BRUTUS was taking a “whiskey straight,”
    Which I didn’t think orthodox;
  While GRANT, with his usual zeal for sport,
    Seemed busy with fighting Cox!

  But I woke at last with a boisterous laugh
    From a dream that was simply ridiculous,
  For I knew (so did you) it couldn’t be true
    That France had succumbed to St. NICHOLAS.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  RAILWAY TALK.

Old Lady.  “SONNY, BE THEM EGGS FRESH OR STALE?”

Boy.  “FRESH, ’M.  I buys MY EGGS, I DOESN’T STALE ’EM!”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  EGGS-ACTLY!

Mr. Benedick. “BY JOVE!  WHAT AN AWFUL SMELL OF ASAFOETIDA THIS EGG HAS!”

Mrs. B. “O, HOW SHOCKING!  NOW THAT I THINK OF IT, I did THROW AWAY SOME ASAFOETIDA PILLS, AND I SUPPOSE THE HENS HAVE BEEN EATING THEM!”]

* * * * *

POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO XIV.

  By by, baby bunting,
  Daddy’s gone a-hunting,
  To get a little rabbit skin
  To wrap the baby bunting in.

At last there came a day when the husband was of no consequence in his own house.  When numerous female visitors frowned upon and snubbed him.  When his mother-in-law glared at him and entreated him despitefully if he ventured into her august and fearful presence; and even that wonderful and mysterious person, the hired nurse, unfeelingly ordered him out of the house, and bade him “begone about his business.”  The miserable and conscience-stricken wretch wandered disconsolately from room to room, only to meet with fresh humiliation and contumely, and at last, in sheer despair, betook himself off to a lonely and gloomsome spot in the dark wood, and there, in penitent humility, bewailed his misfortune in being that miserably and insignificant nonentity—­a man.

Sorrowfully resting his head upon his hands, his eyes fixed upon the ground, his whole soul absorbed in self-reproach, he passes the long hours in gloomy abstraction, wishing, he hardly knew what, only that he was not, what he unfortunately happened to be at that moment, a man despised of women and hated by his mother-in-law.  His sorrowful musings were broken in upon by his one faithful friend, the gentle companion of many a quiet hour, his affectionate and devoted pet, his beloved cat.  Gently rubbing her head against his penitent knee, she awakens the absorbed poet to a realization of her presence, and to a feeling of pleasure that he is not deserted by all, but has one heart left that beats for him alone.

Fondly taking his feline friend in his arms, he softly strokes her back, and gazes lovingly into the soft green eyes that look responsively into his, and rebukes her not when, in impulsive love, she rubs her cold nose against his burning cheek, and wipes her eyes upon his frail moustache.