Man comes home-tears mustache,
Mad as blazes-got no cash.
Thinks of hammock-in the lane;
Wishes maiden-back again.
Maiden also thinks of swing,

And wants to go back too, poor thingi

Hour of midnight-baby squawking;
Man in bare feet-bravely walking ;
The baby yells-now the other
Twin, he strikes up-like his brother.
Paregoric-by the bottle

Poured into the baby's throttle.

Naughty tack-points in air,
Waiting some one's-foot to tear.

Man in bare feet-see him there!
O my gracious!-hear him swear!

Raving crazy-gets his gun
And blows his head off;

Dead and gone.

Pretty widow-with a book
In the hammock-by the brook.

Man rides past--big mustache;
Keeps on riding-nary “mash.”

QUEEN VASHTI'S LAMENT.

'S this all the love that he bore me, my husband, to publish my face

To the nobles of Media and Persia, whose hearts are

besotted and base?

Did he think me a slave, me, Vashti, the Beautiful, me, Queen of queens,

To summon me thus for a show to the midst of his bacchanal scenes?

I stand like an image of brass, I, Vashti, in sight of such

men!

No, sooner, a thousand times sooner, the mouth of the lioness' den,

When she's fiercest with hunger and love for the hungry young lions that tear

Her teats with sharp, innocent teeth, I would enter, far rather, than there!

Did he love me, or is he, too, though the King, but a brute like the rest!

I have seen him in wine, and I fancied 'twas then that he loved me the best;

Though I think I would rather have one sweet, passionate word from the heart

Than a year of caresses that may with the wine that creates them depart.

But ever before, in his wine, toward me he showed honor and grace;

He was King, I was Queen, and those nobles, he made them remember their place,

But now all is changed; I am vile, they are honored, they push me aside,

A butt for Memucan and Shethar and Meres, gone mad in their pride!

Shall I faint, shall I pine, shall I sicken and die for the loss of his love?

Not I; I am queen of myself, though the stars fall from heaven above.

The stars! ha! the torment is there, for my light is put out by a star,

That has dazzled the eyes of the King and his court and his captains of war.

He was lonely, they say, and he looked, as he sat like a ghost at his wine,

On the couch by his side, where, of yore his Beautiful used to recline.

But the King is a slave to his pride, to his oath and the laws of the Medes,

And he cannot call Vashti again, though his poor heart is wounded and bleeds.

So they sought through the land for a wife, while the King thought of me all the while—

I can see him, this moment, with eyes that are lost for the loss of a smile,

Gazing dreamily on while each maiden is temptingly passed in review,

While the love in his heart is awake with the thought of a face that he knew!

Then she came, when his heart was grown weary with

loving the dream of the past!

She is fair-I could curse her for that, if I thought that this passion would last!

But, e'en if it last, all the love is for me, and, through good and through ill,

The King shall remember his Vashti, shall think of his Beautiful still.

Oh! the day is a weary burden, the night is a restless

strife,

I am sick to the very heart of my soul, with this lifethis death in life!

Oh! that the glorious, changeless sun would draw me up in his might,

And quench my dreariness in the flood of his everlasting light!

What is it? Oft as I lie awake and my pillow is wet with

tears

There comes-it came to me just now-a flash, then disappears;

A flash of thought that makes this life a re-enacted

scene,

That makes me dream what was, will be, and what is now, has been.

And I, when age on age has rolled, shall sit on the royal throne,

And the King shall love his Vashti, his Beautiful, his

own,

And for the joy of what has been and what again will

be,

I'll try to bear this awful weight of lonely misery!

The star! Queen Esther! blazing light that burns inte

my soul!

The star! the star! Oh! flickering light of life beyond control!

O King! remember Vashti, thy Beautiful, thy own, Who loved thee and shall love thee still, when Esther's light has flown!

JOHN READE

JERRY.

"BUY a paper, Percial and News and Mail,

UY a paper, plaze? She is frozen, a' most,

And here's the Express and the Avening Post,
And ivery one has a terrible tale,—
A shipwreck,-a murther,—a fire-alarm,—
Whichiver you loike. Have a paper, marm?
Thin buy it, plaze, av this bit av a gurrul—
She's new in the business and all of a whirrul;

We must lind her a hand," said little Jerry :
"There's a plinty av thrade at the Fulton Ferry.

"She's wakely for nade av the tay and the toastThe price of a paper-plaze, sir, buy a Post? Thrue as me name it is Jeremiah,

There's a foine report av a dridful fire,—

And a child that's lost,—and a smash av a train :-
Indade, sir, the paper's just groanin' wid pain!
Spake up, little gurrul, and don't be afraid!
I'm schraichin' for two till I start yez in trade.
While I yell, you can sell," said little Jerry,
Screeching for two at Fulton Ferry.

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