He held its handle, and grasped it tight,
And said, "Old fellow, this ere's all right!"
Then Mercury called him an honest soul,
Told him for this he should have the whole;
Then left all three with the happy elf,
And went right back to report himself.

Now the clod was rich, and with few words
He bought him houses, and barns, and herds.
His neighbours wondered this to see,
And sought to unravel the mystery;
Nor long did he their wondering tax,
But told the story about his axe.
Then all who had axes vowed to go
And see what luck to them would flow:
And those who had none stopped at nought
But sold their goods and axes bought,
Then went away, resolved to lose 'em,
And make appeal to Jove's own bosom,
Convinced that he would not refuse 'em.

Their clamoring wakened all the sky,
And angry grew the Thunderer's eye,-
Who summoned Mercury to go

Upon his errand again below—

"These chaps must n't be left to pother one, Serve them just as you did the other one; Put the test that then you tried,

Let them for themselves decide,

Give what they ax, and let 'em slide!"

Down went Mercury on his mission
Where they noisily made petition.
The golden axe on the ground he threw:
The first one greedily at it flew,

When, swinging the steel axe in his hand,
The head of the seeker sought the sand;

And so of the whole of the clamorous crowd

Each nose like a coulter the green sward ploughed ;
And from this day's ensanguined workery
Arose man's guess of the uses of mercury—
And it undoubtedly a palpable fact is,
Ten medical colleges, all in full practice,

With surgeons awaiting a chance to dissect you all,
Couldn't make mercury more effectual,

Or cut men down quicker than Mercury packed his
On this first day of "legitimate" practice.

My friends, ye who read this fable so winning,
Look for the moral at the beginning-

For which, and the story, think just as you may of them,
I have nothing more at present to say of them.

B. P. SHILLAber.

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS.

GUVENER B. is a sensible man;

He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener. B.

My aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?

We can't never choose him, o' course-thet's flat; Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; Fer John P.

Robinson he

Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:

He's ben on all sides that give places or pelf; But consistency still wuz a part of his plan— He's ben true to one party-an' thet is himself;So John P.

He don't vally principle more'n an old cud; Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?

So John P.

Robinson he

Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We were gittin on nicely up here to our village,
With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint,
We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage,
An thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint;
But John P.

Robinson he

Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took,

An' President Polk, you know, he is our country;
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book
Puts the debit to him, an' to us per contry;

An' John P.

Robinson he

Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies;
Sez there's nothin' on airth but jest fee faw fum;
An' thet all this big talk of our destinies
Is half on it ignorance, an' t'other half rum;

But John P.

Robinson he

Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life

Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail

coats,

An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,
To git some on 'em office, and some on 'em votes;
But John P.

Robinson he

Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.

Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us

The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow— God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, To drive the world's team when it gets in a slough; Fer John P.

Robinson he

Sez the world 'll go right, ef he hollers out, Gee! JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

PHAETHON;

OR THE AMATEUR COACHMAN.

DAN PHAËTHON,-so the histories run,-
Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun;
Or rather of Phoebus,-but as to his mother,
Genealogists make a deuse of a pother,
Some going for one, and some for another!
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of Aurora!

Now old Father Phoebus, ere railways begun
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,

Drove a very fast coach by the name of "The Sun;"
Running, they say,

Trips every day,

(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way,)

All lighted up with a famous array

Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's "shay,"
With never a fare, and nothing to pay!
Now Phaethon begged of his doting old father,
To grant him a favor, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,
That he wasn't by any means Phoebus's boy!
Intending, the rascally son of a gun,

To darken the brow of the son of the Sun!
"By the terrible Styx !" said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,