Nor any vain libation
Producing stimulation.
To this determination
We call consideration,
And without hesitation
Invite co-operation,
Not doubting imitation
Will raise your estimation,
And by continuation
Afford you consolation.
For in participation
With this association
You may, by meditation,
Insure the preservation
Of a future generation
From all contamination.
And may each indication
Of such regeneration

Be the theme of exultation
Till its final consummation!

THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.-THOMAS MOSS.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,

Oh! give relief, and heaven will bless your store.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek

Has been the channel of a stream of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road,
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)
Here craving for a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial forced me from the door,
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable dome,

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold;
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief,

If soft humanity e'er touched your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity could not be repressed.

Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine?
'Tis heaven has brought me to the state you see:
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;
But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter-once the comfort of my age-
Lured by a villain from her native home,
Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage,
And dooined in scanty poverty to roam!
My tender wife-sweet soother of my care--
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, lingering fell, a victim of despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me!

Then pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,

Oh! give relief, and heaven will bless your store.

PAT'S CORRESPONDENCE.-W. M. GIFFIN.

Whist now! till I relate to you my-well yer what now? Oh! I hev it, me--no I heven't it thin. What is it? Its letter writing any how-now what do ye call it? Ah! ha! now I hev it-correspondence, that's the wourd.

You know I wrote a letter to Tim Flanagin, Tim wrote a letter to me-Tim lives in the ould country, I live in the new. That's the difference between Tim and me; the difference did I say? Well now! that wourd makes me think of something I can't but tell till ye. It was the other day whin I was walking up Broad street, I heard some one a calling out, "Pat," seys he; "What do ye want," sed I; "I want till talk to ye," sed he; "Well talk away, thin," sed I; "Come along here, why don't ye thin ?" "Where air ye that I may

come?" But jist thin I see a big red-nosed fellow peaking from behint a lamp-post. "Well, now," sed I to meself; "I don't know who thet fellow is at all at all. I'll go over any how and see what he wants o' the likes of me." So over I wint and as I got within speaking distance he seys to me, seys he; "How air ye, Pat?” "What's thet to a mon I don't know?” sed I. "Oh well, Pat, me boy," sed he,“ niver mind thet, I hev a skanumdrum for ye." "A what," said I. "A skanumdrum," sed he; "I'm going to ask-" "Ask nothing," sed I; "but give me thet--what do ye call it ?—the first thing ye do." "Yer not understanding me,” sed he; “I mean by thet a riddle." “Oh, ho! a riddle is it? Out wid it thin; for its many a wone I guessed in the ould country." "Thin guess me this. What is the difference between yourself and a pig?" "Air ye joking?" sed I. "Not a bit of it, Pat, can ye tell?" Well jist thin one of the durty bastes passed us wid his [Grunting like a pig]. "Hear thet," sed I; "it's not in the voice any how." After scratching me head awhile, I sed to him, "I'll give it up." "Why, Pat, me boy, there is no difference at all." "Ain't there! Look a here young man thet may be what ye call a skanumdrum in Ameriky, but I give ye to understand thet in the ould country it would be a signal for the sudden dislocation of yer big red nose, and so it would." He didn't stop to hear it all, and it was well for him or me name's not Pat.

After looking at him awhile, I turned once more on me way, end I hed not gone far before I heard another cry of "Pat." "Oh, ho!" sed I to meself; "here is another one of thim skanumdrums I suppose. Who air ye? Where air ye? And what do ye want?" sed I; all in a breath. "I'm here, and it is a speaking to ye I want," sed a green looking fellow over the way. "Well," sed I to meself, "I'll go over and see what the blackguard wants wid me." So over I wint and the very first thing was, "Pat, I hev a skanumdrum for ye." "I thought so," sed I to meself; thin sed to him, "Well, what is it thin?" "Tell me, Pat, the difference between yourself and a pig?" "Me boy that is ould," sed I in a whisper; thin I sed to him, "Repeat it." He did. "Look me in the eye," sed I. “I'm looking," sed he. "Now, ye want to know the difference between me and a pig?" "That's it," sed he. I

looked at him, thin at meself, thin at him agin, thin I walked over to him, thin back agin, pacing it off so, [ Walking four or five paces,] thin looking right at him, I sed; "Do ye moind, I'm not good at guessing, but after pacing it, I would say the difference between me and a pig is about six feet." Well if ever a mon looked beat he did, and wid a good [Slapping his sides and crowing.] I left him.

