Heigh-ho! says she,

What's that to me?

But they say, little maid, the lawyer said,
That you and Johnny are going to wed.

Says she, If we do,

What's that to you?

"Poetical Works."

The Briefless Barrister

A Ballad

AN Attorney was taking a turn,
In shabby habiliments drest;
His coat it was shockingly worn,
And the rust had invested his vest.

His breeches had suffered a breach,
His linen and worsted were worse;
He had scarce a whole crown in his hat,
And not half a crown in his purse.

And thus as he wandered along,
A cheerless and comfortless elf,
He sought for relief in a song,
Or complainingly talked to himself:

"Unfortunate man that I am!

I've never a client but grief:

The case is, I've no case at all,

And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief!

"I've waited and waited in vain,
Expecting an 'opening' to find,
Where an honest young lawyer might gain
Some reward for toil of his mind.

""Tis not that I'm wanting in law,
Or lack an intelligent face,
That others have cases to plead,

While I have to plead for a case.

"Oh, how can a modest young man E'er hope for the smallest progressionThe profession's already so full

Of lawyers so full of profession!"

While thus he was strolling around,
His eye accidentally fell

On a very deep hole in the ground,
And he sighed to himself, "It is well!"

To curb his emotions, he sat

On the curbstone the space of a minute, Then cried, "Here's an opening at last!" And in less than a jiffy was in it!

Next morning twelve citizens came

('Twas the coroner bade them attend), To the end that it might be determined How the man had determined his end!

"The man was a lawyer, I hear,"

Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse. "A lawyer? Alas!" said another, "Undoubtedly died of remorse!"

A third said, "He knew the deceased,
An attorney well versed in the laws,
And as to the cause of his death,

'Twas no doubt for the want of a cause."

The jury decided at length,

After solemnly weighing the matter,
That the lawyer was drownded, because
He could not keep his head above water!

-"Poetical Works.'

Frederick S. Cozzens

Living in the Country

IT is a good thing to live in the country. To escape from the prison-walls of the metropolis-the great brickery we call "the city"-and to live amid blossoms and leaves, in shadow and sunshine, in moonlight and starlight, in rain, mist, dew, hoarfrost, and drouth, out in the open champaign and under the blue dome that is bounded by the horizon only. It is a good thing to have a well with dripping buckets, a porch with honeybuds and sweet-bells, a hive embroidered with nimble bees, a sun-dial mossed over, ivy up to the eaves, curtains of dimity, a tumbler of fresh flowers in your bedroom, a rooster on the roof, and a dog under the piazza.

When Mrs. Sparrowgrass and I moved into the country, with our heads full of fresh butter, and cool, crisp radishes for tea; with ideas entirely lucid respecting milk, and a looseness of calculation as to the number in family it would take a good laying hen to supply with fresh eggs every morning; when Mrs. Sparrowgrass and I moved into the country, we found some preconceived notions had to be abandoned, and some departures made from the plans we had laid down in the little back parlor of Avenue G.

One of the first achievements in the country is early rising! with the lark-with the sun-while the dew is on the grass, "under the opening eyelids of the morn," and so forth. Early rising! What can be done with five or six o'clock in town? What may not be done at those hours in the country-with the hoe, the rake, the dibble, the spade, the watering-pot? To

plant, prune, drill, transplant, graft, train, and sprinkle! Mrs. S. and I agreed to rise early in the country.

Richard and Robin were two pretty men,
They laid in bed till the clock struck ten;
Up jumped Richard and looked at the sky;
O, Brother Robin, the sun's very high!

Early rising in the country is not an instinct; it is a sentiment, and must be cultivated.

A friend recommended me to send to the south side of Long Island for some very prolific potatoes-the real hippopotamus breed. Down went my man and, what with expenses of horsehire, tavern bills, toll-gates, and breaking a wagon, the hippopotami cost as much apiece as pineapples. They were fine potatoes, though, with comely features, and large, languishing eyes, that promised increase of family without delay. As I worked my own garden (for which I hired a landscape gardener at two dollars per day to give me instructions), I concluded that the object of my first experiment in early rising should be the planting of the hippopotamuses. I accordingly arose next morning at five, and it rained! I rose next day at five, and it rained! The next, and it rained! It rained for two weeks! We had splendid potatoes every day for dinner. "My dear," said I to Mrs. Sparrowgrass, "where did you get these fine potatoes?" "Why," said she, innocently, "out of that basket from Long Island!" The last of the hippopotamuses were before me, peeled, and boiled, and mashed, and baked, with a nice thin brown crust on the top.

I was more successful afterward. I did get some fine seedpotatoes in the ground. But something was the matter; at the end of the season I did not get as many out as I had put in. Mrs. Sparrowgrass, who is a notable housewife, said to me