sleep in fact, I never heard any music worth listening to, except in Italy.

Lady Gay. No? Then you never heard a well-trained English pack in full cry?

Sir H. Full cry!

scent.

Lady Gay. Ay! there is harmony if you will. Give me the trumpet neigh; the spotted pack just catching What a chorus is their yelp! The view-halloo, blent with a peal of free and fearless mirth! That's our old English music-match it where you can. Time then appears as young as love, and plumes as swift a wing. Away we go! The earth flies back to aid our course. Horse, man, hound, earth, heaven!-all-all-one piece of glowing ecstasy! Then I love the world, myself, and every living thing-my jocund soul cries out for very glee, as it could wish that all creation had but one mouth that I might kiss it!

FLIRTATION.

As I strolled on the beach with the fair Isabella

We were friends of long standing, I'd known her a weekWas it love or the shade of her gorgeous umbrella That fluttered in crimson across her soft cheek?

Hope tugged at my heartstrings and made me audacious,
For when coquetry blooms like a Provençal rose,
It is surely a sign that she means to be gracious,
And bless with sweet favor some one of her beaux.

So I set me to wooing, both blithely and bravely,
Caught in mine a small hand in a brown gant de Suede;
Snatched a kiss from her lips, and was begging her suavely
To leave out my heart from the list of betrayed,

When she stopped me. "I'm sorry," she murmured, discreetly,

"But you see-I'm engaged!"-and pretended to sigh; While a swift recollection upset me completely

"Great Cæsar!" I gasped, "I forgot. So am I."

THE BATTLE OF INKERMAN.-GEORGE W. BUNGAY.

"Forward!" the brave old captain said;

Then through rough storms of fire and lead
Marched the true men with gallant tread;
Then the terrific fight began!
Onward fresh troops of stalwart men,
Across the valley, through the glen,
Up the round hill, over the plain,
To the battle of Inkerman!
Cannon thundered in the rent air;
Muskets poured out incessant glare;
Sabre clashed sabre everywhere-
Mid shouts of rank, squadron and clan!
Old England brightened her great name,
Gay France honored her lofty fame,
Only the Cossack bowed with shame,
At the battle of Inkerman!

Swiftly the currents foam and swell;
The sky seems a Plutonian bell,
Loud tolling the sad funeral knell

Of the dead soldier, stained and wan.
On neighing steeds, strong, fierce and fleet,
Through smoke and fire and leaden sleet,
Like angry waves the squadrons meet,
At the battle of Inkerman!

The strong battalions falter, wheel,
And fly before the hedge of steel;

Thunders the last loud cannon's peal

O'er the slaughtered steed and lifeless man!

Brave hearts that ne'er shall beat again,

Sleep on the far Crimean plain,

Whose rivulets once wore the stain

Of the battle of Inkerman!

Long will the blood-stained laurels won
On red turf smoking in the sun,
Tell of the gallant fight begun

So long ago, and of its plan.

When rolls were called, none made reply
Of those on furlough in the sky:
Souls mustered out can never die,
Fighting their foes at Inkerman!

THE SNOW.-WILLIAM WHITEHEAD.

Written Expressly for this Collection.

The snow, the snow, downy and bright,
Cheering the meadows brown;
Pure as the light on wings of white,
Comes as an angel down!

Spirit that wildly through air dost rove,
Thou'rt a beautiful dream to me!
Lovelier still than the Goddess of Love,
That sprung from the foam of the sea!
Down, down, down, down,

Comes the beautiful snow;
Without a chant or song of its own,
Wings the beautiful snow.

The snow, the snow,-terrible, brave,
Raving in midnight wrath,
Weaves the pall of the wanderer's grave,
Lost on his sorrowing path;

It bloweth a keen and chilling breath,
That hideth the streams below;
And drives afar on the wings of death,
The snow, the terrible snow.
Down, down, down, down,

Whirls the terrible snow;

Reckless of prayer, or sigh, or moan,
Speeds the terrible snow.

The storm has hushed its wild unrest;
'Neath the evening's crimson glow,
In peaceful folds o'er nature's breast,
Reposes the beautiful snow;

And the moon is up with her halcyon night,
And the stars in their pathway chime;
The woods are penciled with magic light
And fairies dance o'er the rime.

Light, light, light, light,

Rests the beautiful snow;

Over the hills in the silent night

Spreads the beautiful snow.

Oh! there are vales in the summer eves

Blest with their flowery dyes,

Where languishing moonbeams woo the trees
And passionate love-light hies!

But as I wander the forest glades,
Or muse where the streamlets flow,
I'll still recall mid the murmuring shades
The time of the beautiful snow.

Still, still, still, still,

Shall come where the hyacinths blow
The beams that slept on the whitened hill,
White with the beautiful snow.

The time is coming when I shall greet
No sheen of the wintry glow;
Earth is my resting and I shall sleep
Beneath her beautiful snow.

I'm a child of hers, and a welcome guest
To her I will lovingly go,

And where I lie may memories rest
As pure as the beautiful snow.
Deep, deep, deep, deep,

Deep in the valley below,

I'll lay me where the flowerets sleep
Beneath the beautiful snow.

TO MY LOVE.-W. A. EATON.

Oh, blushing, youthful maiden,
Oh, say thou wilt be mine!
(She says she's only nineteen-
She's nearer thirty-nine.)
With love I'm most distracted,
Oh, tell me I may hope.
(There's nothing suits the ladies
Like plenty of soft soap.)

I love to hear your sweet voice,
Singing so soft, so low.
(She sang once at a concert-
The audience had to go.)

Those eyes, so soft and tender,
With such a glorious tint,

(I don't want to offend her,

But, oh my! don't she squint!)

Those curls so gaily sporting

Upon the summer wind;

(Two little wisps, like corkscrews,

And a great pad behind!)

Those feet, just like a fairy's,

Admired by every one;

(The worms know when she's coming,
And don't the beetles run!)
Those teeth, so straight and even,

So beautiful and white;
(She's very careful of them,

She takes them out at night.)

Those lips, as red as cherries-
One little kiss, I pray!
(Oh, give me a piece of sugar
To take the taste away!)

WHAT A THIRTY-TON HAMMER CAN DO. "I have been told," said Mr. Dubious, watching the great steam hammer in the rolling mill, "that a good hammer-man can break the crystal of a watch with that thirty-ton hammer." "Yes, sir," said the hammer-man, "it can be done." "I should like to see it," said Mr. Dubious, eagerly, feeling in his watch-pocket. "I can do it, sir," replied the man. "And will you?" replied Mr. Dubious, drawing out his watch, "come, I am anxious to see it tried." He laid his watch on the great anvil plate. The hammer rose up to its full height, and the next instant all its ponderous weight, with a crushing force that shook the ground for an acre around, came down on the watch. "There," said the hammer-man, quietly, "if you don't believe that crystal is broken, just stoop down and you can see it sticking to the hammer." Mr. Dubious swallowed a whole procession of lumps and gasps before he could speak. "But I forgot to say," he exclaimed, "that it was to break the crystal without. injuring the watch." "Oh, yes," said the hammer-man, "yes, I know, I have heard that rubbish myself, but it's all gammon. I don't believe it can be done. But you can break the crystal every time."