Hencouraged by his truthfool remarks, I at larst wentured to let go of him and try a few slides by myself, and shood no dowt have suckseeded hadmerably, but my bootifal stick to which I was a trustin to elp me from falling, slided rite away from me in a most unnatral manner, and down I came on my onerabel seat, with such a smasher as seemed to shake all my foreteen stun into a cocked-hat, to speak, hallegorically, and there I lay, elpless and opeless, and wundring how on airth I shood ever get up again.  But my trusty frend and guide was soon at my side, as the Poet says, but all his united force, with that of too boys who came to his assistance, and larfed all the wile, as rude boys will, coud not get me on my feet agen ’till my too skates was taken off, and I agen found myself on terror fermer on my friend’s chair.  It took me longer to recover myself than I shood have thort posserbel, but at larst I was enabled to crawl away, but not ’till my frend had supplied me with jest a nice nip of brandy, which he said he kept andy in case of any such surprisin axidents as had appened to me.

So what with paying for the use of the skates, and the use of the Brandy, and the use of the too boys, and the use of a handsum Cab to take me to the “Grand,” that was rayther a deer ten minutes skating, and as it was reelly and trewly my fust attemt at that poplar and xciting passtime, I think I may safely affirm—­as I have alreddy done to my better harf—­whose langwidge, when I related my hadwentur, is scarcely worth repeating, as it was most certenly not complementary—­that it shall be my larst.  ROBERT.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  REMINISCENCES OF SPORT IN THE SNOW.]

* * * * *

A FREEZING POINT.

(BY A FROZEN-OUT LOVER.)

  They tell me thou art cold, my sweet—­
    A fact that scarcely odd is. 
  Gales half so cruel never beat
    Against poor human bodies. 
  Cupid’s attire is far too light
  To weather Thirty Fahrenheit.

  How can a glow the soul entrance,
    When frostbite nips the finger,
  And blushes quit the countenance
    To nigh the nostril linger! 
  Warmth were a miracle, in sight
  And grip of Thirty Fahrenheit.

  Chill! chill to me, my Paradise!! 
    I’ll not complain or curse on. 
  One cannot well be otherwise
    To any mortal person. 
  Mere icebergs ambulant, we fight
  Ferocious Thirty Fahrenheit.

  Cold art thou?  Not so cold as I—­
    Nought living could be colder. 
  I’m far too cold to sob or sigh,
    Still less in passion smoulder. 
  I’m turning fast to something quite
  As numb as Thirty Fahrenheit.

* * * * *

INFORMATION REQUIRED.—­“Sir, I see a Volume advertised entitled, Unspoken Sermons.  I should be glad to know where these are preached, as that’s the place for yours truly, ONE WHO SNORES.”