But my dear friends what hes all this to do wid me correspondence? Nothing seys you. Well thin, to go back to it. Tim wrote, seys he, "Pat your own living uncle is now dead and all he had is to be given to you and me, his only heirs saving fourteen others. Come thin, Pat, and git your share.” Well, I jist set down and wrote, "Tim yer a fool; don't bother yer head wid a few paltry pounds, but come at once to the best country in the wourld. Why, Tim, there is no hanging for stealing here, pertaties are only twenty-five cents a bushel, wid whiskey the same, and more than thet, Tim, ye git yer three dollars a day for doing nothing at all, for all ye have to do is to make a three-cornered box, fill it wid bricks, carry it up a three-story building, and you will find a mon there, wid a trowel, thet will do all the wourk."

FOR LOVE.

Curly-haired Carl! Were a blithsomer mate

For a ride o'er the snow to be wished for than he? Yet it were well not to linger too late;

The pines are in shadow, the flakes dance and flee. Crisp on the white sound the patter and clack

Of hoofs beating briskly; and sharp through the air
Rises ripple of laughter; the bridles hang slack,

And hand touches hand. She is frolic and fair,
Sunny-eyed Marguerite, brightest of girls,
With teeth gleaming whitely, and tumble of curls.

"You! Gallant Carl, so they call you! No doubt,
Bayard the brave were a whipster to you!"
Gretchen the winsome can wickedly flout:

Red, curling lips, and arch eyes flashing blue,
Wing home her taunts. So he flushes and sets
Teeth under lips that are wreathed in a smile:
"Now truce, mocking sprite, to your feigned regrets
At fair chivalry's flight. Give me glances the while,

And what man may dare to win loyalty's meea,
I, Carl, and no Bayard, will venture at need."
Quick rings her laughter: sledge-bells at full flight
Never sounded more silvery musical. 'You?
Easy is talking, sir spur-lacking knight:

66

Were death at my lips, sirrah, what would you do?" Curly-haired Carl bendeth suddenly. Hawk

66

Should stoop straight to its quarry," laughs she, as her lips Deftly evade him. "Sir Carl, you can talk,

But you do not strike home: feeble sword, sir, that slips What dare you-for love?" Smileth Carl, "It were best, Oh, vow-flouting lady, to wait till the test!"

On through the snow; for the wood-shadows blacken,
The night-wind is waking, the pine-branches sigh.
They laugh as they fly; for their speed may not slacken.
"Now swift! Stride for stride, Carl!" Hist! What is that cry?
Faces, mirth-flushed and wind-bitten, grow white,

Deep bite the spur-points, and bridles shake free.
Didst e'er hear the yelling of wolves through the night?
H. 3h, hoarse devils' music that murders all glee.
Now, Brocken, now Fleetfoot, give proof of your pace;
For hundred-mouthed death is behind in full chase!

One breathless mile is ticked off from the three

By heart-beats that throb to the pulses of fear.
Swift! Flash along! Flying skirts, tresses free;
For death on the track yelleth near and more near.
Courage!" cries Carl, "we've the pace of them yet."
White is her face, and her breath shudders short;
Watchful his eyes, and his teeth tightly set.

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"Bravo, brave Brocken! Well leapt!" Never port

More eagerly looked for by storm-driven bark

Than the red village lights as they flash through the dark.

Two breathless miles! But the swift-sweeping pack

Of mad, yelling demons, have gained in their flight. O God! half a mile; and her gallop is slack!

Those hell-litten eyes, how they gleam through the night! But one minute more! "Gracious heaven above,

Too late? Now the test!" Then his voice ringeth loud: "Ride on, and farewell! But remember-for love!" Then right in the path of the hideous crowd

Brave Carl hath drawn bridle, and leapt to the ground; And a hundred hot hell-hounds have hemmed him around

Yon little brown woman, belle Marguerite? Nay,
Brave Carl as you know, is beau-garçon no more.
Those devil-hounds marked him. We fellows made play
Not a second too soon. Ah the hideous roar