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Who asked with the " don't let me bother you" air.
Which the bore is so apt to assume—

"How are ye? " The editor rose with a smile

And pleasantly yielded his chair—
Placed the visitor's sadly mibeautiful tile

(Which exhibited symptoms of wear)
On the top of the desk, alongside of his own

(A shocking old plug, by the way),
And then asked in a rather obsequious tone,

"Can we do anything for you to-day?"

"No—I jest called to see ye "—the visitor said;

"I'm a friend to the newspaper man"— Here he ran a red handkerchief over his head,

And accepted the editor's fan— "I hev read all the pieces you've writ for your sheet,

And they're straight to the p'int, I confess— That 'ar slap you gin Keyser was sartinly neat—

You're an ornyment, sir, to the press!"

"I am glad you are pleased," said the writer, " indeed;

But you praise me too highly, by far—
Just select an exchange that you're anxious to read,

And while reading it, try this cigar.
By the way, I've a melon laid up for a treat—

I've been keeping it nestled in ice,
It's a beautv, sir, fit for an angel to eat—

Now, perhaps, you will relish a slice?"

Then the stranger rolled up half a dozen or more

Of the choicest exchanges of all— Helped himself to the fruit, threw the rinds on the floor,

Or flung them at flies on the wall.
He assured his new friend that his " pieces were wrote

In a manner uncommonly able,"
As he wiped his red hands on the editor's coat

That hung at the side of the table.

"By the way, I've neglected to ask you your name,"

Said the scribe as the stranger arose: "That's a fact," he replied, " I'm Abimalech Bame,

You have heerd o' that name, I suppose?
I'm a-livin' out here on the Fiddletown Creek

Where I own a good house and a lot;
The Gazette gets around to me wunst every week—

I'm the constantest reader you've got!"

"Abimalech Bame," mused the editor, " B-a-m-e—" (Here his guest begged a chew of his ' twist')

"I am sorry to say your mellifluous name Doesn't happen to honor my list!"

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THE MYSTIC VEIL.

This world I deem but a beautiful dream
Of shadows which are not what they seem;
Where visions rise (riving dim surmise
Of the things that shall meet our waking eyes.

Hardly they shine thro' the outer shrine,
As, beneath t he veil of that flesh divine,
Beamed forth the light which were else too bright
For the feebleness of a sinner's sight.

I gaze aloof on the tissued roof,
Where time and space are the warp and woof
Which the King of kings as a curtain flings
O'er the dazzling face of eternal things.

A tapestried tent, to shade us meant,

From the ever radiant firmament,

So the blaze of the skies comes soft to the eyes

Thro' the veil of mystical imageries.

But could I see as in truth they be

The glories of heaven which encompass me,

I should lightly hold the fleeting fold

Of that marvellous curtain of blue and gold.

Soon the whole like a parcheVl scroll,
Shall before my amazed sight uproll,
And without a screen, at one burst be seen.
The Presence wherein I've ever been.

Oh! who shall bear the blinding glare
Of the Majesty that shall meet us th'-.e?
What eyes may gaze on the unv?ii3d blaze
Of the light-girdled throne ot Jc: Ancient of days

THE THREE WAR? KGS.—Mrs. Thrale.

The tree of deepest root , found
Least willing stdl to qui the ground:
Twas therefore said by ncient sages,

That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rage»,

The greatest love of life appears.
This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,—
If old assertions can't prevail,—
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

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When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day, Death called aside the jocund groom With him into another room, And looking grave—" You must," says he, "Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." "With you! and quit my Susan's side! With you!" the hapless" husband cried; "Young as I am 'tis monstrous hard I Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared: My thoughts on other matters go; This is my wedding-day you know."

What more he urged, I have not heard, His reasons could not well be stronger;

So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke—
"Neighbor," he said, " Farewell! No more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour;
And farther, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summoned to the grave.
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you'll have no more to say;
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,

The willing muse shall tell:
He chaffered then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace.
But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spare*,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.

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And now, one night, in musing mood

As all alone he sat,
Th' unwelcome messenger of fate

Once more before him stood.
Half killed with anger and surprise,
"So soon returned!' old Dodson cries.

"So soon, d'ye call it?" Death replies: "Surely, my friend, you're but in jest!

Since I was here before
Tis six-and-thirty years at least,

And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoined;
"To spare the aged would be kind:
However, see your search be legal;
And your authority—is't regal?
Else you are come on a fool's errand,
With but a secretary's warrant.
Besides, you promised me Three Warnings,
Which I have looked for nights and mornings;
But for that loss of time and ease,
I can recover damages."

"I know," cries Death, "that at the best
I seldom am a welcome guest;
But don't be captious, friend, at least:
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm ant' stable;
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, though, of your strength!''

"Hold," says the farmer, " not so fast! I have been lame these four years past."

"And no great wonder," Death replies:
"However you still keep your eyes;
And sure, to see one's loves and friends,
For legs and arms would make amends."

"Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight."

"This is a shocking tale, t'is true,
But still there's comfort left for you:
Each strives your sadness to amuse;
I warrant you hear all the news."

"There's none," cries he; "and if there were, I'm grown so deaf, I couldnot hear." "Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined,

"These are unjustifiable yearnings; "If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,

You've had your three sufficient warnings. So, come along, no more we'll part," He said, and touched him with his dart. And now old Dodson turning pale, Yields to his fate—so ends my tale.

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