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If your finger aches, fretting,
Fondliinj and petting,
"My lovmg,"—" my doving,"
Now sighing, now dymg,
Now dear diamonds buying,
Or yards of chantilly, like a great big silly,
Cashmere shawls—brandy balls,
Oranges, apples,—gloves trros de Naples,
Sweet pretty " sku^gies "—ugly pet puggies;
Now with an ear-rmg themselves endearing,
Or squandering guineas upon Staignes,
Now fingers squeezing or playfully teazing,
Bringing you bull's eyes, casting you sheep's eyes,
Looking in faces while working braces,
Never once heeding what they are reading,
But soiling one's hose by pressing one's toes;
Or else so zealous, and nice and jealous of all the fellows,
Darting fierce glances if ever one dances with a son of Francn's,
Or finding great faults, or threatening assaults whenever you

Or fuming and fussing enough for a dozen if you romp witii your cousin;

Continually stopping, when out a-shopping, and bank notes dropping,

Not seeking to win money, calling it tin" money, and

promising pin money; Like pic-nics at Twickenham, off lovely cold chicken, ham,

and champagne to quicken 'em; Detesting one's walking without John too goes stalking, to

prevent the men talking: Think you still in your teens, wont let you eat "greens,"and

hate crinolines; Oi heaping caresses, if you curl your black tresses, or wear

low-neck'd dresses; Or when up the river, almost sure to di&kiver that beats all

to shiver, the sweet Guadalquiver; Or seeing death-fetches if the tooth-ache one catches, making picturesque sketches of the houses of wretches; Or with loud double knocks brings from Eber's a box to see

"Box and Cox," or pilfer one's locks to mark their new


Or whilst you are singing a love song so stinging, they vow they'll be swinging, or in Serpentine springing, unless to them clinging, you'll go wedding-ringing, and for life mend their linen.

Now the gentlemen sure I've no wish to disparage.

But this is the way they go on before marriage.


Oh! then nothing pleases 'em,

But everything teases 'em,

Then they're grumbling and snarling—

You're a fool," not a darling;"

Though they're as rieh as the Irigiet,

They're the stingiest of stingies;

And what is so funny,

They've never got money;

Only ask 'em for any

And they haven't a penny;

But what passes all bounds,

On themselves they'll spend pound*—

Give guineas for lunch

Off real turtle and punch;

Each week a noise brings about, when they pitch all th« things about;

Now bowing in mockery, now smashing the crockery;
Scolding and swearing, their bald heads tearing;
Storming and raging past all assuaging.
Heaven preserve us! it makes one so nervous,
To hear the door slam to, to be called simple ma'am, too;
'I wonder if Adam called Mrs. Eve, Madam;)
As a matter of course they'll have a divorce;
Or " my Lord Duke" intends to send you home to your

And allow ten pounds a quarter for yourself and your daughter;

Though you strive all your might you can do nothing right; While the maids—the old song—can do nothing wrong. "Every shirt wants a button!" Every day they've cold mutton;

They're always a flurrying one; or else they're a hurrying one, or else they're a worrying one;

Threatening to smother your dear sainted mother, or kick your big brother;

After all your fine doings, your stnigglings and stewings— why the house is in ruins!"

Then the wine goes like winking, and they cannot help thinking you've taken to drinking;

They're perpetually rows keeping, 'cause out of the housekeepmg they're in bonnets their spouse keeping;

So when they've been meated, if with pies they're not treated, they vow that they're cheated!

Then against Ascot Races, and all such sweet places, they set their old faces;

And they'll never leave town, nor to Broadstairs go down, though with bile you're quite brown;

For their wife they unwilling are, after cooing and billing

her, to stand a cap from the milliner—e'en a paltry

twelve shillinger; And it gives them the vapors to witness the capers of those

bowers and scrapers, the young linen drapers; Then to add to your woes, they say nobody knows how the

money all goes, but they pay through the nose for the

dear children's clothes; Though you strive and endeavor, they're so mightily clever,

that please them you'll never, till you leave them for

ever—yes! the hundredth time sever—"/or everAnd


Now the gentlemen sure I've no wish to disparage,
But this is the way they go on after marriage.

