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And back on to her nest I flings her;
And then I snaps her on the head,
And tells her: Sit there, you old jade!'
But sit she won't, for all I say,
She's up again and runs away.
Then I was mad, as mad as fire;
But once again I thought I'd try her.
So after her I soon makes chase,
And brings her back to the old place.
And then I snaps her a great deal,
And does my best to make her feel
That she must do as she was bid ;
But not a bit of it she did.
She was the most contrariest bird
Of which I ever saw or heard,
Before I'd turned my back again,
Was running off that cursed hen.
Thinks I, I'm now a' used-up' man :
I must adopt some other plan.
I'll fix her now, for if I don't,
My will is conquered by her won't!
So then I goes and gets some blocks,
And with them makes a little box;
And takes some straw, the very best,
And makes the nicest kind of nest.
Then in the nest the eggs I place,
And feel a smile upon my face
As I thinks, now at last I've got her,
When in this little box I've sot her;
For to this little box I did
Consider I must have a lid;
So that she could n't get away,
But in it, till she hatched, must stay.
And then again once more I chase her,
And catch, and in the box I place her.
Again I snaps her on the head,
Until I feared she might be dead;
And then, when I had made her sit down,
Immediately. I claps the lid on.
And now, thinks I, I've got her fast,
She'll have to do her work at last.
No longer shall I stand the brunt
Of this old hen's confounded won't!
So I goes in and tells mine folks,
And then I takes mine pipe and smokes,
And walks about and feels so good
That would n't' yields at length to 'would.'
And as so oft I'd snapped the hen,
1 take some 'schnapps' myself, and then
I thought I'd see how the old crettur
Was getting on where I had set her;
The lid, the box so nicely fits on,
I gently raised - dunder and blitzen !-
(Give me more schnapps and fill the cup !)
There she was sitting --standing up!'

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Slowly your cheeks are flushing, blushing, glowing,

Slowly you raise to mine those wondrous eyes,
Which like young fountains fresh from ice-bonds flowing,

Borrow new glory from the sun-lit skies.
Soon may those eyes with rapid fires be flashing!

Soon may they dart to mine with burning gleam !
And the wild foods of Love go onward dashing,

While a whole heaven is mirrored in the stream! Mirrored, but fractured. For all earthly pleasure

Is Heaven's glass broken by Passion's storm. Well, be it so! There is no use in treasure,

Until the ingot takes a lesser form.

READER, 'we crave your eye,' that it may be cast over the strange affinities which are

opal-led' in the following poem. They who contend that flutenotes are blue, and the scent of sandal-wood like the tone of an Arab harp, will find something racy in its grotesqueness :

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She sailed across the night! How vain

Is all the fairy-land, the past !
Dear nature woos me once again,

With dreams in pure effulgence cast.
But ah! this lyre the memory brings,

Of twilights when we passed along;
And deemed the stars the silver strings,

In God's eternal harp of song.
Each tendril with its calyx blows,

To her sweet rapture would impart:
Perchance the soul of some dead rose,

Held fragrant converse with her heart.
She called all flowers the petaled notes

Of lost strains, in a perfume choir,
Whose music in rich odor floats;

And thought the fields the emerald lyre.

But 'gainst a room's unopened door,

Its memories all too fair to last,
I place my silent harp once more,

Which woke such echoes from the past.
And gazing o'er the view, where springs

Are down a deep ravine unfurled,
The rivers seem the liquid strings,

Atuned on this vast, harp-like world.

The sun-set is a jacinth lyre,

With chords of opal rays of light,
Whose melody in strains of fire,

Dies on the twilight breast of night.
And she whose being caused the years

In 'wildering sweetness to depart,
Now like a voiceless harp appears ;

But is the sunset of my heart.

All hearts are harps whose ardent notes,

Full oft in swelling numbers roll
Whose music o'er each fancy floats,

And is the feeling of the soul.
All hearts are harps whose cadence clings;

And none are wholly desolate,
Until alas! the golden strings

Are swept by some cold hand of Fate.


