I shouldn’t like to say, I’m sure,
      I shouldn’t like to say
    Why I hear your voice, so fresh and pure,
      In the dash of the laughing spray. 
    Nor why the wavelets that all the while,
    In many a diamond-glittering file,
      With truant sunbeams play,
    Should make me remember your rippling smile—­
      I shouldn’t like to say.

    I shouldn’t like to say, I’m sure,
      I shouldn’t like to say,
    Why all the birds should chirp of you,
      Who live so far away. 
    Robin and oriole sing to me
      From the leafy depths of our apple-tree,
      With trunk so gnarled and gray—­
    But why your name should their burden be
      I shouldn’t like to say.

    MAKING NEW YEAR’S CALLS.

    Shining patent-leather,
      Tie of spotless white;
    Through the muddy weather
      Rushing ’round till night. 
    Gutters all o’erflowing,
      Like Niagara Falls;
    Bless me! this is pleasant,
      Making New Year’s calls.

    Rushing up the door-step,
      Ringing at the bell—­
    “Mrs. Jones receive to-day?”
      “Yes, sir.”  “Very well.” 
    Sending in your pasteboard,
      Waiting in the halls,
    Bless me! this is pleasant,
      Making New Year’s calls.

    Skipping in the parlour,
      Bowing to the floor,
    Lady of the house there,
      Half a dozen more;
    Ladies’ dresses gorgeous,
      Paniers, waterfalls,—­
    Bless me! this is pleasant,
      Making New Year’s calls.

    “Wish you Happy New Year”—­
      “Many thanks, I’m sure.” 
    “Many calls, as usual?”
      “No; I think they’re fewer.” 
    Staring at the carpet,
      Gazing at the walls;
    Bless me! this is pleasant,
      Making New Year’s calls.

    “Really, I must go now,
      Wish I had more leisure.” 
    “Wont you have a glass of wine?”
      “Ah, thanks!—­greatest pleasure.” 
    Try to come the graceful,
      Till your wine-glass falls;
    Bless me! this is pleasant,
      Making New Year’s calls.

    Hostess looks delighted—­
      Out of doors you rush;
    Sit down at the crossing,
      In a sea of slush. 
    Job here for your tailor—­
      Herr Von Schneiderthals—­
    Bless me! this is pleasant,
      Making New Year’s calls.

    Pick yourself up slowly
      Heart with anguish torn. 
    Sunday-go-to-meetings
      In a state forlorn. 
    Kick a gibing boot-black,
      Gibing boot-black bawls,
    Bless me! this is pleasant,
      Making New Year’s calls.

    Home, and woo the downy,
      But your soul doth quake,
    At most fearful night-mares—­
      Turkey, oysters, cake. 
    While each leaden horror
      That your rest appalls,
    Cries, “Dear heart! how pleasant;
      Making New Year’s calls.”