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1. TO AN OLD WIG.-Anonymous. Hail thou! that liest so snug in this old box;

With awe I bend before thy wood-built shrine ! Oh! 'tis not closed with glue, nor nails, nor locks,

And hence the bliss of viewing thee is mine. Like my poor aunt, thou hast seen better days;

Well curled and powdered, once it was thy lot Balls to frequent, and masquerades, and plays,

And panoramas, and I know not what! Alas! what art thou now? a mere old mop!

With whiclı our housemaid Nan, who hates a broor Dusts all the chambers in my little shop,

Then slyly hides thee in this lumber-room. Such is the fate of wigs—and mortals too!

After a few more years than thine are past,
The Turk, the Christian, Pagan, and the Jew,

Must all be shut up in a box at last!
Vain man! to talk so loud, and look so big!
How small the difference 'twixt thee-and a wig!
How small, indeed !-for speak the truth I must,-
Wigs turn to dusters, and man turns to dust.

2. The child's wish IN JUNE.—Gilman.
Mother, mother, the winds are at play,
Prithee, let me be idle to-day.
Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie
Languidly under the bright blue sky.
See, how slowly the streamlet glides;
Look, how the violet roguishly hides;
Even the butterfly rests on the rose,
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.
Poor Tray is asleep in the noonday sun,
And the flies go about him one by one ;

And pussy sits ncar, with a sleepy grace
Without ever thinking of washing her face.
There flies a bird to a neighboring tree,
But very lazily flieth he,
And he sits and twitters a gentle note,
And scarcely ruffles his little throat.
You bid me be busy ; but mother, hear
How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near
And the soft west wind is so light in its play,
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.
I wish, oh, I wish I was yonder cloud,
That sails about with its misty shroud;
Books and work I no more should see,
And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er theo.

3. THE INFANT ORATOR.—Everett. You'd scarce expect one of my age, To speak in public on the stage ; And if I chance to fall below Deniosthenes or Cicero, Don't view me with a critic's eye, But pass my imperfections by. Large streams from little fountains flow; Tall oaks from litile acorns grow; And though I now am small and young, Of judgment weak, and feeble tongue; Yet all great learned men, like me, Once learned to read their A, B, C. But why may not Columbia's soil Rear men as great as Britain's isle ; Exceed what Greece and Rome have done, Or any land beneath the sun ? May’nt Massachusetts boast as great As any other sister state ? Or, where's the town, go far and near, That does not find a rival here? Or, where's the boy, but three feet high, Who's made iinprovements more than I ? These thoughts inspire my youthful mind To be the greatest of mankind; Great, not like Cæsar, stained with blood; But only great, as I am good.



Once in the chase, this monarch drooping,
From his high consequence and wisdomn stooping,

Entered, through curiosity, a cot,
Where an old crone was hanging on the pot;
The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny,
In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny,

Had apple-dumplings ready for the pot ;
In tempting row the naked dumplings lay,
When lo! the monarch, in his usual way,
Like lightning asked, “What’s here? what's here? what?

what? what? what ?" Then taking up a dumpling in his hand, His eyes with admiration did expand

And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple; “ 'Tis monstrous, monstrous, monstrous hard," he cried; “ What makes the thing so hard ?" The dame replied,

Low courtesying, “ Please your majesty, the apple.” “ Very astonishing indeed! strange thing !" (Turning the dumpling round) rejoined the king, is 'Tis most extraordinary now, all this isIt beats the conjurer's capers all to piecesStrange I should never of a dumpling dream, But Goody, tell me, where, where, where's the seam?" “ Sire, there's no seam,” quoth she, “I never knew That folks did apple-dumplings sew !”“No!” cried the staring monarch with a grin, “ Then, where, where, where, pray, got the apple in ?”


In winter, once, an honest traveling wight
Pursued his road to Derby, late at night;
'Twas very cold, the wind was bleak and high,
And not a house nor living thing was nigh;
At length he came to where some sour roads met,
(It rained too, and he was completely wet,)
And being doubtful which way he should take
He drew up to the finger-post to make
It out-and after much of poring, fumbling,
Some angry oaths, and a great deal of grumbling,

'Twas thus the words he traced_" To Derby-five," “ A goodly distance yet, as I'm alive!" But on he drove a weary length of way, And wished his journey he'd delayed till day: He wondered that no town appeared in view, (The wind blew stronger, it rained faster too,) When to his great relief he met a man: “I say good friend, pray tell me, if you can, How far is't hence to Derby ?” “Derby, hey! Why zur, thee be'est completely come astray; This y’ant the road.” “Why zounds the guide-post showod •To Derby, five'-and pointed down this road!" “Ay, dang it, that may be, for you maun know, The post it war blown down last night, and so This morn I put it up again, but whether (As I can't put great A and B together) The post is right, I'm zure I cannot zayThe town is just five miles the other way."


“ Methinks the world seems oddly made

And every thing amiss ;"
A dull complaining atheist said,
As stretched he lay beneath the shade,

And instanced it in this :
"Behold,” quoth he, “ that mighty thing,

A pumpkin large and round,
Is held but by a little string,
Which upwards cannot make it spring,

Nor bear it from the ground.
While on this oak an acorn small,

So disproportioned grows,
That whosoe'er surveys this all,
This universal casual ball,

Its ill contrivance knows.
My better judgment would have hung

The pumpkin on the tree,
And left the acorn slighóly strung,
'Mongst things that on the surface sprung,

And weak and feeble be "

No more the caviler could say,

No further faults descry;
For upwards gazing, as he lay,
An acorn, loosened from its spray,

Fell down upon his eye.
The wounded part with tears ran o'er,

As punished for that sin;
Fool! had that bough a pumpkin bore,
Thy whimseys would have worked no more,

Nor skull have kept them in.


An ass, a nightingale espied,
And shouted out, “ Hollo! hollo! good friend!
Thou art a firstrate singer, they pretend :-

Now let me hear thee, that I may decide;
I really wish to know—the world is partial ever-
If thou hast this great gist, and art indeed so clever."
The nightingale began her heavenly lays :

Through all the regions of sweet music ranging, Varying her song a thousand different ways;

Rising and falling, lingering, ever changing:
Full of wild rapture now—then sinking oft
To almost silence—melancholy, soft,
As distant shepherd's pipe at evening's close :

Strewing the wood with lovelier music ;-there
All nature seems to listen and repose :

No zephyr dares disturb the tranquil air :-
All other voices of the grove are still,
And the charmed flocks lie down beside the rill.

The shepherd like a statue stands—afraid
His breathing may disturb the melody,
His finger pointing to the melodious tree,

Seems to say, “ Listen!” to his favorite maid.
The singer ended :—and our critic bowed
His reverend head to earth, and said aloud :
“Now that's so so ;-thou really hast some merit;
Curtail thy song, and critics then might hear it.
Thy voice wants sharpness :--but if chanticleer

Would give thee a few lessons, doubtless he Might raise thy voice and modulate thy ear;

And thou, in spite of all thy faults, mayest bo

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