SAINT VALENTINE.

BISHOP Valentine sat in an oaken chair,
Conning an ancient book;

His features they wore a thoughtful air,
His feet they wore slippers, a velvet pair,
And a velvet night-cap adorned his hair,
And his cell was a snug little nook.

The moon through the painted casement shone,
And checkered the paven floor.
Bishop Valentine sat by his lamp alone,
As the length'ning shadows stole slowly on,
Till at last the Abbey bell tolled-one!
When the bishop was heard to snore.

Now Satan, who hated the Bishop right well,
And had done him ill turns without number,
At this instant exactly, as it befel,

In taking an airing, flew over his cell,

So he carefully muffled his tail round the bell,

Lest its echoes should wake him from slumber.

Then down, with a grace altogether his own,
To the cell of the Bishop he slips,

Upsets a large bottle of eau-de-cologne,

Lest the scent of the brimstone should make him known. And for fear of the light from his horns, draws on

An extinguisher over the tips.

He takes up the book that the monk had let fall,
And smiles as he reads the name,

As if he had dined upon wormwood and gall,
Then flinging the volume against the wall,
He stamps on the floor, and forth at his call,、
An enormous black cat there came.

By the side of the Bishop he quietly sits,
And places the cat in his arms.

At once through the soul of the Bishop there flits
A vision of beauty that crazes his wits,

And far beyond all that the church permits,

His episcopal spirit charms.

Lucifer sits with a sly grimace,
Watching the Bishop dream.

He clasps his arms in a close embrace,-
When the cat starts suddenly from her place,
And fixes her talons in his face,

And the Bishop awakes with a scream.

Away through the roof flew the evil one,

And away flew the cat through the floor.

"Now still on this day," quoth the monk with a moan, "Shall men for my trials and sorrows atone,

And be fooled by false dreams of fair maidens alone,
Be it Valentine's day evermore!"

A. R. Macdonough.

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE FLEA POWDER.

(ORIGINAL VERSION.)

A FRENCHMAN once-so runs a certain ditty-
Had crossed the Straits to famous London city,
To get a living by the arts of France,

And teach his neighbor, rough John Bull, to dance.
But lacking pupils, vain was all his skill;
His fortunes sank from low to lower still,
Until at last, pathetic to relate,

Poor Monsieur landed at starvation's gate.
Standing, one day, beside a cook-shop door,
And gazing in, with aggravation sore,
He mused within himself what he should do
To fill his empty maw, and pocket too.
By nature shrewd, he soon contrived a plan,
And thus to execute it straight began:
A piece of common brick he quickly found,
And with a harder stone to powder ground,
Then wrapped the dust in many a dainty piece
Of paper, labelled "Poison for de Fleas,"
And sallied forth, his roguish trick to try,
To show his treasures, and to see who'd buy.
From street to street he cried, with lusty yell,
"Here's grand and sovereign flea poudare to sell !"
And fickle Fortune seemed to smile at last,
For soon a woman hailed him as he passed,
Struck a quick bargain with him for the lot,
And made him five crowns richer on the spot.
Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale,
Went into business on a larger scale,

And soon throughout all London scattered he
The "only genuine poudare for de flea."
Engaged, one morning, in his new vocation
Of mingled boasting and dissimulation,
He thought he heard himself in anger called;
And, sure enough, the self-same woman bawled,
In not a very mild or tender mood,

From the same window where before she stood.

Hey, there!" said she," you Monsher Powder-man! Escape my clutches now, sir, if you can!

I'll let you dirty thieving Frenchmen know,
That decent people wont be cheated so.

How dared you tell me that your worthless stuff
Would make my bedsteads clean and clear enough
Of bugs? I've rubbed those bedsteads o'er and o'er,
And now, the plagues are thicker than before!"
Then spoke Monsieur, and heaved a saintly sigh
With humble attitude, and tearful eye.

"Ah, madame! s'il vous plait, attendez-vous-
I vill dis leetle ting explain to you.

My poudare gran'! magnifique! why abuse him?
Aha! I show you, Madame, how to use him.
You must not spread him in large quantité
Upon de bedstead—no! dat's not de vay.
First, you must wait until you catch de flea;
Den, tickle he on de petite rib, you see;
And when he laugh-aha! he ope his troat;
Den poke de poudare down!-BEGAR! HE CHOKE!!

DER ZHOE-MAKER'S POY.

Der meat-chopper 'angs on der vite-vashed vall,
For no gustomers gomed to der putcher's stall;
And der sausage-machine vas no longer in blay,
And der putcher-poys all had a holiday;

And der zhoemaker's poy gomed dere to shlide
On der door of der zellar, but shtealed inside.
Mit der choppin-mazhine he peginned to make vree,
And he gried, "Dere is nobody lookin' at me!"

Der day goed avay, and der night gomed on,
And der zhoemaker vound dat his poy vos gone.
He galled up his vrow, and der zearch pegan;
Dey looks for de poy-vind him if dey can.

Dey zeeks him and hunts him in every 'ouse,
Der putcher's, der paker's, der shtation-'ouse,
And de answer dey getted vas "NIX-CUM-ERAUS!”

THE CONFESSION.

THERE'S Somewhat on my breast, ladies,
There's somewhat on my breast!
The livelong day I sigh, ladies,
At night I cannot rest.

I cannot take my rest, ladies,
Though I would fain do so:
A weary weight oppresseth me,
The weary weight of woe!

"Tis not the lack of gold, ladies,
The lack of worldly gear;
My lands are broad and fair to see,
My friends are kind and dear;

My kin are leal and true, ladies,
They mourn to see my grief-
But oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand
Can give my heart relief.

"Tis not my love is false, ladies,
'Tis not that she's unkind;
Though busy flatterers swarm around,
I know her constant mind:-

"Tis not her coldness, ladies,
That pains my laboring breast;-
'Tis that confounded cucumber
I ate, and can't digest!

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.

INTO the street the piper stepped,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;

Then, like a musical adept,

To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;

And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling ;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Curling tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—
Followed the piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped, advancing,
And step for step they followed, dancing,
Until they came to the River Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished
Save one, who, stout as Julius Cæsar,
Swam across, and lived to carry

(As he, the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary,

Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe
I heard a sound as of scraping pipe,

And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider press's gripe;

And a moving away of pickle-tub boards
And a leaving ajar of conserve cup-boards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks;
And it seemed as if a voice

(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, O rats rejoice!

The world is grown to one vast dry-saltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, dinner, supper, luncheon!' And just as a bulky sugar puncheon All ready staved, like a great sun shone, Glorious, scarce an inch before me,

Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me ;'I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

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You should have heard the Hamelin people, Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple;