THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.

A DISTRICT School, not far away, Mid Berkshire's hills, one winter's day,

Was humming with its wonted noise Of threescore mingled girls and boys; Some few upon their tasks intent, But more on furtive mischief bent. The while the master's downward look

Was fastened on a copy-book; When suddenly, behind his back, Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack! As 't were a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss! "What's that?" the startled master cries;

"That, thir," a little imp replies, "Wath William Willith, if you pleathe,

I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!" With frown to make a statue thrill, The master thundered, "Hither, Will!"

Like wretch o'ertaken in his track,

That you, my biggest pupil, should
Be guilty of an act so rude!
Before the whole set school to boot-
What evil genius put you to 't?"
"Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the
lad;

"I did not mean to be so bad;
But when Susannah shook her curls,
And whispered, I was 'fraid of girls
And dursn't kiss a baby's doll,
I couldn't stand it, sir, at all,
But up and kissed her on the spot!
I know - boo-hoo - I ought to not,
But, somehow, from her looks -
boo-hoo-

I thought she kird o' wished me to!"

WHITTLING.

THE Yankee boy, before he's sent to school,

Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,

The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye

Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby;

His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it,

Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it;

And in the education of the lad No little part that implement hath had.

His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings

A growing knowledge of material things.

Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers staunch,

And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.

Thus,

by his genius and his jackknife driven

Ere long he'll solve you any problem given;

Make any gimcrack, musical or mute,

A plough, a couch, an organ, or a flute;

Make you a locomotive or a clock, Cut a canal, or build a floatingdock,

Or lead forth beauty from a marble block;

Make anything, in short, for sea or shore,

From a child's rattle to a seventyfour:

Make it, said I?-Ay, when he undertakes it,

He'll make the thing and the machine that makes it.

poetry, and

Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and Pope. Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,

The world had wanted many an idle song)

What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?

Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?

A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped,

If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.

Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I!

Who can't be silent, and who will not lie:

To laugh, were want of goodness and

And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years."

Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury Lane,

Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,

Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends,

Obliged by hunger, and request of friends:

"The piece, you think, is incorrect? Why, take it,

I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it."

Three things another's modest wishes bound,

My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.

Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace,

I want a patron; ask him for a place."

Pitholeon libelled me- "but here's a letter

Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better.

Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine,

He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." Bless me! a packet. stranger sues,

-"'Tis a

A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse."
If I dislike it, "Furies, death, and
rage!"
If I approve,

stage."

"Commend it to the

There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends,

The players and I are, luckily, no friends.

Fired that the house reject him, "Sdeath, I'll print it,

And shame the fools-Your interest, sir, with Lintot." Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:

"Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch."

All my demurs but double his attacks;

At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks."