Oh! John, go, John! there's Noodle's knock, I know, John; Tell him that all yesterday you sought him high and low, John. Tell him, just before he came, you saw me mount the hill, John; Say you think I'm only gone to pay his little bill, John; Then, I think, you'd better add—that if I miss to-day, John, You're sure I mean to call when next I pass his way, John. Hie, John! fly, John! I will tell you why, John If there is not Grimshaw at the corner, let me die, John. Peeping into corners hardly fit to hold a mouse, John; Beg he'll take a chair and wait-I know he wont refuse, John- And I'll pop through the little door that opens on the mews, John. NUMBER NINETY-ONE. One of the exhibitors at the recent Texas State Fair, at Houston, gave an amusing account of his experience at the hotel, which illustrates the crowded condition of the public houses at that time. When I got there, I just said, “Captain, I wrote to you about six weeks ago to save me a room; I hope you have done so." Certainly I have. Show the gentleman to ninety-one." I'm blessed if there wasn't forty others besides myself in the same apartment, and when they went to undress at night, the room looked like an arsenal, for every man had a knife and a six-shooter or two. My partner had an immense pistol, which he coolly took off and placed in bed between us. "Say, stranger," says I," if I had to carry a thing like that, blamed if I wouldn't put it on wheels." "Guess if I choose to wear it, it's nobody's business," he replied. "Well," says I, "is all of this artillery company in this room?" The next night, after we had all turned in there came a rap at the door; the beds were all full but one, and in this there was a tall Texan, who, after the rapping had been several times repeated, got up, and in a costume but little better than the Georgia full dress opened the door and demanded: "What do you mean by kicking up such an infernal row here?" "They told me there was a vacant bed here," said a dapper-looking fellow, with a satchel in his hand, “and I came to occupy it." "Come in," replied Texas, flourishing his pistol, “there ain't no vacant bed, but you can bunk with me." "Thank you," said the new comer, at the same time evidently wishing himself out again. I can tell you that young fellow wasn't long "changing" himself and sliding easily into bed; but he had no more than stretched himself out when his bedfellow said: "You got any whiskey?” "Y-e-s, sir; I was-afraid of the water, and Water! if you've got any whiskey, behave like a man, and produce it." The young fellow got out of bed and soon handed over a small wicker flask. "It's your whiskey-drink first," said Texas. His companion poured out about three drops and took it, when the other put the flask to his head and drained it, and then coolly turned it bottom up, to show that it was dry, and handed it back. About half the occupants were changed every day, and I could tell every new arrival the number of his room, as soon as I set eyes on him. "Halloo, Colonel, just got in?" I would say. "Yes, just in, and lucky enough to get a room." 26 What's your number?" I would ask. Ninety-one, was sure to be the reply. I stayed there until they began to put the new arrivals in through the transom, and then I left the town. THE MODERN CYMON.-BRYAN WALLER PROCTOR. "THE LUNATIC, THE LOVER, AND THE POET." You bid me tell you why I rise I was not born of noble race: I know a peasant was my sire; I ran as wild as doth the wolf, About the fields, for many years; A sudden chance (if chance it were) Forced onward, while she wept in vain. My eyes were hot within my head: I heard her scream-I saw her forced I sought the hills-I sought the woods; Those tears! they washed from off my eyes The cloudy film that on them lay; And I awoke, and saw the light, And knew I did behold the day. Till then, I had but been a beast,- Swelled upward, like a torrent damm'd I read-I learned-I thought-I loved! I heard her words; I saw her eyes, Cry out "Revenge!"-and I believed! Still time wore on; and efforts vain Were made to bend the demon's will; But never yet did fiction dream Of half that I could tell in rhyme. Suffice it; all things have an end. And bore her off-to healthier air! Far far away! She never knew That I had blood upon my breast: Her pride-but, ah, she had no pride! She died, as fading roses die, Although the warm and healing air Comes breathing forth, and wraps them round. She died, despite my love and care. I placed her gently in the lead; I soothed her hair, as it should be; She died; and yet I have her still,- And this is why I restless seem; Awakens from her sleep of stone; Now, tell me, am I mad?-Who's he LITTLE GRETCHEN. Through a window, old and broken, True, the streets were full of people, |