THE BOYS.—Ethel Lynn.

"The boys are coming home to-morrow!"

Thus our rural hostess said:
Whilst Lou and I shot flitting glance*,

Full of vague, unspoken dread.

Had we hither come for quiet,

Hither fled the city's noise,
But to change it for the tumult

Of those horrid country-boys?

Waking one with wild hallooing

Early every summer day;
Shooting robins, tossing kittens,

Frightening the wrens away:

Stumbling over trailing flounces,
Thumbmg volumes gold and blue;

Clamoring for sugared dainties,
Tracking earth the passage through.

These and other kindred trials

Fancied we with woful sigh:
"Those boys, those horrid boys, to-morrowP

Sadly whispered Lou and I.
I wrote those lines one happy summer;

To-day I smile to read them o'er,
Remembering how full of terror

We watched all day the niiening door.

They came—" the boys!" Six feet in stature,

Graceful, easy, polished men j
I vowed to Lou, behind my kmtting,

To trust no mother's words again.

For boyhood is a thing immortal
To every mother's heart and eye;

And sons are boys to her forever,
Change as they may to you and L

To her, no line comes sharply marking
Whither or when their childhood went j

Nor when the eyeglass upward turning,
Leveled at last their downward bent.

Now by the window, still and sunny,
Warmed by the rich October glow,

The dear old lady waits and watches,
Just as she waited years ago.

For Lou and I are now her daughters—
We married " those two country-boys,"

About their awkward ways and noise.

Lou springs up to meet a footfall;

I list no more for coming feet:
Mother and I are waiting longer

For steps on Beulah's golden street.

But when she blesses Lou's beloved,
And seals it with a tender kiss,

I know that loving words go upward,
Words to another world than this.

Alway she speaks in gentle fashion
About " my boys "—she always will;

Though one is gray, and one has vanished
Beyond the touch of time or ilL

* Brave Captain! canst thou speak? What is it thou dost seel

A wondrous glory lingers on thy face,
The night is past; I've watched the night with thee.
Knowest thou the place?"



* The place t" Tis Fair Oaks, comrade. Is the battle over?

The victory—the victory—is it won?
My wound is mortal; I know I cannot recover—
The battle for me is done!

"I never thought it would come to this! Does it rain?

The musketry! Give me a drink; ah, that is glorious I Now if it were not for this pain—this pain— Didst thou say victorious?

"It would not be strange, would it, if I do wander?

A man can't remember with a bullet in his brain. I wish when at home I had been a little fonder— Shall I ever be well again?

H It can make no difference whether I go from here or there'

Thou'lt write to father and tell him when I am dead ?— The eye that sees Ihe sparrow fall numbers every hair Even of this poor head.

"Tarry awhile, comrade, the battle can wait for thee;

I will try to keep thee but a few brief moments longer; Thou'lt say good-by to the friends at home for me?— If only I were a little stronger I

"I must not think of it. Thou art sorry for me?

The glory—is it the glory?—makes me blind; Btrange, for the light, comrade, the light I cannot see— Thou hast been very kind!

"I do not think I have done so very much evil—

I did not mean it. 'I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul '—just a little rude and uncivil— Comrade, why dost thou weep?

"Oh! if human pity is so gentle and tender —

Good-night, good friends!' I lay me down to sleep'— Who from a Heavenly Father's love needs a defender? 'My soul to keep!'

"'ITI should die before I wake'—comrade, tell mother,

Remember—' I pray the Lord my soul to take!' My musket thou'lt carry back to my little brother For my dear sake.

"Attention, company! Reverse arms! Very well, men ; my thanks.

Where am I? Do I wander, comrade—wander again?— Parade is over. Company E, break ranks! break ranks!— I know it is the pain.

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