"Guidwife," quoth John, "did ye see that moose? Whar sorra was the cat?"

"A moose?" "Aye, a moose." "Na, na, guidman, It was'na a moose, 'twas a rat.”

"Ow, ow, guidwife, to think ye've been

Sae long aboot the hoose,

An' no to ken a moose frae a rat !

Yon was'na a rat! 'twas a moose."

"I've seen mair mice than you, guidman,
An' what think ye o' that?

Sa haud your tongue an say nae mair-
I tell ye, it was a rat."

"Me haud my tongue for you, guidwife!
I'll be mester o' this hoose-

I saw't as plain as een could see't,
An' I tell ye, it was a moose!"

"If you're the mester o' the hoose
It's I'm the mistress o't;

An' I ken best what's in the hoose,

Sae I tell ye, it was a rat."

"Weel, weel, guidwife, gae mak' the brose,

An' ca' it what ye please.'

So up she rose, and made the brose,

While John sat toasting his taes.

They supit, and supit, and supit the brose,
And aye their lips played smack;

They supit, and supit, and supit the brose,
Till their lugs began to crack.

"Sic fules we were to fa' oot, guidwife,
Aboot a moose—' "A what?

It's a lee ye tell, an' I say again,

It was'na a moose, 'twas a rat!"

"Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face?

My faith, but ye craw croose!

I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear't

'Twas a moose!" "'Twas a rat! "'Twas a moose!'

Wi' her spoon she strack him ower the pow→

"Ye dour auld doit, tak' that;

Gae to your bed, ye canker'd sumph—

'Twas a rat !" "'Twas a moose!" ""Twas a rat!

She sent the brose caup at his heels,

As he hirpled ben the hoose;

Yet he shoved oot his head as he steekit the door,

And cried, ""Twas a moose! 'twas a moose !"

But when the carle was fast asleep

She paid him back for that,

And roared into his sleepin' lug,

"'Twas a rat! 'twas a rat! 'twas a rat !".

The de'il be wi' me if I think

It was a beast ava !

Neist mornin', as she sweepit the fluir,

She faund wee Johnnie's ba' !

LOVE'S BELIEF.

ANONYMOUS.

I BELIEVE if I were dead,

And you should kiss my eyelids where I lie

Cold, dead and dumb to all the world contains,
The folded orbs would open at thy breath,
And, from its exile in the Isles of Death,

Life would come gladly back along my veins.

I believe if I were dead,

And you upon my lifeless heart should tread

Not knowing what the poor clod chanced to beIt would find sudden pulse beneath the touch

Of him it ever loved in life so much,

And throb again, warm, tender, true to thee.

I believe if in my grave,

Hidden in woody depths by all the waves,

Your eyes should drop some warm tears of regret,

From every salty seed of your dear grief

Some fair, sweet blossom would leap into leaf,
To prove death could not make my love forget.

I believe if I should fade

Into the mystic realms where light is made,

And you should long once more my face to see,
I would come forth upon the hills of night,
And gather stars like fagots, till thy sight,

Led by the beacon blaze, fell full on me.

I believe my love for thee

(Strong as my life) so nobly placed to be,

It could as soon expect to see the sun
Fall like a dead king from his heights sublime,
His glory stricken from the throne of Time,
As thee unworth the worship thou hast won.

I believe love, pure and true,

Is to the soul a sweet, immortal dew,

That gems life's petals in the hour of dusk.
The waiting angels see and recognize
The rich crown jewel love of Paradise,

When life falls from us like a withered husk.

TO LOVE, FORGET, AND DIE.

BY JOAQUIN MILLER.

By the populous land on the lonesome sea,

Lo! these were the gifts of the gods to men

Three miserable gifts, and only three:

To love, to forget, to die-and then?

To love in peril and in bitter sweet pain,
And then, forgotten, lie down and die:
One moment of sun, whole seasons of rain,
Then night is rolled to the door of the sky.

