o' moral umbrellas,

Go home," says he, "and find your faults,
Instead of huntin' your brothers'.

Go home," says he, "and wear the coats
You tried to fit for others."

My wife she nudged, and Brown he winked,
And there was lots o' smiling'.

And lots o' looking at our pew,
It sot my blood a-bilin',
Says I to myself, our minister

Is gettin' a little bitter;

I'll tell him, when the meetin's out, that I
Ain't at all that kind of a critter.

LEGAL WHISKERS.

As o'er their wine and walnuts sat,
Talking of this and then of that,
Two wights well learned in the law-
That is, well skilled to find a flaw-
Said one companion to the other,
"How is it, most respected brother,
That you, of late, have shaven away
Those whiskers which for many a day
Had ornamented much your cheek?
Sure 'twas an idle, silly freak."
To whom the other answer gave,
With look half merry and half grave,
"Though others be by whiskers graced,
A lawyer can't be too bare-faced!"

THE BEAUTIFUL BALLAD OF WASKA WEE.

Her voice was sweet as a ban-do-lin,

Her mouth was small as the head of a pin;
Her eyes ran up, and her chin ran down-

Oh, she was the belle of Yeddo town.

Now, lovely Waska Singty Wee,
So good to hear, so sweet to see,
The fairest maiden in all Japan,
Fell dead in love with a Turkish man.

This Turkish man a turban had,
This Turkish man was sly and bad;
He whispered unto Miss Waska Wee:
"Oh, fly with me to my own Turkee !"

66

'Oh, fly with me to my own Turkee!
And robes of gold I'll give to thee-
A girdle of pearl and love for life,
If thou wilt be my eighteenth wife!"

Now simple Waska Singty Wee,
So good to hear, so fair to see,
Resolved behind her bashful fan

To be eighteenth wife to the Turkish man.

But though her heart was full of glee

She hung her head and said to he:
"If thou should die, my Turkish beau,
Where would poor Waska Singty go?"

Then this horrid, sly, old Turkish man
Declared he'd die on the English plan.

"And so," said he, "my bright winged bird, Thou'lt have for thy fortune the widow's third."

Then flew the maid to the Mi-ca-do,

And told the plan of her Turkish beau.

"And now," said she, "the whole thou'st heard, How much will it be, this widow's third ?"

Now the Mi-ca-do was wondrous wise,
He opened his mouth and shut his eyes:
"The widow's third, oh, daughter! will be
Whatever the law will allow to thee."

Then flew the maid to the court of Lords, Where every man wore a brace of swords, And bade them name what sum would be hers When the Turk should go to his forefathers.

They sat in council from dawn till night,
And sat again till morning light,
Figured and counted and weighed, to see
What an eighteenth widow's third would be.

And the end of it all, as you well might know,
Was nought but grief to the Turkish beau;
For lovely Waska Singty Wee

Said, "Go back alone to your old Turkee !"

SPRING SURPRISES.

The parson paused by the Strawberry bed,
Upon his face a frown;

The berries were forming full, ripe and red,
The birds sang merrily over head,

Yet gravely he looked down.

The parson strode by the garden path,

Beneath the apple trees,

From each rosy blossom a honey bath
Unheeding he shook, but his words of wrath
Died 'mid the stir of bees.

The parson reclined in his study chair,
The ink on his pen was dry,

And softly the air stirred his silvery hair,
As, musing with wearisome look of care,
He heaved a mournful sigh.

But he suddenly cast his pen aside,

And pacing to and fro,