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Be always first man at a feast, and last man at a fray.
The short way round, in spite of all, is still the longest way.
When the hungry curate licks the knife, there's: not much
for the clerk.

When the pilot, turning pale and sick, looks up,—the storm grows dark."

Then loud they laughed; the fat cook's tears ran down into the pan;

The steward shook, that he was forced to drop the brimming can;

And then again the women screamed, rnd every stag-hound bayed,—

And why? Because the motley fool so wise a sermon made.

CAUDLE'S "WEDDING-DAY.—Douglas Jerrold.

Caudle, love, do you know what next Sunday is? Not you don't! Well, was there ever such a strange man! Can't you guess, darling? Next Sunday, dear? Think, love, a minute—just think. What! and you don't know now? Hal It I hadn't a better memory than you I don't know how we should ever get on. Well then, pet—shall I tell you, dear what next Sunday is? Why, then, it's our wedding-day, What are you groaning at, Mr. Caudle? I don't see anything to groan at. If anybody should groan, I'm sure it isn't you No; I rather think it's I who ought to groan!

Oh, dear! That's fourteen years ago. You weie a very different man then, Mr. Caudle. What do you sav?—And I was a very different woman t Not at all—just the same. Oh, VOU needn't roll your head about on the pillow in that way: I say, just the same. Well, then, if I'm altered, whose fault is it? Not mine, I'm sure—certainly not. Don't tell me that I couldn't talk at aP then—I could talk just as well then as I can now; only then I hadn't the same cause. It's you have made me talk. What do you say? You're very sorry for tit Caudle you do nothing but insult me.

Ha! You were a good-tempered, nice creature fourteen years ago, and wouid have done anything for me. Yes, yes, If a woman would be always cared for she should never marry. There's quite an end of the charm when she goes to church! We're all angels while you're courting us; but once married, how soon you pull our wings off! No, Mr. Caudle, I'm not talking nonsense; but the truth is, you like to hear nobody talk but yourself. Nobody ever tells me that I talk nonsense but you. Now, it's no use your turning and turning about in that way; it's not a bit of— What do you say? You'll get up t No, you won't Caudle; you'll not serve me that trick again, for I've locked the door and hid the key. There's no getting hold of you in day-time—but here, you can't leave me. You needn't groan, Mr. Caudle.

Now, Caudle, dear, do let us talk comfortably. After all, love, there's a good many folks who, I dare say, don't get on half so well as we've done. We've both our little tempers, perhaps, but you are aggravating, you must oirn that, Caudle. Well, never mind; we won't talk of it; I won't scold you now. We'll talk of next Sunday, love. We never have kept our wedding-day, and I think it would be a nice day to have our friends. What do you say? They'd think it hypocrisy t No hypocrisy at all. I'm sure I try to be comfortable; and if ever a man w&5 happy, you ought to be. No, Caudle, no; it isn't nonsense to keep wedding-days; it isn't a deception on the world: n>d If it is, how many people do it? I'm sure it's only a proper compliment that a man owes to his wife. Look at the Winkles—don't they give a dinner every year? Well, I know, and if they do fight a little in the course of the twelvemonth, that's nothing to do with it. They keep their wedding-day, and their acquaintance have nothing to do with anything else.

As I say Caudle, it's only a proper compliment a man owes to his wife to keep his wedding-day. It is as much as to say to the whole world, " There, if I had to marry again, my blessed wife's the only woman I'd choose 1" Well, I see nothing to groan at, Mr. Caudle—no, nor to sigh at either; but I know what you mean; I'm sure, what would have become of you if you hadn't married as you have done—why, you'd have been a lost creature! I know it; I know your habits, Caudle; and—I don't like to say it—but you'd have been little better than a ragamuffin. Nice scrapes you'd have got into, I know, if you hadn't had me for a wife. The trouble I've had to keep you respectable—and what's my thanks? Ha! [ only wish you'd had some women!

