With a foaming glass of liquor, He wavers, but you urge him- And next I will paint a drunkard, But into that loathsome creature, I will paint the form of the mother, I will paint the shape of a coffin, The sin and the shame and the sorrow, SEWING ON A BUTTON.-THE DANBURY NEWS MAN. It is bad enough to see a bachelor sew on a button, but he is the embodiment of grace alongside of a married man. Necessity has compelled experience in the case of the former, but the latter has always depended upon some one else for -this service, and fortunately, for the sake of society, it is rarely he is obliged to resort to the needle himself. Sometimes the patient wife scalds her right hand, or runs a sliver under the nail of the index finger of that hand, and it is then the man clutches the needle around the neck, and forgetting to tie a knot in the thread commences to put on the button. It is always in the morning, and from five to twenty minutes after he is expected to be down street. He lays the button exactly on the site of its predecessor, and pushes the needle through one eye, and carefully draws the thread after, leaving about three inches of it sticking up for leeway. He says to himself, "Well, if women don't have the easiest time I ever see." Then he comes back the other way, and gets the needle through the cloth well enough, and lays himself out to find the eye, but in spite of a great deal of patient jabbing, the needle point persists in bucking against the solid parts of that button, and finally, when he loses patience, his fingers catch the thread, and that three inches he had left to hold the button slips through the eye in a twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely across the floor. He picks it up without a single remark, out of respect to his children, and makes another attempt to fasten it. This time when coming back with the needle he keeps both the thread and button from slipping by covering them with his thumb, and it is out of regard for that part of him that he feels around for the eye in a very careful and judicious manner; but eventually losing his philosophy as the search becomes more and more hopeless, he falls to jabbing about in a loose and savage manner, and it is just then the needle finds the opening, and comes up through the button and part way through his thumb with a celerity that no human ingenuity can guard against. Then he lays down the things, with a few familiar quotations, and presses the injured hand between his knees, and then holds it under the other arm, and finally jams it into his mouth, and all the while he prances about the floor and calls upon heaven and earth to witness that there has never been anything like it since the world was created, and howls, and whistles, and moans, and sobs. After awhile he calms down, and puts on his pants, and fastens them together with a stick, and goes to his business a changed man. LITTLE PAT AND THE PARSON. He stands at the door of the church peeping in, The preacher is talking of sinners and sin, A poor little fellow alone and forlorn,. The white-headed gentleman shut in the box, He scolds at the people who sit in the pews,- The parson exhorts them to think of their need, The naked to clothe, and the hungry to feed,- And when the old clergyman walks down the aisle, The kings and the princesses indignantly stare, And, shaking his silver-tipped stick in the air, But Pat's not afraid, he is sparkling with joy, The pompous old beadle may grumble and glare, But the boy who has faith in the sermon stands there, The kings and princesses may wonder and frown, But the white-headed parson looks tenderly down He takes him away without question or blame, For he thinks a good dinner (and Pat thinks the same) And after long years, when Pat handsomely drest,— Of all earthly things what's the thing he likes best? And they pinched those little infants with a view to make 'em yell; And how the mothers went for 'em I won't pretend to tell; THE FIRST PARTY.-JOSEPHINE POLLArd. Miss Annabel McCarty Was invited to a party, "Your company from four to ten," the invitation said; And the maiden was delighted To think she was invited To sit up till the hour when the big folks went to bed. The crazy little midget Ran and told the news to Bridget, Who clapped her hands, and danced a jig, to Annabel's delight, And said, with accents hearty, If ye're there yerself, me darlint! I wish it was to-night!" The great display of frilling Was positively killing; And, oh, the little booties! and the lovely sash so wide! She was altogether "stunning," And the whole McCarty family regarded her with pride. They gave minute directions, Of "sit up straight !" and "don't do this or that 'twould But, what with their caressing, And the agony of dressing, Miss Annabel McCarty didn't hear a single word. 1 There was music, there was dancing, And the sight was most entrancing, As if fairyland and floral band were holding jubilee'; There was laughing, there was pouting; There was singing, there was shouting; Miss Annabel McCarty Was the youngest at the party, And every one remarked that she was beautifully dressed; Like a doll she sat demurely On the sofa, thinking surely It would never do for her to run and frolic with the rest. The noise kept growing louder; The naughty boys would crowd her; "I think you're very rude indeed!" the little lady said; And then, without a warning, Her home instructions scorning, She screamed: "I want my supper-and I want to go to bed!" Now big folks who are older, Need not laugh at her, nor scold her, For doubtless, if the truth were known, we've often felt inclined To leave the ball or party, As did Annabel McCarty, But we hadn't half her courage and we couldn't speak our mind! -St. Nicholas. THE LAST HYMN.-MARIANNE FARNINGHAM, The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea, And then hastened to their dwellings for God's blessed boon of rest. But they looked across the waters, and a storm was raging there; A fierce spirit moved above them-the wild spirit of the air— And it lashed, and shook, and tore them till they thundered, groaned, and boomed, And, alas! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed. Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales, Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling awful tales, When the sea had spent its passion and should cast upon the shore Bits of wreck, and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore. With the rough winds blowing round her a brave woman strained her eyes, As she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise. |