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Cried, “Very well, thank you ! ” with laughter beguiling,

Now won't you confess,

Teddy could not do less
Than pay his respects to the lips that were smiling ?

Oh, dear Paddy Blake,

May you never forsake
Those hills that return us such echoes endearing!

And, girls, all translate

The sweet echoes like Kate,
No faithfulness doubting, no treachery fear ng !

And, boys, be you ready,

Like frolicsome Teddy,
Be earnest in loving, though given to joking ;

And, when thus inclined,

May all true lovers find Sweet echoes to answer from hearts they're invoking !

ROAST PIG.

Charles LAMB. EXTRACI Of all the delicacies in the whole world of eatables, I will maintain Roast Pig to be the most delicate.

I speak not of your grown porkers — things between pig and pork — those hobbydehoys — but a young and tender suckling — under a moon old — guiltless as yet of the sty — with no original speck of the amor immunditiæ, the hereditary failing of the first parent, yet manifest — his voice as yet not broken, but something between a childish treble, and a grumble — the mild forerunner, or præludium, of a grunt.

He must be roasted. I am not ignorant that our ancestors ate them seethed, or boiled — but what a sacrifice of the exterior tegument !

There is no flavour comparable, I will contend, to that of the crisp, tawny, well-watched, not over-roasted, crackling, as it is well called — the very teeth are invited to their share of the pleasure at this banquet in overcoming the coy, brittle resistance — with the adhesive oleaginous — O call it not fat — but an indefinable sweetness growing up to it — the tender blossoming of fat — fat cropped in the bud — taken in the shoot — in the first innocence — the cream and quintessence of the child-pig's yet pure food — the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal manna, — or, rather, fat and lean (if it must be so) so blended and running into each other, that both together make but one ambrosian result, or common substance.

Behold him while he is doing — it seemeth rather a refreshing warmth, than a scorching heat, that he is so passive to. How equably he twirleth round the string !

— Now he is just done. To see the extreme sensibility of that tender age, he hath wept out his pretty eyes — radiant jellies — shooting stars —

See him in the dish, his second cradle, how meek he lieth! — wouldst thou have had this innocent grow up to the grossness and indocility which too often accompany maturer swinehood ? Ten to one he would have proved a glutton, a sloven, an obstinate, disagreeable animal — wallowing in all manner of filthy conversation — from these sins he is happily snatched away —

Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade,
Death came with timely care —

his memory is odoriferous — no clown curseth, while his stomach half rejecteth, the rank bacon — no coalheaver bolteth him in reeking sausages — he hath a fair sepulchre in the grateful stomach of the judicious epicure -and for such a tomb might be content to die.

TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE.

WILLIAM S. GILBERT. A BAB BALLAD.

Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through pathless realms of space

Roll on!
What though I'm in a sorry case ?
What though I cannot meet my bills ?
What though I suffer tooth-ache's ills ?
What though I swallow countless pills ?
Never you mind !

Roll on!

Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through seas of inky air

Roll on!
It's true I've got no shirts to wear;

It's true my butcher's bill is due ;
It's true my prospects all look blue —
But don't let that unsettle you !
Never you mind !

Roll on!
(It rolls on.)

THE CURÉ'S PROGRESS.

Austin Dobson.

Monsieur the Curé down the street

Comes with his kind old face, — With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,

And his green umbrella-case.

You may see him pass by the little “Grande Place,"

And the tiny Hotel-de-ville;
He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste, Rose,

And the pompier, Théophile.

He turns, as a rule, through the Marché cool,

Where the noisy fish-wives call; And his compliments pays to the belle Thérèse,"

As she knits in her dusky stall.

There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop,

And Toto, the locksmith's niece,
Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes

In his tails for a pain d'épice.

There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit,

Who is said to be heterodox,
That will ended be with a “ Ma foi, oui !

And a pinch from the Curé's box.

There is also a word that no one heard

To the furrier's daughter, Lou;
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,

And a Bon dieu garde M'sieu !'

But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet,

And a bow for Ma'm’selle Anne;
And a mock “ off-hat” to the Notary's cat,

And a nod to the Sacristan :

Forever through life the Curé goes,

With a smile on his kind old face With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,

And his green umbrella-case.

THE LAST LEAF.

OLIVER WENDELL Holmes.

I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door,

And again
The pavement stones resound
As he totters o'er the ground,

With his cane.

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