And a crook is in his back
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin
At him here;

But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the Spring,

Let them smile as I do now
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.

SAINT PANCRAS BELL.

SHIRLEY BROOKS.

A SOUND came booming through the air! "What is that sound?" quoth I.

My blue-eyed pet, with golden hair,

66

Made answer, presently,

Papa, you know it very well;

That sound—it was Saint Pancras bell."

"My own Louise, put down the cat

And come and stand by me;

I'm sad to hear you talk like that,
Where's your philosophy?

That sound-attend to what I tell
That sound was not Saint Pancras bell.

"Sound is the name the sage selects,
For the concluding term

Of a long series of effects,

Of which that blow's the germ.

The following brief analysis
Shows the interpolations, Miss.

"The blow which, when the clapper slips,

Falls on your friend, the bell, Changes its circle to ellipse

(A word you'd better spell), And then comes elasticity, Restoring what it used to be.

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Nay, making it a little more;
The circle shifts about,

As much as it shrunk in before,
The bell, you see, swells out;

And so a new ellipse is made,
(You're not attending, I'm afraid.)

"This change of form disturbs the air,

Which, in its turn behaves

In like elastic fashion there,

Creating waves on waves;

Which press each other onward, dear,
Until the outmost finds your ear.

"Within that ear the surgeons find A tympanum, or drum,

Which has a little bone behind

Malleus, it's called by some; Those not proud of Latin grammar Humbly translate it as the hammer.

"The wave's vibrations this transmits To this, the incus bone (Incus means anvil, which it hits), And this transfers the tone

To the small os orbiculare,

The tiniest bone that people carry.

"The stapes next—the name recalls

A stirrup's form, my daughter Joins three half-circular canals

The mystic work is crowned;

For then my daughter's gentle mind

First recognizes sound.

See what a host of causes swell

To make up what you call the 'bell."

Then, settling that he meant to tease,
She slapped her father's face,

"You bad old man, to sit and tell
Such gibbery gosh about a bell! "

TURNING THE GRINDSTONE.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

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WHEN I was a little boy, I remember, one cold winter's morning, I was accosted by a smiling man with an axe on his shoulder. 'My pretty boy," said he, "has your father a grindstone?"—"Yes, sir," said I. — "You are a fine little fellow," said he; "will you let me grind my axe on it?" Pleased with the compliment of "fine little fellow," "O yes, sir,” I answered. "It is down in the shop."-" And will you, my man," said he, patting me on the head, "get me a little hot water?" How could I refuse? I ran, and soon brought a kettle full. "How old are you? and what's your name?" continued he, without waiting for a reply; "I am sure you are one of the finest lads that ever I have seen; will you just turn a few minutes for me?"

Tickled with the flattery, like a little fool, I went to work, and bitterly did I rue the day. It was a new axe, and I toiled and tugged till I was almost tired to death. The school-bell rang, and I could not get away; my hands were blistered, and the axe was not half ground. At length, however, it was sharpened; and the man turned to me with, "Now, you little rascal,

you've played truant; scud to the school, or you'll rue it!"-"Alas!" thought I, "it was hard enough to turn a grindstone, this cold day; but now to be called a little rascal, is too much."

A NOCTURNAL SKETCH.

THOMAS HOOD.

EVEN is come; and from the dark Park hark,
The signal of the setting sun-one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime,
prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,-
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span ;
Or in the small Olympic pit, sit split

Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.

Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas up-blazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,

But frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee,
And while they're going, whisper low,

"No go!"