A ferry-poat yoost loaded vas tree-four feet vrom der schlip-
I had zo liddle dime to schpare, I gould not lose dat trip.
Und zo I run mit all mine strengt' und gif a mighty schump!
Vot say you? Miss it? Ach! not zo! I landet all kaflump.
I schtruck a pird-gage, und mine veight vas too much, on mine vord:
It crush it flatter denn mine hat, und kilt dat liddle pird.
Und denn against die gabin-door I rollt und schmasht it t'rough -
I neffer, neffer zaw die vay dose proken klasses flew !
Zwei purly teck-hants krapt me, und, t'inking me inzane,
Pegan to bound me mit deir fists mit all deir might und main.
I lose mine demper, I gonfess, und knockt dose zwei men down;
I do teclare I vas in troot der angr'est man in town.
Die voman of der pird-gage she game und zaid I'd bay
For gilling of her liddle pird, before I vent avay.
Der gaptain of der ferry-poat he game und schvore profane,
Und dolt me I must go to schail or mend dat proken pane.
Die teck-hants schrampled to deir veet, und schoutet to egsplain:
I moss pe trunk pecause I run und gif dat fearful leap,
Und lantet on der pird-gage in such a glumsy heap.
Und zo to schpare more droupple, I dakes mine roll of pills,
Und hands den tollars to der frau whose liddle pird I gills.
I gifs den tollars to dose men whose nose I make to pleed
(Mine frau, she dells me aftervords I bay more as vas need)
Und I gifs der gaptain twenty-von to mend dat proken door-
Ach! 't vas a gostly trip I had, und I schpoilt die glose I vore.
Und denn as I did look me round, die beoples all did krin:
"Vat vas die hurry?" zo dey ask, "die poat vas goming in!"
But denn I zaw die Prooklyn Pritch, for ven der poat vent beck,
I schtoot upon der ferry ent und almost straint mine neck
Und saw dat schplendit arch of schteel dat crosses t'rough die schky,
As kraceful as der regen-bow und, ach! zo proad und high!
Ach ja! es freut me dat I vent; I do not krudge die gost, -
I might haf schpent it besser, but I gan not gount it lost;
For I learnt a lot of visdom vrom der droupple I vas bin-
Since denn I neffer hurries venn die poat is goming in!
How HANS PICKEL'S DOG HAD HIMSELF PHOTOGRAPHED
VE haf a gunnink leedle tog
So schmall ve galls him Pollyvog,
Der prightest, glefferest, schmartest vellow,
Mit vur of zomedimes plack unt yellow,
Unt zooch a gomigal tvistet dail
Dat zu ontvist vere no afail.
Unt leedle goal-plack tvingling eyes
Like zwei tvin tog-schtars in der schkies.
Mein Frau on dot schmall tog schoost doats
Unt qvite-zu-much schpare dime devotes
In maiging vonny golored goats
For him zu vear in vintry vedder;
Und ven dey goes to valluk zugedder
She's halluf der dime in zad anxiety
Dot he should schoose die low soziety
Off some blebeian mongrel cur
Inschtead of schtickink clos't py her:
She iss not happy tay or night
Ven Pollyvog iss out off zight.
She's drained him zo dot he vould schpring
Right t'rough a leedle vooden ring,
Und ven she tolds him he moos zing
He'll schtand on der piano-schair
Und baw die geys unt howl an air
Not wholly Bach or Wagner wholly,
Bud you vould zay dot id vos bully!
He had a dutzend dricks so vonny
Dot on der schtage 't would made him money.
Von tay mein Frau she maig me laff. "I vant," say she, "die photograph
Of dot schmall tog pefore he ties."
"Vot an idea!" I kvick replies;
"Vait dill he's tead und haff him schtuft.” Mein Frau she vould not pe repuft.
"Subbose," says she, "dot some von schtole him!" "Ach! den," says I, "meminisse olim " (Mein leedle knowledge of die Latin In dis gonnection game qvite pat in) — "A din-dype vill do schoost as petter Und du canst zend him in a letter." Dot ferry tay mein Frau vent town To our ald photographer Braun; She dold him vot a tog vos he As zubschects for phodography. She dried to maig him do his dricks But he vos schtubborn - vould do nix. Unt denn she bosed him in a schair Unt dolt him he muss schtay right dere. But Pollyvog vos up to meeschief
Unt vould not bose; I tink dot his chief
Indention vos zu blague his mistress
Unt gause her schust a leedle distress.
