s and weeks I fed him on suggestions of green fat.
Thus I caught that lost expression, and I cried, "Thrice happy day!
Once again 'tis my possession." Then I turned and fled away.

Without swerving or digression to my Dora straight I sped,
And she gazed at that expression, then she clapped her hands and
said--
"You have found it--who'd have thought it?--you have brought it me
again!"
"Yes!" I cried, "and as I've brought it, make me happiest of men."
But--oh! who could tell her sorrow, as she cried in wistful tones?--
"Dick, I'd marry you to-morrow, but I'm Mrs. Bowler Jones!"

A NIGHT SCENE.

BY ROBERT B. BROUGH.

Out of the grog-shop, I've stepp'd in the street.
Road, what's the matter? you're loose on your feet;
Staggering, swaggering, reeling about,
Road, you're in liquor, past question or doubt.

Gas-lamps, be quiet--stand up, if you please.
What the deuce ails you? you're weak in the knees:
Some on your heads--in the gutter some sunk--
Gas-lamps, I see it, you're all of you drunk.

Angels and ministers! look at the moon--
Shining up there like a paper balloon,
Winking like mad at me: Moon, I'm afraid--
Now I'm convinced--Oh! you tipsy old jade.

Here's a phenomenon: Look at the stars--
Jupiter, Ceres, Uranus, and Mars,
Dancing quadrilles; caper'd, shuffl'd and hopp'd.
Heavenly bodies! this ought to be stopp'd.

Down come the houses! each drunk as a king--
Can't say I fancy much this sort of thing;
Inside the bar it was safe and all right,
I shall go back there, and stop for the night.

KARL, THE MARTYR.

BY FRANCES WHITESIDE.

It was the closing of a summer's day,
And trellised branches from encircling trees
Threw silver shadows o'er the golden space.
Where groups of merry-hearted sons of toil
Were met to celebrate a village feast;
Casting away, in frolic sport, the cares
That ever press and crowd and leave their mark
Upon the brows of all whose bread is earned
By daily labour. 'Twas perchance the feast
Of fav'rite saint, or anniversary
Of one of bounteous nature's season gifts
To grateful husbandry--no matter what
The cause of their uniting. Joy beamed forth
On ev'ry face, and the sweet echoes rang
With sounds of honest mirth too rarely heard
In the vast workshop man has made his world,
Where months of toil must pay one day of song.

Somewh