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"Young blood," laughed the elder; "no doubt you are voicing the mode of To-day;

But then we old fogies, at least, gave the lady some chance for delay.

"There's my wife—(you must know,)—we first met on the

journey from Florence to Rome; It took me three weeks to discover who was she and where

was her home;

"Three more to be duly presented; three more ere I saw her again;

And a year ere my romance began where yours ended that day on the train."

"Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach; we travel to-day by express;

Forty miles to the hour," he answered," won't admit of a passion that's less."

"But what if you make a mistake?" quoth the elder. The younger half sighed.

"What happens when signals are wrong or switches misplaced?" he replied.

"Very well, I must bow to your wisdom," the elder returned, "but admit

That your chances of winning this woman your boldness has bettered no whit.

"Why, you do not, at best, know her name. And what if I try yoin ideal

With something, if not quite so fair, at least more en regie and real!

"Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist—you shall

follow—this way. My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid to

stay?

"My wife, Mr. Rapid—Eh, what! Why, he's gone,—yet he said he would come;

How rude! I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly crimson and dumb!"

Atlantic Monthly.

THERE COME THE BOYS.

There come the boys! Oh, dear, the noise I
The whole house feels the racket;

Behold the knee of Harry's pants,
And weep o'er Bennie's jacket I

But never mind, if eyes keep bright, And limbs grow straight and limber:

We'd rather lose the tree's whole bark Than find unsound the timber.

Now hear the tops and marbles roll;

The floors—Oh, woe betide them I And I must watch the banisters,

For I know boys who ride them.

Look well as you descend the stairs,

I often find them haunted
By ghostly toys that make no noise

Just when their noise is wanted.

The very chairs are tied in pairs,
And made to prance and caper;

What swords are whittled out of sticks,
What brave hats made of paper!

The dinner-bell peals loud and well,
To tell the milkman's coming;

And then the rush of " steam-car trains *
Sets all our ears a humming.

How oft. I say, " What shall I do
To keep these children quiet?"

If I could find a good receipt,
I certainly should try it.

But what to do with these wild boys,
And all their din and clatter,

Is really quite a grave affair—
No laughing, trifling matter.

"Boys will be boys "—but not for long;

Ah, could we bear about us This thought—how very soon our boys

Will learn to do without us!

How soon but tall and deep-voiced men
Will gravely call us " Mother;"—

Or we be stretching empty hands
From this world to the other!

More gently we should chide the noise,
And when night quells the racket,

Stitch in but loving thoughts and prayers While mending pants and jacket.

TROUBLES OF A WIFE.—Kitty Lincowi.

Tig baking day, and I must make—

Let's think it o'er and see—
Two kinds of bread and three of cake,

(It all depends on me;)
And cookies, doughnuts, pumpkin-pies,

And mince, and custard, too;—
I look around me in surprise,

And don't know what to do.

And here's the children, seven in all,

(They're rosy boys and girls,)— Come, Harry, do stop teasing Poll,

And, Madge, don't shake your curls! Just look around, about the stove,

See how the hairs are falling;— There, I declare, as true as love,

The baby he is squalling 1

And here's the brown loaf baked too hard

(The very mischief's in it,)
Come, Sammy, run and get some lard,

Don't wait a single minute.
Here, Watch, get out, you dirty- dog,

You're always in the cooking;—
Oh! Richard, drive away the hog,

She's in the garden, rooting.

Now, I must roll the pie-crusts out,

Although my arms are aching;— Madge, tell me what is baby 'bout,

Oh, what a fuss he's making! To trouble me on baking day,

He really does delight in— Can't seem to put him where he'll stay,—*

And there, the boys are fighting.

I hear my eldest daughter say,

(With sidelong glance at me,) "I saw Frank Jones the other day;

He's coming here to tea." Confound your Frank, I quick reply,

Why did you e"er invite him.— There s Sam, this minute, choking Watch.

I wish the dog would bite him.

"Mamma," cries Will, with eager eyes, "Make everything so gooder,

And can't you make some apple-pies?"

Be still; can't spare the sugar. "Dear me," says Madge, " this lesson's hard,

Oh, mother, what is harder?" Say I, My daughter dear, to stand

Before an empty larder.

I'd like to know how I can go

To the Good Templar's meeting, When they initiate Bill and Joe,—

(My; how the oven's heating!) And what they do I cannot know,

While I the eggs am beating; My hands are full to stay at home,

And only fix for eating.

And yet their purpose seemeth good,

To keep the frail from drinking, And while I'm thus preparing food,

I'll still keep thinking, thinking.
They right all wrongs within their power,

And keep the poor from ill;
So while my hands are in the flour,

My heart is with them still.

How can I write, I'd like to know,

For that old Boston paper?
("Ma, Watch has eat the custard up!"—

Oh! what a wretched caper.)
I cannot read what others write;

Have scarcely time to think;
Much less to scratch my head for brains,

And daub my hands with ink.

"Mamma," says Dick, "may T go out

With Tom Greene and his brother?
They're going down the brook for trout,

Why can't I go, say, mother?"
No, boy, your father does not wish—

Here, stop, I say, and hear me,—
You shan't go down the brook to fish I—

What! Don't you even fear me?

That plaguy Dick is out of sight,—

The bread must soon be moulded ;— And here I've lost my temper, quite,

And " been and gone " and scolded. A wretched mother, that is plain,

Oh! such a wicked sinner ;— And there comes husband through the lane,

And brings Jour men to dinner!

CHARLIE MACHREE.—William J. Hoppin.

Come over, come over the river to me,

If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree!

Here's Mary MePherson and Susy O'Linn,

Who say ye're faint-hearted, and dare not plunge in.

But the dark rolling river, though deep as the sea,
I know cannot scare you, nor keep you from me;

For stout is your back and strong is your arm.
And the heart in your bosom is faithful and warm.

Come over, come over the river to me,
If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree.

I see him, I see him. He's plunged in the tide,
His strong arms are dashing the big waves aside.

Oh! the dark rolling water shoots swift as the sea,
But blithe is the glance of his bonny blue e'e;

His cheeks are like roses, twa buds on a bough;
Who says ye're faint-hearted, my brave laddie, now.

Ho, ho, foaming river, ye may roar as ye go,

But ye canua bear Charlie to the dark loch below!

Come over, come over the river to me,

My true-hearted laddie, my Charlie Machree!

He's sinking, he's sinking—Oh, what shall I do! Strike out, Charlie, boldly, ten strokes and ye're thro'.

He's sinking, O Heaven! Ne'er fear, man, ne'er fear;
I've a kiss for ye, Charlie, as soon as ye're here!

He rises, I see him,—five strokes, Charlie, mair,—
He's shaking the wet from his bonny brown hair;

He conquers the current, he gains on the sea,—
Ho, where is the swimmer like Charlie Machree!

Come over the river, but once come to me,
And I'll love ye forever, dear Charlie Machree.

He's sinking, he's gone,— 0 God, it is I,

It is I, who have killed him—help, help!—he must die.

Help, help!—ah, he rises—strike out and ye're free. Ho, bravely done, Charlie, once more now, for me!

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