Not many days thereafter, Squibbs
With dignity arose,

And clad his dignity and limbs
All in his Sunday clothes;

For Squibbs was bid to scenes of mirth
All in ye distant town,

And merrily he cut his pen

To note ye doings down.

And while he viewed his toilette o'er,
All by a luckless chance,

He hit upon ye stolen pass,

Safe in his Sunday pants.

With lofty air Squibbs gave ye pass
Unto ye ticket man:

"Eureka!" muttered he, and turned
Ye face of Squibbs to scan.

Then, with a flaming lantern, sore,
He smote Squibbs on ye head;
Three bloody brakemen then he called,
Who bore him out as dead.

Upon ye lordly Squibbs then sat
Three brakemen, great and small,
Ye while ye wrathful ticket man
His clothes did overhaul.

They found a pass on every road
That runs ye world around;

They bound him fast, and swore they had
Ye king of pass-thieves found.

His freedom was at last restored;

His dignity, alas,

Was wrecked! and even to this day

Squibbs won't ride on a pass.

CASSIUS AGAINST CÆSAR.-SHAKSPEARE.

I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,
As well as I do know your outward favor.
Well, honor is the subject of my story.-
I cannot tell what you and other men

Think of this life; but, for my single self,
I had as lief not be, as live to be

In awe of such a thing as I myself.

I was born free as Cæsar; so were you:
We both have fed as well; and we can both
Endure the winter's cold as well as he:
For once, upon a raw and gusty day,
The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores,
Caesar said to me, "Dar'st thou, Cassius, now
Leap in with me into this angry flood,

And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word,
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,

And bade him follow: so, indeed, he did.
The torrent roared; and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews, throwing it aside,

And stemming it, with hearts of controversy:
But ere we could arrive the point proposed,
Cæsar cried, "Help me, Cassius, or I sink!"
I, as Eneas, our great ancestor,

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder
The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber
Did I the tired Cæsar, and this man

Is now become a god; and Cassius is

A wretched creature, and must bend his body
If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him.

He had a fever when he was in Spain,

And, when the fit was on him, I did mark

How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake:
His coward lips did from their color fly;

And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world,
Did lose his lustre: I did hear him groan:

Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried, "Give me some drink, Titinius,"

As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,

A man of such a feeble temper should

So get the start of the majestic world,

And bear the palm alone.

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world,
Like a Colossus; and we petty men

Walk under his huge legs, and

peep about

To find ourselves dishonorable graves.

Men at some time are masters of their fates:

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Brutus, and Cæsar: what should be in that Cæsar?

Why should that name be sounded more than yours?
Write them together, yours is as fair a name;

Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;
Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with them,

Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cæsar.
Now in the names of all the gods at once,
Upon what meat doth this our Cæsar feed,
That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed!
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!
When went there by an age, since the great flood,
But it was famed with more than with one man?
When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome,
That her wide walks encompassed but one man?
Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough,
When there is in it but one only man.

Oh, you and I have heard our fathers say,

There was a Brutus once, that would have brooked
Th' eternal devil to keep his state in Rome,
As easily as a king.

THE EXILE TO HIS WIFE.-JOE BRENNAN.

Come to me, darling, I'm lonely without thee;
Day-time and night-time I'm dreaming about thee;
Night-time and day-time in dreams I behold thee,
Unwelcome the waking that ceases to fold thee.
Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten;
Come in thy beauty, to bless and to brighten;
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly;
Come in thy loveliness, queenly and holy.

Swallows shall flit round the desolate ruin,
Telling of Spring and its joyous renewing;
And thoughts of thy love and its manifest treasure
Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure;
O Spring of my heart! O May of my bosom!
Shine out on my soul till it burgeon and blossom.
The waste of my life has a rose-root within it,
And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it.

Figure which moves like a song through the even,
Features lit up with a reflex of Heaven,
Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother,
Where sunshine and shadow are chasing each other;
Smiles coming seldom, but child-like and simple;
And opening their eyes from the heart of a dimple;
Oh! thanks to the Saviour that even the seeming
Is left to the exile, to brighten his dreaming.

You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened;
Dear, are you sad to hear I am saddened?

Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love,
As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love;
I cannot smile but your cheeks will be glowing;
You cannot weep but my tears will be flowing;
You will not linger when I shall have died, love,
And I could not live without you at my side, love.

Come to me, darling, ere I die of my sorrow;
h.se on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow;

Come swift and strong as the words which I speak, love,
With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love;
Come, for my heart in your absence is dreary;
Haste, for my spirit is sickened and weary;

Come to the arms which alone shall caress thee;
Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee.

LET EVERY ONE SWEEP BEFORE HIS OWN
DOOR.-A PARAPHRASE.

Do we heed the homely adage, handed down from days of yore?

"Ere you sweep your neighbor's dwelling, clear the rubbish from your door."

Let no filth, no rust there gather, leave no traces of decay,Pluck up every weed unsightly, brush the fallen leaves away!

If we faithfully have labored thus to sweep without, with in,

Plucked up envy, evil-speaking, malice, each besetting sin,Weeds that by the sacred portals of the inner temple grow,— Poisonous weeds the heart defiling, bearing bitterness and woe;

Then, perchance, we may have leisure o'er our neighbor watch to keep;

All the work assigned us finished, we before his door may sweep;

Show him where the mosses clinging, tokens ever of decay, Where the thistles, thickly springing, daily must be cleared away.

But, alas! our work neglecting, oft we mount the judgment seat,

With his failings, his omissions, we our weary brother greet;

In some hidden nook forgotten, searching with a careful

eye,

We the springing weeds discover—some slight blemish there descry.

For his slothfulness, his blindness, we our brother harshly chide,

Glorying in our strength and wisdom, we condemn him in our pride;

Ask not why he has neglected thus before his door to sweep, Why, grown careless, he has slumbered, failed his gardenplot to keep.

On the judgment seat still sitting, we no helping hand extend

To assist our weaker brother his short-comings to amend; For his weariness, his faltering, we no sweet compassion show

From our store no cordial bring him, no encouragement bestow.

But, while busied with our neighbor, urging him to ceaseless

care

Calling to the thoughtless idlers, to their labor to repair,
Lo! unseen the dust has gathered, weeds are growing where

of yore

Flow'rets rare and sweet were blooming when we swept before our door.

Ah! how easy o'er our brother faithful ward and watch to keep;

But, alas! before our dwelling hard indeed to daily sweep; Harder than to share the conflict, "by the stuff" at home to stay,

Easier far to sit in judgment than to humbly watch and pray.

PATRICK O'ROUKE AND THE FROGS. A COLD WATER STORY.-GEORGE W. BUNGAY.

Saint Patrick did a vast deal of good in his day; he not only drove the snakes out of Ireland, but he also drove away the frogs at least I judge so from the fact that Patrick O' Rouke was unfamiliar with the voices of these noisy hydro