ture.

Oh, you puny, sickly, saffron-skinned sluggards, that never see the sun rise! You lose a glorious sight — an exhibition that affords more delight to both eye and soul than all the shows ever presented to mortal view, the Northern Lights and Barnum's Museum not excepted. I can't paint the picWhen I think of it, discouraged Fancy drops her pencil at once, and says it's no use. Try and get up and take a peep for yourselves, for once in your lives; then, if you think it a humbug, go to bed again and snooze till the day of judgment, for aught I care. But how do you feel, shaking your feathers, with the sun hard upon the meridian? Rather streaked, I imagine- almost afraid to venture into the streets, for fear your shadows should laugh at you. You muster up courage to sally out. "Shocking steamboat accident that, according to the accounts in the morning papers!" says an acquaintance whom you happen to meet. "What ac-oh-oh, yes, shocking, very shocking, indeed!-goodday," and on you speed, with a most nervous rapidity, for fear of being further interrogated about what you ought to have known hours before. You morning sleepers! know you not that you lose by dribblets the very honey of life, the very quintessence of all that is bright, lovely, and joyful in existence? You do, while others are alive, stirring about, securing health, accumulating wealth, happy and merry as larks; you lie as dead as so many logs, intellectually decaying, morally rotting, and corporeally consuming. Arise ye! Arise ye! Shake off sloth, even as the lion shaketh the dew from his mane; go out and behold the beauties of the morn in all their glory and magnificence, and become healthier, wealthier, wiser, and handsomer human beings than you are.

He ne'er aspired to rank or wealth,

Nor cared about a name,

For though much famed for fish was he,

He never fished for fame!

Let others bend their necks at sight

Of fashion's gilded wheels,

He ne'er had learned the art to "bob"

For anything but eels!

A cunning fisherman was he,
His angles all were right;
The smallest nibble at his bait
Was sure to prove “a bite!"

"T was all in vain with might and main
He strove to reach the shore,-
Down-down he went, to feed the fish
He'd baited oft before!

The jury gave their verdict that

'T was nothing else but gin
Had caused the fisherman to be
So sadly taken in;

Though one stood out upon a whim,
And said the angler's slaughter,
To be exact about the fact,
Was clearly gin and water!

The moral of this mournful tale,
To all is plain and clear,-

That drinking habits bring a man
Too often to his bier;

And he who scorns to "take the pledge,"

And keep the promise fast,

May be, in spite of fate, a stiff

Cold water man at last!