To love? To sit at her feet and to weep:

To climb to her face, hide your face in her hair; To nestle you there like a babe in its sleep,

And, too, like a babe, to believe-it cuts there.

To love? 'Tis to suffer. "Lie close to my breast,
Like a fair ship in haven, O darling," I cried;
"Your round arms outstretching to heaven for rest,
Make signal to death." . . . Death came, and love died.

To forget? To forget, mount horse and clutch sword,
Take ship and make sail to the ice-prisoned seas.
Write books and preach lies; range lands; or go hoard
A grave full of gold, and buy wines-and drink lees;

Then die, and die cursing, and call it a prayer!
Is earth but a top-a boy-god's delight,
To be spun for his pleasure while man's despair

Breaks out like a wall of the damned through the night?

Sit down in the darkness and weep with me

On the edge of the world. So love lies dead.
And the earth and the sky and the sky and the sea
Seem shutting together as a book that is read.

Yet what have we learned? We laughed with delight
In the morning at school, and kept toying with all
Time's silly playthings. Now, wearied ere night,
We must cry for dark-mother, her cradle the pali.

THERE'S DANGER IN THE TOWN.

BY JOHN H. YATES.

THERE, John, hitch Dobbin to the post; come near me, and sit down ;
Your mother wants to talk to you before you drive to town.
My hairs are gray, I shall soon be at rest within the grave;
Not long will mother pilot you o'er life's tempestuous wave.

I've watched o'er you from infancy, till now you are a man,
And I have always loved you, as a mother only can;
At morning and at evening I have prayed the God of love
To bless and guide my darling boy to the bright home above.
A mother's eye is searching, John-old age can't dim its sight,
When watching o'er an only child, to see if he does right:
And very lately I have seen what has aroused my fears,
And made my pillow hard at night, and moistened it with tears.

I've seen a light within your eye, upon your cheeks a glow,
That told me you are in the road that leads to shame and woe;
Oh, John, don't turn away your head and on my counsel frown,
Stay more upon the dear old farm-there's danger in the town.

Remember what the poet says-long years have proved it true-
That "Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do."
If you live on in idleness, with those who love the bowl,
You'll dig yourself a drunkard's grave, and wreck your reckless soul.

Your father, John, is growing old, his days are nearly througn,
Oh, he has labored very hard to save the farm for you;

But it will go to ruin soon, and poverty will frown
If you keep hitching Dobbin up to drive into the town.

Your prospects for the future are very bright, my son,
Not many have your start in life when they are twenty-one;
Your star that shines so brightly now, in darkness will decline
If you forget your mother's words, and tarry at the wine.

Turn back, my boy, in your youth, stay by the dear old farm ; The Lord of Hosts will save you with His powerful right arm; Not long will mother pilot you o'er life's tempestuous wave, Then light her pathway with your love down to the silent grave.

IRISH ASTRONOMY.

BY CHARLES G. HALPINE.

A veritable myth, touching the constellation of O'Ryan, ignorantly and falsely spelled Orion.

O'RYAN was a man of might

Whin Ireland was a nation,
But poachin' was his heart's delight

And constant occupation.

He had an ould militia gun,

And sartin sure his aim was;
He gave the keepers many a run,
And wouldn't mind the game laws.

St. Pathrick wanst was passin' by
O'Ryan's little houldin',

And as the saint felt wake and dhry,
He thought he'd enther bould in;
"O'Ryan," says the saint, "avick!
To praich at Thurles I'm goin';
So let me have a rasher, quick,
And a dhrop of Innishowen."

"No rasher will I cook for you
While betther is to spare, sir;
But here's a jug of mountain dew,
And there's a rattlin' hare, sir."
St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet,
And says he, "Good luck attind you,
And when you're in your windin' sheet
It's up to heaven I'll sind you."

O'Ryan gave his pipe a whiff

"Them tidin's is thransportin',
But may I ax your saintship if

There's any kind of sportin'?"
St. Pathrick said, "A Lion's there,
Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer"-
"Bedad," says Mick, "the huntin's rare,
St. Pathrick, I'm your man, sir!"