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THE SUICIDAL CAT.
There was a man named Ferguson,
He lived on Market street, He had a speckled Thomas cat
That couldn't well be beat; He'd catch more rats and mice, and sich,
Than forty cats could eat.
This cat would come into the room
And climb upon a cheer,
And purr so awful queer,
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
And jump around and howl.
Oh, this here cat of Ferguson's
Was fearful then to see;
In awful agony;
Had struck some small baby.
And all the mothers in the street,
Waked by the horrid din,
To find some worrying pin;
A hollerin' like sin.
And as for Mr. Ferguson,
And so he hurled his boot-jack out
But this vociferous Thomas cat,
For still he yowled and kept his fur
A standin up on end,
As far as it would bend,
Did on his lungs depend.
But while a curvin' of his spine,
And waitin' to attack
There come an awful crack ;—
Was busted in the back I
When Ferguson came home next day,
There lay his old feline,
Although he had had nine.
"Of curvin' of his spine."
Now all you men whoso tender hearts
Just take this moral to yourselves,
Don't ever go like this here cat,
Most potent, grave, and reverend seigniors:
Rude am I in speech,
Yet by your patience, I will, a round, unvarnished tale deliver, Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charma,
What conjuration, and what might
Her father loved me; oft invited me;
I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances:
Of moving accidents by flood and field;
Of hairbreadth 'scapes, in the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And with it all my travel's history.
All these to hear,
I did consent;
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs.
She thanked me,
My story being done,
THE LITTLE MAKTYB.
The whistle, shrill,
* Danger ahead I" We thought it said, As on the heavy night-train sped.
The black wheels grate I
"Too late I too late I"
The lightning's glow
But served to show
What did they find!
Tears always blind
The fearful sight,
Which on that night,
"The bridge is gone—
Send some one on! Twere worse for hundreds than for ontl"
The pleading mild
Cime from a child,
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,
But—don't you know—
In heaven I'll grow 4s straight as any one below I
"I saw it go—
"No one would care—
God made me dare To give what—all—could—so well spare."
They raised his head—
He smiled—was dead— Without one look of pain or dread.
Friends love to trace
His resting place,
THE JESTER'S SERMON.—Walter Thornrurt.
The jester shook his hood and bells, and leaped upon a chair j 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
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 k'Mec1 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 ;lot 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 tq purchase house and land: be very slow to wed.
True coral needs no painter's brush, nor need be daubed with red.
"The friar, preaching, cursed the thief, (the pudding in hi« 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 au<J begs.