She opened the door, and said in an alarmed tone: " Father, was that you calling me? " And again, " Father! " And once again,
after listening, " Father! I thought I heard you call me twice before! " No response.

Dickens' " Mutual Friend. "

" Did you call me, Father? " Ah no, 'twas the surge,
Swelling a requiem, wailing a dirge:
Back, maiden! create still thy images rare,
Thy bright glowing castles, so frail yet so fair.

" Did you call me, Father? " He hears thee no more,

Did ivver ye see the like o' that?
The warld 's fair fashioned to winder at!
Heuch — dinna tell me! Yon 's Fishie Pete
That cried the haddies in Ferry Street
Set up wi' his coats an' his grand cigars
In ane o' thae stinkin' motor-cars!

I mind the time (an' it 's no far past)
When he wasna for fleein' alang sae fast,
An' doon i' the causey his cairt wad stand
As he roared oot " Haddies!" below his hand;
Ye'd up wi' yer windy an' doon he'd loup
Frae the shaft o' the cairt by the sheltie's doup.

Ay, muckle cheenges an' little sense,

Did I evah tell you, Sonny,
Well, a-he! he! he!
De trick I played in Dixie,
'Way back in 'sixty-three?
I wus wild an' full uv mischief,
An' reckless ez could be,
In dem rough ole days in Natchez,
'Way back in 'sixty-three.

I wus out a-for'gin', Sonny,
Well, a-he! he! he!
Out a-doin' debbilment,
Big man sah, who but me?
Had a smackin' big hoss-pistol,
'Long bout dis size, confound!
Jest to wa'm dem rebels' jackets,
An' make dem jump around.

It wus early Sunday mawnin',
Well, a-he! he! he!

Did but the law appoint us one,
Tired couples to release again,
What shoals of all degrees would run,
To break their matrimonial chain!
The widow old,
Herself and gold
Who to the healthy spendthrift gave;
And the rich churl,
Who took a girl,
Poor wretch! with one foot in the grave.

Prudes, who at men would never look,
Yet slyly tasted Hymen's joy;
And wild coquets, who husbands took,
When they could get no other toy:
Millions would try
The knot to untie:
Towards the goal of liberty,
Lord! what a throng

E LSIE was a maiden fair
As the sun
Shone upon:
Born to teach her swains despair
By smiling on them every one;
Born to win all hearts to her
Just because herself had none;
All the day she had no care,
For she was a maiden fair
As the sun
Shone upon,
Heartless as the brooks that run.

All the maids, with envy tart,
Sneering said, " She has no heart."
All the youths, with bitter smart
Sighing said, " She has no heart!"
Could she care

Did all the lets and bars appear
To every just or larger end,
Whence should come the trust and cheer?
Youth must its ignorant impulse lend--
Age finds place in the rear.
All wars are boyish, and are fought by boys,
The champions and enthusiasts of the state:
Turbid ardors and vain joys
Not barrenly abate--
Stimulants to the power mature,
Preparatives of fate.

Who here forecasteth the event?
What heart but spurns at precedent
And warnings of the wise,
Contemned foreclosures of surprise?
The banners play, the bugles call,

" The dictates of nature prove school-knowledge weak;
Does not instinct beyond all the orators speak?
From their parts of speech we'll not borrow one part;
Our lips, without words, find the way to the heart."

Thus as last night I sung, with my lass on my knee,
Methought one below hoarse enquired for me;
We listened and heard him, his breathing seemed scant,
And upstairs he stepped with asthmatical pant.

The door op'ning wide, solus entered the sprite,
Black and all black his dress, sable emblem of night.

"Dick Turpin, bold Dick hie away,' was the cry
Of my pals, who were startled, you guess.
The pistols were levelled, the bullets whizzed by,
As I jumped on the back of Black Bess.

Three officers, mounted, led forward the chase,
Resolved in the capture to share;
But I smiled on their efforts, though swift was their pace,
As I urged on my bonny black mare.

Hark away, hark away! Still onward we press,
And I saw by the glimmers of morn,
Full many a mile on the back of Black Bess
That night I was gallantly borne.

" DICK , I marvel much why in every plat
Gloria Patri standeth before Sicut erat . "
" Tom, Gloria Patri is a gentleman:
In pleasant speech, speak so sweetly no tongue can.
Sicut erat is a churl, so rude and plain
That to hear him speak all degrees do disdain. "

DO YOU ask me what I think of
This new song of Hiawatha,
With its legends and traditions,
And its frequent repetitions
Of hard names which make the jaw ache,
AnDof words most unpoetic?
I should answer, I should tell you
I esteem it wild and wayward,
Slipshod metre, scanty sense,
Honour paid to Mudjekeewis,
But no honour to the muse.