Is come to say my other half
Is bit off by a shark!

"Oh, Sally, sharks do things by halves,
Yet most completely do!
Abito in one place seems enough,
But I've been bit in two.

"You know I once was all your own
But now a shark must share!
But let that pass, for now to you
I'm neither here nor there.

"Alas! 'death has a strange divorce Effected in the sea,

It has divided me from you,

And even me from me.

Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights

To haunt, as people say;

My ghost can't walk, for, oh, my legs

Are many leagues away!

"Lord! think when I am swimming round

And looking where the boat is, A shark just snaps away a half Without a quarter's notice.

"One half is here, the other half
Is near Columbia placed :
Oh, Sally, I have got the whole
Atlantic for my waist!

"But now, adieu-a long adieu !

I've solved death's awful riddle,
And would say more but I am doomed
To break off in the middle!"

NO!

HOOD.

No sun-no moon

No morn-no noon

No dawn-no dusk-no proper time of day-
No sky-no earthly view-

No distance looking blue—

No road-no street-no "t'other side the way".
No end to any Row-

No indications where the crescents go

No top to any steeple

No recognition of familiar people-
No courtesies for showing 'em-
No knowing 'em!

No travelling at all-no locomotion

No inkling of the way-no notion

No go, by land or ocean!

No mail-no post

No news from any foreign coast

No park-no ring-no afternoon gentility—

No company-no nobility—

No warmthi-no cheerfulness, no healthful ease—

No comfortable feel in any member

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!

THE SEPTEMBER GALE.

O. W. HOLMES.

I'm not a chicken! I have seen

Full many a chill September,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember.

The day before my kite string snapped,
And I my kite pursuing,

The wind whisked off my palm leaf hat;
For me two storms were brewing:
It came as quarrels often do,

When married folks get clashing;
There was a heavy sigh or two
Before the fire was flashing;
A little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder,

A little rocking of the trees,

And then came on the thunder.

Lord! how the pond and river boiled,
And how the shingles rattled!
And oaks were scattered on the ground
As if the Titans battled;

And all above was in a howl,

And all below a clatter-
The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing day,
And all our things were drying;
The storm came roaring thro' the lines,
And set them all a-flying.

I saw the skirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;
I lost-alı! bitterly I wept-
I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling thro' the air,
Alas! too late to win them;

I saw them chase the clouds as if
The devil had been in them;
They were my darlings and my pride,
My boyhood's only riches-
"Farewell, farewell!" I faintly cried,
"My breeches! O my breeches!”

That night I saw them in my dreams,

How changed from what I knew them; The dews had steeped their faded threads,

The winds had whistled through them!
I saw the wide and ghastly rents

Where demon claws had torn them;
A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years,
And tailors kind and clever;
But those young pantaloons have gone
Forever and forever!

And not till fate has cut the last
Of all my earthly stitches,

This aching heart shall cease to mourn
My loved, my long lost breeches !

THE DISAPPOINTMENT.

G. P. MORRIS.

Old Birch, who taught the village school,
Wedded a maid of homespun habit;

He was as stubborn as a mule,

While she was playful as a rabbit.

Poor Kate had scarce become a wife

Before her husband sought to make her

The pink of country polished life,

And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad,

And simple Katy sadly missed him ;
When he returned, behind her lord
She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him.

The husband's anger rose, and red

And white his face alternate grew ; "Less freedom, ma'am !" Kate sighed and said, 66 Oh, dear, I didn't know 'twas you!"

THE SICK CHILD.

PUNCH.

A weakness seizes on my mind-I would more pudding take;
But all in vain! I feel-I feel-my little head will ache.
Oh, that I might alone be left, to rest where now I am,
And finish with a piece of bread that pot of current jam!

I gaze upon the cake with tears, and wildly I deplore
That I must take a powder if I touch a morsel more;
Or oil of castor, smoothly bland, will offered be to me,
In wave pellucid, floating on a cup of milkless tea.

It may be so-I cannot tell-I yet may do without;

They need not know, when left alone, what I have been about. I long to eat that potted beef-to taste that apple pie;

I long-I long to eat some more, but have not strength to try.

I gasp for breath, and now I know I've eaten far too much;
Not one more crumb of all the feast before me can I touch.
Susan, oh, Susan, ring the bell, and call for mother dear,
My brain swims round—I feel it all—mother, your child is queer!

THE WHISTLE.

BY ROBERT STORY.

"You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood,
While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline-
"You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood?
I wish that Danish boy's whistle were mine."

"And what would you do with it? tell me," she said,
While an arch smile played over her beautiful face.
"I would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maid
Would fly to my side, and would here take her place."'

"Is that all you wish for? That may be yours
Without any magic," the fair maiden cried;