r those who feel an
interest in Professor Shaw, it may be agreeable to know, that in his
wanderings, having discovered in a green lane, on the margin of a
duck-pond, a district school in want of a pedagogue, he forthwith assumed
the birch, and may be now seen at almost any hour of the day, in the midst
of his noisy populace, commanding silence, or dusting them on their least
honorable parts. 'Tough, are you? I'll see if I can find a tender spot.
Come, no bawling, or I'll flog you till you stop. Thomas Jones, take your
book, and stick your nose in the c-o-rner. First division may go out.
First class in geography----'

F. W. S.

STANZAS

TO THE SPIRITS OF MY THREE DEPARTED SISTERS.

WRITTEN AT MID-WINTER.

Sweet sisters! ye have passed away,
In solemn silence one by one,
And left a brother here to stray,
In doubt and darkness--and alone!
For like three lamps of holy flame,
Ye shone upon my weary way,
Till a chill breath from heaven came,
And quenched for aye the kindly ray.

Where are ye now?--where are ye now?
Those loving hearts and spirits, where!
O'er three new graves in grief I bow,
But ye are gone--ye are not there!
The winds that sigh while wandering by,
Curl the bright snow in many a wreath,
And sing in mournful melody,
O'er the cold dust that sleeps beneath.

The birds that sang when ye were here,
Are singing in another clime;
Have left the hedge and forest sere,
And gone where all is summer-time.
The frail bright flowers that bloom'd around,
When ye were blooming bright as they,
Lie crushed and withered on the ground,
Their fragrance heavenward passed away.

And ye are gone where genial skies
And radiant suns eternal shine,
Where peaceful songs forever rise,
From saintly tongues and lips divine.
And like the flowers whose sweet perfume
Has left the soil and risen above,
Has risen from your silent tomb
The holy fragrance of your love.

But often when the silver beams
Of the pale stars are on my bed,
Ye come among my sweetest dreams,
And bend in silence o'er my head;
And throngs of bright imaginings
Float round and o'er me till the dawn;
I hear the fluttering of wings!
I start--I wake! but ye are gone.

Oh! I am sad; yet still the thought
That when this tired though willing hand
Its earthly