THE TWO MICE.

117

country. The invitation was accepted, and one day the city mouse came on the Batavia 'bus. He was dressed in the height of fashion, with tight pants, a plug hat, and a walking-stick. The country mouse, though plain and rough, and somewhat frugal in his nature, opened his heart and store in honor of hospitality and an old friend. He brought forth from his larder peas, barley, and some choice varieties of old cheese-rinds that he had laid away against a rainy day. The town mouse condescended to pick a bit here and there, and finally, lighting his meerschaum, he exclaimed: "How is it, my friend, that you can endure this unpolished life? On my honor, you are wasting your time miserably. No billiards, no operas, no balls, no music, not even a beer-garden. We must make the most of life while it lasts. Come with me and I will show you life and the town." So the country mouse put on his store-clothes and accompanied his friend to the city.

It was nearly midnight when they crept stealthily into the great house where the town mouse took up his quarters. There was furniture of the most gorgeous description, and on a table the remains of a splendid banquet. "How's this?" said the town mouse, handing his astonished friend a bill of fare; "call for anything you want and you shall have it." And the country mouse, adjusting his iron-rimmed spectacles on his nose, was quite confused with the strange dishes that were presented. He was fain to beseech his friend to choose for him; so the town mouse brought him dish upon dish, and dainty upon dainty, until the country mouse thought with contempt of his poor fare at home, and blessed the good fortune that brought him to the city. Of a sudden the doors flew open and a party of revellers, who had returned from a ball over the Rhine, burst into the room. The affrighted friends jumped from the table in great consternation (frightening one of the revellers who thought he had got 'em!") and hid in the nearest corner they could reach.

Whenever they attempted to creep out, a black-and-tan dog would drive them back again, and if they tried to go to sleep, they were constantly awakened by the loud songs of the revellers. At length, when the party, filled with wine, had all fallen asleep under the table-except the owner of the black-and-tan, who had gone away with his dog-the country mouse stole out from his hiding-place, and bade his friend good-by, saying: "This high living may agree with some, but it don't with me. Give me barley, bread, and a well-ordered state of society, in preference tc dainty fare, where fear, care, and a black-and-tan dog are in waiting.'

And the country mouse was right.

THE POPULAR CREED.-Anon.

Dimes and dollars! dollars and dimes!
An empty pocket's the worst of crimes!
If a man goes down, give him a thrust-
Trample a beggar into the dust.
Presumptuous poverty's quite appalling-
Knock him over! kick him for falling!
If a man's up, ah! lift him higher!
Your soul's for sale, and he's the buyer.
Dimes and dollars! dollars and dimes!
An empty pocket's the worst of crimes!

I know a poor and worthy youth,
Whose hopes are built on a maiden's truth;
But the maiden will break her vow with ease,
For a wooer cometh whose charms are these
A hollow heart and an empty head,
And a face well tinged with brandy's red;
A soul well trained in villany's school,
And cash, sweet cash-he knoweth the rule;
Dimes and dollars! dollars and dimes!
An empty pocket's the worst of crimes!

I knew a bold but honest man,
Who strove to live on a prudent plan!
But poor he is and poor will be-
A scorned and hated thing is he.
At home he meeteth a starving wife,
Abroad he leadeth a leper's life.
They struggle against most fearful odds,
Who will not bow to the people's gods.

Dimes and dollars! dollars and dimes!
An empty pocket's the worst of crimes!

So get your wealth, no matter how !
No questions asked of the rich, I trow;
Steal by night and steal by day
(Doing all in a legal way);

Join the church, and ne'er forsake her;
Learn to cant, and insult your Maker;
Be hypocrite, liar, knave, and fool,
But don't be poor-remember the rule;
Dimes and dollars! dollars and dimes!
An empty pocket's the worst of crimes !

PEOPLE WILL TALK.-Anon.

We may get through the world, but 'twill be very slow,
If we listen to all that is said as we go;

We'll be worried and fretted and kept in a stew,
For meddlesome tongues must have something to do-
For people will talk, you know.

If quiet and modest, you'll have it presumed

That your humble position is only assumed;

You're a wolf in sheep's clothing, or you're a fool;

But don't get excited, keep perfectly cool

For people will talk, you know.

CRABBED FOLKS.

If generous and noble, they'll vent their spleen;

You'll hear some loud hints that you're selfish and mean.
If upright and honest and fair as the day,

They'll call you a rogue in a sly, sneakish way

For people will talk, you know.

And then, if you show the least boldness of heart,
Or a slight inclination to take your own part,
They'll call you an upstart, conceited, or vain ;
But keep straight ahead, don't stop to explain-
For people will talk, you know.

If threadbare your coat, old-fashioned your hat,
Some one, of course, will take notice of that,
And hint rather strong that you can't pay your way;
But don't get excited, whatever they say-

For people will talk, you know.

If you dress in the fashion, don't think to escape;
For they'll criticise then in a different shape.

You're ahead of your means, or the tailor's unpaid;
But mind your own business, there's naught to be said-
For people will talk, you know.

If a fellow but chance to converse with a girl,
How the gossip will talk, and the scandal unfurl;
They'll canvass your wants or talk of your means,
And say you're engaged to a chit in her teens-
For people will talk, you know.

They'll talk fine before you; but then, at your back,
Of venom and slander there's never a lack.

How kind and polite is all that they say,

But bitter as gall when they're out of the way-
For people will talk, you know.

