south From Jethro, at Nagumscot river-mouth, A seaport town, and makes its title good With lumber and dried fish and eastern wood.

Here Deacon Bitters dwelt and kept the Store,

The richest man for many a mile of shore ;

In little less than everything dealt he,
From meeting-houses to a chest of tea;
So dextrous therewithal a flint to skin,
He could make profit on a single pin;
In business strict, to bring the balance

hear,

With folks that never love a thing but dollars.

He pulled up stakes last evening, fair and square,

And ever since there 's been a row Down There.

The minute the old chap arrived, you see, Comes the Boss-devil to him, and says he,

1 fear;

He'd a high-stepper always in his stall; Liked far and near, and dreaded therewithal.

To him the in-comer, 'Perez, how d' ye do?'

'Jest as I'm mind to, Obed; how do you?'

Then, his eyes twinkling such swift gleams as run

Along the levelled barrel of a gun Brought to his shoulder by a man you know

Will bring his game down, he continued, 'So,

I s'pose you're haulin' wood? But you 're too late ;

The Deacon's off; Old Splitfoot could n't wait;

He made a bee-line las' night in the storm To where he won't need wood to keep him warm.

where you be;

You can't go in athout a pass from me." "All right," says t' other, "only step round smart ;

I must be home by noon-time with the cart."

Bitters goes round it sharp-eyed as a rat, Then with a scrap of paper on his hat Pretends to cipher. "By the public staff, That load scarce rises twelve foot and a half."

"There's fourteen foot and over," says the driver,

"Worth twenty dollars, ef it's worth a stiver;

Good fourth-proof brimstone, that 'll make 'em squirm,

I leave it to the Headman of the Firm;
After we masure it, we always lay
Some on to allow for settlin' by the way.
Imp and full-grown, I've carted sulphur

here,

And gi'n fair satisfaction, thirty year."

crowd,

And afore long the Boss, who heard the

Ezra is gone and his large-hearted kind, The landlords of the hospitable mind; Good Warriner of Springfield was the last;

An inn is now a vision of the past; One yet-surviving host my mind recalls,

You'll find him if you go to Trenton Falls."

THE ORIGIN OF DIDACTIC POETRY.

WHEN wise Minerva still was young
And just the least romantic,
Soon after from Jove's head she flung
That preternatural antic,
'Tis said, to keep from idleness

Or flirting, those twin curses,
She spent her leisure, more or less,
In writing po, no, verses.

How nice they were! to rhyme with far A kind star did not tarry;

The metre, too, was regular

As schoolboy's dot and carry ;
And full they were of pious plums,
So extra-super-moral,
For sucking Virtue's tender gums
Most tooth-enticing coral.

A clean, fair copy she prepares,
Makes sure of moods and tenses,
With her own hand, for prudence

spares

A man- (or woman-) -uensis; Complete, and tied with ribbons proud, She hinted soon how cosy a Treat it would be to read them loud

After next day's Ambrosia.

The Gods thought not it would amuse
So much as Homer's Odyssees,
But could not very well refuse
The properest of Goddesses:
So all sat round in attitudes
Of various dejection,

As with a hem! the queen of prudes
Began her grave prelection.

At the first pause Zeus said, “Well sung!

I mean- - ask Phoebus, - he knows." Says Phoebus," Zounds! a wolf's among Admetus's merinos!

Fine! very fine! but I must go ;

They stand in need of me there;

Excuse me !" snatched his stick, and so Plunged down the gladdened ether.

With the next gap, Mars said, "For me
Don't wait, naught could be finer,
But I'm engaged at half past three,
A fight in Asia Minor!
Then Venus lisped, "I'm sorely tried,
These duty-calls are vip'rous;
But I must go; I have a bride
To see about in Cyprus."

Then Bacchus, "I must say good bye,
Although my peace it jeopards;
I meet a man at four, to try

A well-broke pair of leopards."
His words woke Hermes. "Ah!" he said,
"I so love moral theses!"
Then winked at Hebe, who turned red,
And smoothed her apron's creases.

Just then Zeus snored, the Eagle drew
His head the wing from under;
Zeus snored, o'er startled Greece there
flew

The many-volumed thunder.
Some augurs counted nine, some, ten;
Some said 't was war, some, famine,
And all, that other-minded men
Would get a precious

Proud Pallas sighed, "It will not do;
Against the Muze I've sinned, oh!"
And her torn rhymes sent flying through
Olympus's back window.

Then, packing up a peplus clean,

She took the shortest path thence,
And opened, with a mind serene,
A Sunday-school in Athens.

The verses? Some in ocean swilled,
Killed every fish that bit to 'em;
Some Galen caught, and, when distilled,
Found morphine the residuum;
But some that rotted on the earth
Sprang up again in copies,
And gave two strong narcotics birth,
Didactic verse and poppies.

Years after, when a poet asked

The Goddess's opinion,

As one whose soul its wings had tasked
In Art's clear-aired dominion,
"Discriminate," she said, "betimes;
The Muse is unforgiving;
Put all your beauty in your rhymes,
Your morals in your living."