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THERE be strange fellows extant in this breathing world, who, when Bacchus has fired their veins, do play strange pranks among the movables.' Of such was the ancient JOSEPH, who is thus anecdoted by a friend: “There is a story told of old Dan B who used to go over of an evening to the tavern across the way and do a little soaking.' His wife would often come and send him off home. One night he was all arms and legs,' and she could do nothing with him, so she went home alone and hid away all the lights in the house, to puzzle the old man. Dan poked in, swearing and tumbling, with just sense enough left to discover what a trick had been played on him, and to guess its author. “Joe,' said he, bawling up-stairs to the hired man in the third story, 'get up and dress yourself and come down here.' Joe appeared in reasonably quick time. “Now you, Joe, go down cellar and fetch up a box of candles. By , we're going to have an illumination in this house!' It was n't long before every single window had its quota of candles, and old Dan had light enough to go to bed by.' 'Very naturally.' - THESE be 'turkey times' when the voice of the raffle is heard in the land, and when the boys' tell merry tales of the days when we went turkey-ing a long time ago. Therefore, a friend hath pleased us 'somedele' with the following: 'A fellow living in the town of M -n, Connecticut -- not over-valued by the community for his honesty — stole a turkey from a farm-yard some twenty miles distant from his residence. The proprietor of the turkey being 'up,' mounted his horse, pursued and overtook him just as he reached home, and informed him that he, the owner, had a 'stated' price for his turkeys- sixty dollars apiece — and that he could make immediate payment, or go before Justice B Payment was immediately made, the new owner .coolly remarking : 'It is a d-d good turkey, but it is n't worth sixty dollars, though — least it would n't be down our way.' That is, KNICK presumes, what is popularly termed “talking turkey.

To our Philadelphia friend, whose fair hand of write' doth good unto eyes editorial and typographic, we return thanks for his memory of us and of KNICK. But listen :

'FLYWHEEL was an acute trader; so, at least, he thought himself, whose forte was dealing in patent rights. After some years of itinerant vending, he conceived the design of exchanging the remainder of his 'inventions' for 'a nice little farm,' on which he might crown 'a youth of labor with an age of ease ;' and, when not busy expatiating upon the merits of improved boot-jacks' or 'baby-jumpers,' he would often, by anticipation, enjoy the comforts of such a possession.

“One day he met with an innocent-looking farmer from New-Hampshire, who intimated a willingness to change his occupation if he could obtain an equivalent for his farm, which he described as “high land in a wholesome locality,' with other apparently attractive qualities. 'In short,' said Mr. SINGECAT, the owner, 'a man might raise any thing on it.'

“Now, thought FLYWHEEL, “if I can only induce my friend to go into the patent jine, and get him to take my stock of documents and models in exchange for his place, it will be a glorious trade.' So, suggesting the subject in his most persuasive manner, dwelling strongly upon the profit of the business to a thorough-going man, which,' says he insinuatingly, 'I perceive you are, Mr. SINGECAT,' and earnestly declaring that 'nothing but a desire retire to a country life would tempt him to propose such a sacrifice of his own articles ;' his talk and tact, after considerable chaffering about 'boot,' etc., were effective, and a barter was concluded.

Now, FLYWHEEL valued himself as an infallible physiognomist, and knew he could tell an honest man at first sight: therefore, waiving the delay necessary for an examination of the title and property, the respective transfers were immediately made; when, pocketing his deed, he went home well pleased at having done such a 'good thing.' Of course, he told a few friendly neighbors all about it; not omitting some self-complacent remarks relative to the cutting of eye-teeth,' concerning “a man being posted,' and so forth. By-and-by he set out to see his new homestead;' but soon returned with, it was observed, a diminished flow of spirits. Time passed ; and as he had not moved to his country-seat,' but had instead quite subsided upon the topic of agriculture, which had hitherto been his special theme, his friends began to ask the reason why. At last he yielded to their importunity and thus confessed : Well, gentlemen, I hired a guide to point it out to me, and went to look at my estate. The approach to the premises was rather rough, but romantic. At length we reached a spot comprising less than a hundred acres of barren heights, almost inaccessible to a goat — and this was the farm ! Nearly a perpendicular one, Sirs. Egad, I needed a long ladder with which to get on my own ground!

"After dolefully viewing the crops’- of stone, alas ! which completely clothed the prolific soil, slightly moralizing upon the folly of buying a pig in a poke,' and estimating the money value of what I had given for this elevated tract, I recalled SINGECAT'S saying, when with seeming reluctance he agreed to a 'trade,' that “a man might raise any thing on it !' And upon reflection, I had to admit that, even supposing superphosphates were powerless, and 'ARCHIMEDES' lever' unattainable, still a man might, at least, "upon a pinch,' if his talent were only fair, as he himself had done — cunningly raise the wind.')

