Sell him! well, upon my word, sir, That’s a notion too absurd, sir.  Would I sell our little Ally, Barter Tom, dispose of Sally?  Think you I’d negotiate For my wife, at any rate?

Sell our Don! you’re surely joking, And ’tis fun at us you’re poking!  Twenty voyages we’ve tried, sir, Sleeping, waking, side by side, sir, And Don and I will not divide, sir; He’s my friend, that’s why I love him,—­ And no mortal dog’s above him!

    He prefers a life aquatic,
    But never dog was less dogmatic. 
    Years ago when I was master
    Of a tight brig called the Castor,
    Don and I were bound for Cadiz,
    With the loveliest of ladies
    And her boy—­a stalwart, hearty,
    Crowing one-year infant party,
    Full of childhood’s myriad graces,
    Bubbling sunshine in our faces
    As we bowled along so steady,
    Half-way home, or more, already.

    How the sailors loved our darling! 
    No more swearing, no more snarling;
    On their backs, when not on duty,
    Round they bore the blue-eyed beauty,—­
    Singing, shouting, leaping, prancing,—­
    All the crew took turns in dancing;
    Every tar playing Punchinello
    With the pretty, laughing fellow;
    Even the second mate gave sly winks
    At the noisy mid-day high jinks. 
    Never was a crew so happy
    With a curly-headed chappy,
    Never were such sports gigantic,
    Never dog with joy more antic.

    While thus jolly, all together,
    There blew up a change of weather,
    Nothing stormy, but quite breezy,
    And the wind grew damp and wheezy,
    Like a gale in too low spirits
    To put forth one half its merits,
    But, perchance, a dry-land ranger
    Might suspect some kind of danger.

    Soon our stanch and gallant vessel
    With the waves began to wrestle,
    And to jump about a trifle,
    Sometimes kicking like a rifle
    When ’tis slightly overloaded,
    But by no means nigh exploded.

’Twas the coming on of twilight, As we stood abaft the skylight, Scampering round to please the baby, (Old Bill Benson held him, maybe,) When the youngster stretched his fingers Towards the spot where sunset lingers, And with strong and sudden motion Leaped into the weltering ocean! “What did Don do?” Can’t you guess, sir?  He sprang also—­by express, sir; Seized the infant’s little dress, sir, Held the baby’s head up boldly From the waves that rushed so coldly; And in just about a minute Our boat had them safe within it.

    Sell him!  Would you sell your brother? 
    Don and I love one another.

J. T. FIELDS.

* * * * *

GEIST’S GRAVE.

    Four years!—­and didst thou stay above
    The ground, which hides thee now, but four? 
    And all that life, and all that love,
    Were crowded, Geist! into no more?