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I should never have thought of alluding to woodpeckers and bugs, and other children of nature. The man objects to the remarks about the sled. Can the idiot know that it was necessary to have a rhvme for 'bed'? Can he suppose that I could write poetry without rhymes? The man is a lunatic! He ought not to be at large!"

Hardly had the indignant and energetic parent of Bartholomew departed when a man with red hair and a ferocioiw glare in his eyes entered, carrying a club and accompanied by a savage-looking dog.

"I want to see the editor," he shouted.

A ghastly pallor overspread the colonel's face, and he said.

"The editor is not in.

"Well, when will he be in, then?"

"Not for a week—for a month—for a year—for ever I He will never come in any more!" screamed Bangs. "Hehasgone to South America, with the intention to remain there during the rest of his life. He has departed. He has fled. If you want to see him, you had better follow him to the equator. He will be glad to see you. I would advise you, as a friend, to take the next boat—to start at once."

"That is unfortunate," said the man; "I came all the way from Delaware City for the purpose of battering him up a lot with this club.'r

"He will be sorry," said Bangs, sarcastically. "He will regi 't missing you. I will write to him, and mention that you dropped m."

"My name is McFadden," said the man. "I came to break the head of the man who wrote that obituary poetry about my wife. If you don't tell me who perpetrated the following, I'll break yours for you. Where's the man who wrote this? Pay attention:

"' Mrs. McFadden has gone from this lift;

She hna left all its sorrows and tares;
She caught the rheumatica in both ol her legs

While scrubbing the cellar and stairs.
They put mustard-plasters uixin her in Tain;

They bathed her with whisky and rum;
But Thursday her spirit departed, and left

Her body entirely numb.'"

"The man who held the late Mrs. McFadden up to the scorn of an unsympathetic world in that shocking manner," said the editor, is named James B. Slimmer. He boards in Blank street, fourth door from the corner. I would advise you to call on him and avenge Mrs. McFadden's wrongs with an intermixture of club and dog-bites."

"And this," sighed the poet, outside the door, "is the man who told me to divert McFadden's mind from contemplation of the horrors of the tomb. It was this monster who counseled me to make the sunshine of McFadden's smiles burst through the tempest of McFadden's tears. If that redheaded monster couldn't smile over that allusion to whisky and rum, if those remarks about the rheumatism in her legs could not divert his mind from the horrors of the tomb, was it my fault? McFadden grovels! He knows no more about poetry than a mule knows about the Shorter Catechism."

The poet determined to leave before any more criticisms were made upon his performances. He jumped down from his chair and crept softly toward the back staircase.

The story told uy the foreman relates that Colonel Bangs at the same instant resolved to escape any further persecution, and he moved off in the direction taken by the poet. The two met upon the landing, and the colonel was about to begin his quarrel with Slimmer, when an enraged old woman who had been groping her way up stairs suddenly plunged her umbrella at Bangs, and held him in the corner while she handed a copy of the Argus to Slimmer, and pointing to a certain stanza, asked him to read it aloud. He did so in a somewhat tremulous voice and with frightened glances at the enraged colonel. The verse was as follows:

"Little Alexander^ dead;

Jam him iu a coffin;
Don't have as good a chance

For a fun'ral often.
Bush his body right around

To the cemetery;
Prop him in the sepulchre

With his Uncle Jerry."

The colonel's assailant accompanied the recitation with such energetic remarks as these:

"Oh, you willin! D'you hear that, you wretch? What d'you mean by writin'of my grandson in that way? Take that you serpint! Oh, you wiper, you! try-in' to break a lone widder's heart with such scand'lus lies as them! There,you willin! I kemmere to hammer you well with this here umbreller, you owdacious wiper, you! Take that, and that, yon wile, indecent, disgustin' wagabone! When you know well enough that Aleck never had no Uncle Jerry, and never had no uncle in no sepulchre anyhow, you wile wretch, you!"

When Mr. Slimmer had concluded his portion of the entertainment, he left the colonel in the hands of the enemy and fled. He has not been seen in New Castle since that day, and it is supposed that he has returned to Sussex county for the purpose of continuing in private his dalliance with the Muses. Colonel Bangs appears to have abandoned the idea of establishing a department of obituary poetry, and th<« Argus has resumed its accustomed aspect of dreariness.

It may fairly boast, however, that once during its career i» has produced a profound impression upon the community.

—Qui of the Hurly-Burly.

THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS.

I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales,

And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales,

As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work

was o'er,

They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more.

For some had gone with daring foot, the craggy peaks to gain,

Until they seemed like hazy specks, to gazers on the plain;
But in a fathomless abyss an icy grave they found,
Or were crushed beneath the avalanche that starts at hu-
man sound:

And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear,—
A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not
hear;

The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous;
But wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:

"It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells.
Who never fattens on the prey, which from afar he smells,
But patient, watching hour on hour, upon a lofty rock,
He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.

"One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high,

When, from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry, As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain, A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again.

"I hurried out to learn the cause; but overwhelmed with fright,

The children never ceased to shriek; and from my frenzied sight

I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care;— But something anight my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air.

"Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye,
His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry;
And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave,
fhat earthly power could not avail that innocent to save!

"My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me, Ana struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly, to get free: At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed!

Until upon the azure sky a lessening spot they seemed.

"' The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew;

A mote upon the sun's broad face, he seemed unto my view, But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight,— Twas only a*delusive thought, for all had vanished qinte.

"All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er forgot,

When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, From whence upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached,

He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached!

"I clambered up that rugged cliff—I could not stay away,— I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay; A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred:

The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon his head"

That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers, passing by, Who often stand, and musing gaze, nor go without a sigh; And as I journeyed, the next morn, along the sunny way, The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.

THE TWO ANCHORS—R. H. Stoddahd,

It was a gallant sailor man,

Had just come from sea,
And as I passed him in the town,

He sang " Ahoy I" to me.
I stopped, and saw I knewthe man,—

Had known him from a boy;
And so I answered sailor-like,

"Avast!" to his " Ahoy!"
I made a song for him one day,-

His ship was then in sight,—
"The little anchor on the left.

The great one on the right."

I gave his hand a hearty grip.

So you are back again?
They say you have been pirating

Upon the Spanish Main;
Or was it some rich Iudiaman

You robbed of all her pearls?
Of course you have been breaking hearts

Of poor Kanaka girls!" "Wherever I have t,een," he said,

"I kept my ship in sight,— 'The little anchor on the left,

The great one on the right.'"

"I heard last night that you were in:

I walked the wharves to-day, But saw no ship that looked like yours.

Where does the good ship lay? . I want to go on board of her."

"And so you shall," said he; "But there are many things to do

When one comes home from sea. You know the song you made for me?

I sing it morn and night,— 'The little anchor on the left,

The great one on the right.'"

"But how's your wife and little one?"

"Come home with me," he said. "Go on, go on: I follow you."

1 followed where he led.
He had a pleasant little house;

The door was open wide,
And at the door the dearest face,—

A dearer one inside.
He hugged his wife and child; he sang,—

His spirits were so light,— "The little anchor on the left.

The great one on the right."

Twas supper-time, and we sat down,—

The sailor's wife and child,
And he and I: he looked at them,

And looked at me, and smiled.
"I think of this when I am tossed

Upon the stormy foam,
And, though a thousand leagues away,

Am anchored here at home."
Then, giving each a kiss, he said,

"I see, in dreams at night, This little anchor on my left,

This great one on my right."

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