But we won't quarrel, Caudle. No; you don't mean any thing, I know. Y/e !I have this little dinner, eh? Just a few friends? Now don't sayyou don't care—that isn't the way to speak to a wife; and especially the wife I've been to you, Caudle. Well, you agree to the dinner, eh? Now don't grunt, Mr. Caudle, but speak out. You'll keep your wedding-day? What? If 1'U let you go to deep t Ha, that's unmanly, Caudle; can't you say, " Yes," without any thing else? I Bay—can't you say " Yes?" There bless you! I knew you would.

And now, Caudle, what shall we have for dinner? No— we won't talk of it to-morrow; we'll talk of it now, and then it will be off my mind. I should like something particular— something out of the way—just to show that we thought the day something. I should like — Mr. Caudle, you're not asleep? What do I want t Why, you know I want to settle about the dinner. Have wfiat I like t No, as it is your fancy to keep the day, it's only right that I should try to please you. We never had one, Caudle; so what do you think of a haunch of venison? What do you say? Mutton will do t Ha! that shows what you think of your wife: 1 dare say if it was with any of your club friends—any of your pothouse companions—you'd have no objection to venison? I say if—What do you mutter? Let it be venison t Very well. And now about the fish? What do you think of a nice turbot? No, Mr. Caudle, brill won't do—it shall be turbot, or there shan't be any fish at all. Oh! what a mean man you are, Caudle! Shall it be turbot? It shallt And now about — the soup—now Caudle, don't swear at the soup in that manner; you know there must be soup. Well, once 'n a way, and just to show our friends how happy we've been, we'll have some real turtle. No you won't; you'll have nothing but mock t Then, Mr. Caudle, you may sit at the table by yourself. Mock-turtle on a wedding-day! Was there ever such an insult? What do you say? Let it be real then, for oncet Ha, Caudle! as I say, you were a very different person fourteen fears ago.

And, Caudle, you look after the venison! There's a place I know, somewhere in the city, where you'll get it beautiful. You'll look at it? You wiUt Very well.

And now who shall we invite? Who I like t Now you know, Caudle, that's nonsense; because I only like whom you like. I suppose the Prettymans must come. But understand, Caudle, I don't have Miss Prettyman: I am not going to have my peace of mind destroyed under my own roof: if she comes, I don't appear at the table. What do you say? Very well t Very well be it, then.

And now Caudle, you'll not forget the venison? In the city, my dear! You'll not forget the venison? A haunch, you know: a nice haunch. And you'll not forget the venison? (A loud snore.) Bless me, if he ain't asleep I Oh, the unfeeling men I


"You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline,—

"You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood: I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine."

"And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said, While an arch smile played over her beautiful face.

"I would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maid Would fly to my side and would there take her place."

"Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours Without any magic!" the fair maiden cried:

"A favor so slight one's good-nature secures;"
And she playfully seated herself by his side.

"I would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charm
Would work so that not even modesty's check
'Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm."
She smiled and she laid her white arm round his neck.

"Yet once more I would blow; and the music divine
Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss,—

You would lay your fair cheek to this nrown one of mine;
And your lips stealing past it would give me a kiss."

Ihe maiden laughed out in her innocent glee,—
"What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make!

For only consider how silly 'twould be
To sit there and whistle "for what you might take."



Outstretched beneath the leafy shade
Of Windsor forest's deepest glade,

A dying woman lay;
Three little children round her stood,
And there went up from the greenwood

A woful wail that day.

"O mother!" was the mingled cry,
"O mother, mother! do not die,

And leave us all alone."
"My blessed babes!" she tried to say,
But the faint accents died away

In a low sobbing moan.

And then, life struggling hard with death,
And fast and strong she drew her breath,

And up she raised her head;
And, peering through the deep wood maze
With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze,

"Will she not come?" she said.

Just then the parting boughs between,
A little maid's light form was seen,

All breathless with her speed;
And following close, a man came on
(A portly man to look upon,)

Who led a panting steed.

"Mother!" the little maiden cried,
Or e'er she reached the woman's side,

And kissed her clay-cold cheek,—
"I have not idled in the town,
But long went wandering up and down,

The minister to seek.

"They told me here, they told me there,—
I think they mocked me everywhere;

And when I found his home,
And bogged him on my bended knee
To bring his book and come with me,

Mother! he would not come.

"I told him how you dying lay,
And could not go in peace away
Without the minister:

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