t be
That freedom's age is past?

Now, here's a note just come from Fred:
"Old fellow, will you dine
With me to-day? and meet the boys,
A jolly number--nine?"
Ah, Fred is quite as free to-day
As just a year ago,
And ignorant, happily, I may say,
Of things _I've_ learned to know.

I'd like, yes, if the truth were known,
I'd like to join the boys,
But then a Benedick must learn
To cleave to other joys.
So, here's my answer: "Fred, old chum,
I much regret--oh, pshaw!
To tell the truth, I've got to dine
With--_my dear mother-in-law!_"

--_Harper's Weekly._

CONCERNING MOSQUITOES.

_Feelingly Dedicated to their Discounted Bills._

BY MISS ANNA A. GORDON.

Skeeters have the reputation
Of continuous application
To their poisonous profession;
Never missing nightly session,
Wearing out your life's existence
By their practical persistence.

Would I had the power to veto
Bills of every mosquito;
Then I'd pass a peaceful summer,
With no small nocturnal hummer
Feasting on my circulation,
For his regular potation.

Oh, that rascally mosquito!
He's a fellow you must see to;
Which you can't do if you're napping,
But must evermore be slapping
Quite promiscuous on your features;
For you'll seldom hit the creatures.

But the thing most aggravating
Is the cool and calculating
Way in which he tunes his harpstring
To the melody of sharp sting;
Then proceeds to serenade you,
And successfully evade you.

When a skeeter gets through stealing,
He sails upward to the ceiling,
Where he sits in deep reflection
How he perched on your complexion,
Filled with solid satisfaction
At results of his extraction.

Would you know, in this connection,
How you may secure protection
For yourself and city cousins
From these bites and from these buzzin's?
Show your sense by quickly getting
For each window--skeeter netting.

THE STILTS OF GOLD.

BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOR.

Mrs. Mackerel sat in her little room,
Back of her husband's grocery store,
Trying to see through the evening gloom,
To finish the baby's pinafore.
She stitched away with a steady hand,
Though her heart was sore, to the very core,
To think of the troublesome lit