Zix dimes she bosed dot tog und more;
Each dimes he schumpt down on der floor;
Schust as der man had fixt die focus
Dot tog schtirred up ein hocus-pocus.
At last mein Frau loose all her patience
(Unt she gan schold on such oggasions;
Zu oftendimes dey gomes I fear) —
"Du bist ein schlechtes kleines Tier!
Nach Hause! Geh! Was thust Du hier?"
She schpoke in Cherman mit zeferity,
Und home dot tog vlew mit celerity;
His gorkschrew dail for vonce almost
Ungurled; he hung his head; he loast
Dot saucy look, his broaudest poast;
Und t'rough die door vent like a ghost.
All tay dot tog vould nottings eat;
He actet zif he hat peen peat;
Und ven der Morgen game he vanisht,
Und no von knew how he had manesht.
Mein boor olt Frau vos unconsolable;
Mein schmal poy's krief vos uncontrollable:
Ve mourned dot tog as he vos died,
Ve t'ought he'd c'mitted suicide.
But as die Uhr vos schtrikink tvelve
In game dot Pollyvog himselve.
A happier Hund you neffer saw.
His dail vagged like a dynamo;
He gut up effery gind of gaper;
Unt round his neck he vore a paper —
Ja! you
haff guessed it: 't vos his bild
A din-dype ass mein Frau had villed,
In yoost der ferry attitut
In vich she bosed him: -It vos gut!
Der photographer afdervord
Dolt vot a foony t'ing oggurred.
"Dot Morgen," said he, "venn I game
To peesness early schtood dis zame
Schmall tog avaiting for me dere,
Unt zeemed to vant to get up schtair.
I made pelief bay no addention: -
Ach! he's a tog of vise invention:
He schumpt up on der schtool unt schtood
Yoost as his mistress dolt he schould,
Und den schumpt down unt parked at me
Unt gampeld rount yoost frantic❜ly;
Unt ven at last I t'ought I'd dry it,
He bosed himsellve unt schtood so kviet
Dot in zen minute he vos done:
Ineffer had a petter von!"
Mein Frau vas broud enuf pefore;
But now she's broud six dimes as more,
Unt ven she effer gets a schence
She dells apout dot tog's fine sense,
Unt many beobles often laught
To hear how he vas photographt.
GOLDEN clouds in radiance shining
Guard the portals of the West,
Where the glorious sun declining
Enters to enjoy his rest.
Yet those clouds are damp and chilling
As they drift in from the sea.
And the spirit is unwilling
To be wrapt in misery.
From the clouds then comfort borrow!
Let them give thee peace and calm!
Memory will brighten sorrow,
Setting suns will pour their balm.
DOMETT, ALFRED, an English poet; born at Camberwell Grove, Surrey, May 20, 1811; died Nov. 2, 1887. He entered St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1829, but left without a degree. He travelled in America for a couple of years, returning to England in 1836, and subsequently resided in Italy and Switzerland. In 1841 he was called to the bar at Middle Temple. In 1842 he went to New Zealand, where he resided until 1871. He is understood to be the hero of Robert Browning's poem "Waring." He put forth several volumes of poems; the earliest appearing in 1833; then appeared "Venice" (1839). After his return from New Zealand he published "Ranolf and Amohia" (1872), a poem descriptive of the scenery of New Zealand and its aboriginal inhabitants. In 1877 he made a collection of his poems under the title of "Flotsam and Jetsam, Rhymes Old and New." His "Christmas Hymn," the most admired of all his poems, appeared originally in "Blackwood's Magazine" in 1837.
Ir was the calm and silent night!
Seven hundred years and fifty-three
Had Rome been growing up to might,
And now was Queen of land and sea.
No sound was heard of clashing wars,
Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars,
Held undisturbed their ancient reign
In the solemn midnight,
"Twas in the calm and silent night!
The senator of haughty Rome
Impatient urged his chariot's flight,
From lordly revel rolling home;
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