And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,
So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest."

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck,
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck;

And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light,
And he kissed her sweet lips-Don't you think he was right?
Now, Rory, leave off, sir-you'll hug me no more,—
That's eight times to-day you have kissed me before."
"Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure,
For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.

THE INCHCAPE ROCK.-ROBERT SOUTHEY.

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,-
The ship was still as she might be;

Her sails from heaven received no motion;
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape bell.

The holy abbot of Aberbrothok

Had floated that bell on the Inchcape rock;

On the waves of the storm it floated and swung,

And louder and louder its warning rung.

When the rock was hid by the tempest's swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;

And then they knew the perilous rock,
And blessed the priest of Aberbrothok.

The sun in heaven shone so gay,--
All things were joyful on that day:

The sea-birds screamed as they sported round,
And there was pleasure in their sound.
The float of the Inchcape bell was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph, the rover, walked his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring,-
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess;
But the rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the bell and float;
Quoth he, "My men, pull out the boat;
And row me to the Inchcape rock,
And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok."

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And cut the warning bell from the float.

Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound;

The bubbles rose, and burst around.

Quoth Sir Ralph, The next who comes to the rock Won't bless the priest of Aberbrothok."

Sir Ralph, the rover, sailed away,

He scoured the seas for many a day;

And now, grown rich with plundered store,

He steers his course to Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
They could not see the sun on high;
The wind had blown a gale all day;
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the rover takes his stand;
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon."
"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?
For yonder, methinks, should be the shore.
Now where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell."

They hear no sound; the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along:
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,-
Alas! it is the Inchcape rock!

Sir Ralph, the rover, tore his hair;

He beat himself in wild despair.

The waves rush in on every side;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But ever in his dying fear

One dreadful sound he seemed to hear,-
A sound as if with the Inchcape bell
The evil spirit was ringing his knell.

JENNY MALONE.

It is but a short time since poor Jenny Malone
Had a heart and a future as glad as my own.

We were classmates and roommates together, for years,
And now-I can't speak of her, hardly, for tears.

She was winsome and bright, such a loving young thing
With a voice that you thought was made only to sing,
And a look in her eyes that-well, now it's so sad
That I wonder it ever was merry and glad.

When she married Rob Reech she was only nineteen,
Far too young to be certain what marriage might mean;
As for him-there was never so handsome a beau
Who made love in so winning a fashion, I know.

True, he drank. Jenny knew it. "That's nothing," she said
With a light little toss of her foolish young head;
"It's the way of young men. He'll be steadier grown
When we're wed, or my name is not Jenny Malone."

They were wed—a gay wedding. I stood by the bride
When she pledged him her all, let whatever betide;
When he vowed to support her, to cherish, defend
Against evil and danger, till death and the end.

I was with her last night, and I sobbed at the sight
Of her pitiful face, now so pallid and white,
Of her eyes that have lost all the light of their smile
And seem brimming with trouble and tears all the while

It is just the old story. Poor Rob has gone down
Till his ruin and shame are the talk of the town;
But she clings to him yet, as a brave woman clings
To the love of her life, though it wasteth and stings.

I could see her look down in her little one's face,
With a sigh-it might be for the father's disgrace;
I could feel her heart throb as I kissed her good-bye—
And I knew there are harder things yet than to die.

She's a brave little body, but still she must shrink
From the end that is certain, when stopping to think,
Just a wreck of two lives, and it may be of more,
And a loss of all treasure they carelessly bore!

May God pity the girl who thus finds that her fate
Is to suffer in patience, and patiently wait!-
To whom womanhood brings only sorrows and cares,
Only longing, and hunger, and pleadings, and prayers!
"But we choose for ourselves," do you say? Yes, I know;
We must reap in our harvest as now we may sow;
If we run any risks, then the blame is our own
Do we bitterness gather with Jenny Malone.

It is better to journey alone through the years
Than to wed only bitterest grieving and tears;
So I say to young men who are fond of their wine
That the lips that taste liquor can never touch mine.

ECHO.-JOHN G. SAXE.

I asked of Echo, t'other day,

(Whose words are few and often funny,)
What to a novice she could say

Of courtship, love, and matrimony?
Quoth Echo, plainly,--" Matter-o'-money!"

Whom should I marry ?-should it be
A dashing damsel, gay and pert,

A pattern of inconstancy;

Or selfish, mercenary flirt?

Quoth Echo, sharply, -" Nary flirt!"

What if, aweary of the strife

That long has lured the dear deceiver,

She promise to amend her life,

And sin no more; can I believe her?
Quoth Echo, very promptly,-" Leave ho

But if some maiden with a heart
On me should venture to bestow it,
Pray, should I act the wiser part

To take the treasure, or forego it?
Quoth Echo, with decision,-"Go it!"

But what if, seemingly afraid

To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,
She vow she means to die a maid,

In answer to my loving letter?

Quoth Echo, rather coolly," Let her "

What if, in spite of her disdain,
I find my heart entwined about
With Cupid's dear delicious chain
So closely that I can't get out?
Quoth Echo, laughingly,-" Get out!"
But if some maid with beauty blest,

As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,
Will share my labor and my rest

Till envious death shall overtake her?
Quoth Echo (sotto voce),—“ Take her!”

AWFULLY LOVELY PHILOSOPHY.

A few days ago a Boston girl, who had been attending the School of Philosophy at Concord, arrived in Brooklyn, on a visit to a seminary chum. After canvassing thoroughly the fun and gum-drops that made up their education in the seat of learning at which their early scholastic efforts were made, the Brooklyn girl began to inquire the nature of the Concord entertainment.

"And so you are taking lessons in philosophy! How do you like it?"

"Oh, it's perfectly lovely! It's about science, you know, and we all just dote on science."

"It must be nice. What is it about?"

"It's about molecules as much as anything else, and molecules are just too awfully nice for anything. If there's any. thing I really enjoy it's molecules."

"Tell me about them, my dear.

What are molecules?"

"Oh, molecules! They are little wee things, and it takes ever so many of them. They are splendid things. Do you know, there ain't anything but what's got molecules in it. And Mr. Cook is just as sweet as he can be, and Mr. Emerson too. They explain everything so beautifully."

"How I'd like to go there!" said the Brooklyn girl, enviously.

"You'd enjoy it ever so much. They teach protoplasm, too, and if there is one thing perfectly heavenly it's protoplasm. I really don't know which I like best, protoplasm or molecules."