THE SUICIDAL CAT. There was a man named Ferguson, He'd catch more rats and mice, and sich, This cat would come into the room And climb upon a cheer, And there he'd set and lick hisself, And purr so awful queer, That Ferguson would yell at him But still he'd purr-severe. And then he'd climb the moon-lit fence, And loaf around and yowl, And spit and claw another cat Alongside of the jowl; And then they both would shake their tails Oh, this here cat of Ferguson's He'd yell precisely like he was You'd think a first-class stomach-ache And all the mothers in the street, Waked by the horrid din, Would rise right up and search their babes To find some worrying pin; And still this viperous cat would keep And as for Mr. Ferguson, 'Twas more than he could bear, For still he yowled and kept his fur And his old spine a doublin' up As if his hopes of happiness Did on his lungs depend. But while a curvin' of his spine, A cat upon the other fence, When Ferguson came home next day, And not a life was left in him, "All this here comes," said Ferguson, Now all you men whose tender hearts Just take this moral to yourselves, OTHELLO'S APOLOGY.-SHAKSPEARE. Most potent, grave, and reverend seigniors: Rude am I in speech, And little blessed with the set phrase of peace: Their dearest action in the tented field; And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broils and battle; In speaking of myself. Yet by your patience, I will, a round, unvarnished tale deliver, Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, For such proceedings I am charged withal- Her father loved me; oft invited me; I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days, Of moving accidents by flood and field; Of hairbreadth 'scapes, in the imminent deadly breach; And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, All these to hear, Would Desdemona seriously incline; But still the house affairs would draw her thence, I did consent; And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke, That my youth suffered. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs. She swore in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful; 'twas wondrous pitiful; She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished She thanked me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, Danger ahead!" As on the heavy night-train sped. The black wheels grate! "Too late! too late!" (How could they stop at such a rate!) The lightning's glow But served to show A mangled mass of flesh below! What did they find! Which on that night, We saw by "the red lantern's" light. "The bridge is gone→ "Twere worse for hundreds than for one!" The pleading mild Came from a child, Down in the rain that midnight wild. The stifled sound Of groans around Told what a place these words had found, As strong men thought Of what was wrought, By his young life which theirs had bought. "I knew you'd slack, If on the track, I'd drop this ugly, poor hunchback! But don't you know In heaven I'll grow As straight as any one below! "I saw it go- His voice grew very faint and slow, God made me dare To give what-all-could-so well spare." They raised his head- Without one look of pain or dread. His resting place, Where bloom the lilies-types of grace. THE JESTER'S SERMON.-WALTER THORNBURY. The jester shook his hood and bells, and leaped upon a chair; The pages laughed; the women screamed, and tossed their scented hair; The falcon whistled; stag-hounds bayed; the lap-dog barked without; The scullion dropped the pitcher brown; the cook railed at the lout; The steward, counting out his gold, let pouch and money fall, And why? Because the jester rose to say grace in the hall. The page played with the heron's plume, the steward with his chain; The butler drummed upon the board, and laughed with might and main; The grooms beat on their metal cans, and roared till they were red, But still the jester shut his eyes, and rolled his witty head, And when they grew a little still, read half a yard of text, And, waving hand, struck on the desk, and frowned like one perplexed. "Dear sinners all," the fool began, "man's life is but a jest. A blind man killed the parson's cow in shooting at the dove. “Let no man halloo he is safe, till he is through the wood. He who will not when he may must tarry when he should. He who laughs at crooked men should need walk very straight. Oh! he who once has won a name may lie abed till eight. Make haste to purchase house and land: be very slow to wed. True corai needs no painter's brush, nor need be daubed with red. "The friar, preaching, cursed the thief, (the pudding in his sleeve.) To fish for sprats with golden hooks is foolish-by your leave. To travel well,—an ass's ears, ape's face, hog's mouth, and ostrich legs. He does not care a pin for thieves, wbo limps about and begs. EEE |