The best way to do is to do as you please,

For your mind, if you have one, will then be at ease;

Of course you'll meet with all sorts of abuse,

But don't think to stop them, 'twill be of no use

For people will talk, you know.

119

CRABBED FOLKS.-T. De Witt Talmage.

Of all the ills that flesh is heir to, a cross, crabbed, ill-contented man is the most unendurable, because the most inexcusable. No occasion, no matter how trifling, is permitted to pass without eliciting his dissent, his sneer, or his growl. His good and patient wife never yet prepared a dinner that he liked. One day she prepares a dish that she thinks will particularly please him. He comes in the front door, and says, "Whew! whew! what have you got in the house? Now, my dear, you know that I never did like codfish." Some evening, resolving to be especially gracious, he starts with his family to a place of amusement. scolds the most of the way. He cannot afford the time or the money, and he does not believe the entertainment will be much,

He

after all. The music begins. The audience are thrilled. The orchestra, with polished instruments, warble and weep, and thunder and pray, and all the sweet sounds of the world flowering upon the strings of the bass viol, and wreathing the flageolets, and breathing from the lips of the cornet, and shaking their flower-bells upon the tinkling tambourine.

He sits motionless and disgusted. He goes home, saying, "Did you see that fat musician that got so red_blowing that French horn? He looked like a stuffed toad. Did you ever hear such a voice as that lady has? Why! it was a perfect squawk! The evening was wasted." And his companion says, Why, my dear!"-" There, you needn't tell me you are pleased with everything. But never ask me to go again!" He goes to church. Perhaps the sermon is didactic and argumentative. He yawns. He gapes. He twists himself in his pew, and

Did

pretends he is asleep, and says, "I could not keep awake. you ever hear anything so dead? Can these dry bones live?" Next Sabbath he enters a church where the minister is much He says,

given to illustration. He is still more displeased. "How dare that man bring such every-day things into his pulpit? He ought to have brought his illustrations from the cedar of Lebanon and the fir-tree, instead of the hickory and sassafras. He ought to have spoken of the Euphrates and the Jordan, and not of the Kennebec and Schuylkill. He ought to have mentioned Mount Gerizim instead of the Catskills. Why, he ought to be disciplined. Why, it is ridiculous." Perhaps, afterward, he joins the church. Then the church will have its hands full. He growls and groans and whines all the way up toward the gate of heaven. He wishes that the choir would sing differently, that the minister would preach differently, that the elders would pray differently. In the morning, he said "the church was as cold as Greenland; in the evening, "it was hot as blazes." They painted the church; he didn't like the color. They carpeted the aisles; he didn't like the figure. They put in a new furnace; he didn't like the patent. He wriggles and squirms, and frets and stews, and worries himself. He is like a horse that, prancing and uneasy to the bit, worries himself into a lather of foam, while the horse hitched beside him just pulls straight ahead, makes no fuss, and comes to his oats in peace. Like a hedge-hog, he is all quills. Like a crab, that you know always goes the other way, and moves backward in order to go forward, and turns in four directions all at once, and the first you know of his whereabouts you have missed him, and when he is completely lost he has gone by the heel-so that the first thing you know you don't know anything-and while you expected to catch the crab, the crab catches you.

So some men are crabbed-all hard-shell and obstinacy and

WOMAN AS SHE IS.

121

opposition. I do not see how he is to get into heaven, unless he goes in backward, and then there will be danger that at the gate he will try to pick a quarrel with St. Peter. Once in, I fear he will not like the music, and the services will be too long, and that he will spend the first two or three years in trying to find out whether the wall of heaven is exactly plumb. Let us stand off from such tendencies. Listen for sweet notes rather than for discords, picking up marigolds and harebells in preference to thistles and coloquintida, culturing thyme and anemones rather than nightshade. And in a world where God hath put exquisite tinge upon the shells washed in the surf, and planted a paradise of bloom in the child's cheek, and adorned the pillars of the rock by hanging tapestry of morning mist, the lark saying, “I will sing soprano," and the cascade replying, "I will carry the bass," let us leave it to the owl to hoot, and the frog to croak, and the beast to growl, and the grumbler to find fault.

WOMAN AS SHE IS.--Punch.

It seems strange, my friends, that the right of women to vote for members of Parliament is asserted and advocated principally by Mr. Mill. Mr. Mill's specialty is logic: he therefore, of all men, might be expected to discern the reason which unfits the female sex to exercise the elective franchise. And what is that? My friends, in many things women are cleverer than men. They have intuitions which transcend reason. But that same reason is the one thing needful for the free and independent voter. No reason, no vote! Now, the fact is, that women, wonderful as many of their endowments are, women in general are not endowed with reason.

Undoubtedly there are a few women possessed of reasoning powers a very few. They correspond to men of special genius. The ordinary woman is actuated by instinct-sentimental instinct, but still, instinct. It is usual to say of such an one that she has a will of her own. This is true, my friends, in one sense, and false in another. Will means inclination. In this sense women have a very strong will indeed. Will also means volition. Of this the majority of them have almost none at all. Try them; make the experiment upon any one even who is a rather uncommonly sensible woman. Complain to her of any objectionable fashion. She may assent to all you say; but she will follow the fashion. She will follow it as long as it lasts. If you exhort a woman to discontinue anything whatever which fashion prescribes, you will generally find you might as well talk to a cat. You will get attended to as much as you would if you endeavored to persuade a tortoiseshell to be a tabby. My friends, there is something in the consti