The moral whereof is as follows:

*This experience of FLYWHEEL — told to me by an old companion - proves that one should never be too anxious to go it blind' in any transaction. Even that infatuating and paradoxical game ycleped 'poker,' in which, it is said, men sometimes see each other better 'after 'going blind,' has its uncertainties; for it is well known that those who go in to win' with great expectations, frequently come out,' refusing to be comforted.'

Friend C , your conclusion expresseth our sentiments exactly. In the language of the Archon in WIELAND his ‘Democritus,' it is 'a fine moral, gentle- an exceeding fine moral.'

Is there not something sweetly sad' in the following passages from an old letter ?' says a long-cherished correspondent of Old Knick. “She who wrote it, he to whom it was written, yes, all of them and theirs,' have long since 'floated down the river' into the star-land of eternity, 'where the pure dwellers are. As we copy from the yellow leaves, tracing the delicate Italian hand-writing, now so faded, we wonder if she who penned it now hovers in the spirit not far away and notes the past. For there was a strange theory, not yet forgotten among those who fol


low darkened lore,' that somewhat of the soul always passed into the writing, and that it was one of the strongest means to evoke the dead. But to the letter : · DEAR ROBIN:

' As I lay this Morning, calm and still, gazing through the Window at the red Morning rising against the gloom, it seemed to me that the two last Stars left in the Heaven were my own Eyes, looking toward me and calling me far away into that other World. Then tenderer and sweeter Thoughts stole over me. They seemed the glance, so steady yet so loving, of my Guardian Angel who had been watching me in Sleep and waiting till I should come to him. They were thousands and thousands of Miles away, and yet seemed so near, as if looking closely into my soul. Is it not so with God, who is, as we dream away in His Glory, far and yet so near to all who love him?

'Dear Heart, my own Robin, they tell me I have not long to live. I watch the Jesamine and the Rose on the Window-sill as one looks to a Guest who has not long to stay, for I shall never see them blossom again. Sometimes I sing to them — faintly and weakly enough, as you know I must. Before they bloom again, I shall be, shall I be ? in a land where the Roses never fade, where my Voice will be such as no Voice ever was before, and where the Flowers, too, will have Voices and sing again to me, and where we shall all sing together eternally the praises of our infinite CREATOR.

* Dear Robin, I sometimes hear Aunt JEANET playing on her Harpsichord, and wonder if this or that Tune will ever be heard by me again. And I often say, when a Visitor comes, Will I ever see her again ?' Yesterday Afternoon, when they were baking the Cakes, which I ate with such relish once, I began to think if I should ever smell them once more. But my sweet Heart, Robin, these Thoughts are always the Prolog to a sad Play, for I know when they come that I shall presently think of you, and if God will give me again to see you. You must kiss me once more, Robin, before Death comes to fetch me to that Sky where the Eyes looked at me this Morning; good Robin, do not cry. Some day you will come to me there. It may seem a long time off, as the Stars seem far away, but Love and God can make them very near, and when you are mine forever, you will say it was but a Minute. * Bring Mary when you come, and the old BIBLE. I wish to hear reading from it once

Do not think it foolish that I would like to see the Silver Flagon. You said I should drink Wine from it when we were married. I shall never drink any more Wine, dear, but I want to see the Flagon which Father left me.



'I have counted the ticking of the Clock for many days, but I am not counting away my Life on it, dear Robin, but only the Minutes, till you come.' So all life vanisheth“ like a dream.'

WE were deceived by a wonderful resemblance in the 'hand-of-write,' into attributing the epistle • To the Editur uv the Nikerbokker Maggazeen,' to our esteemed friend K. N. PepPER, Esq. The article in question was not the production of that gentle

THE lecture-lists for the season are by this time generally full. Those societies in whose rôles vacancies may occur, are hereby respectfully informed that our contributor WILLIAM WIRT SIKES is open to a call, and fully capable of instructing or amusing an audience, as well as some other men,' as old California Adams was wont to remark of the shooting of a first-class rifleman of his friendship.

And here KNICK must pause, not for want of words, but of room wherein to stow them. When another hour of the great clock of the year, as it is kept by the disciples of George Fox, shall have struck, we will be with you again.

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