I never loved a tree or flower;
          But, if I had, I beg to say,
        The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower,
          Would soon have wither’d it away. 
        I’ve dearly loved my uncle JOHN
          From childhood to the present hour,
        And yet he will go living on—­
          I would he were a tree or flower!

MISS MALONEY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION.

BY MARY MAPES DODGE.

Ovh! don’t be talkin’.  Is it howld on, ye say?  An’ didn’t I howld on till the heart of me was clane broke entirely, and me wastin’ that thin ye could clutch me wid yer two hands.  To think o’ me toilin’ like a nager for the six year I’ve been in Ameriky—­bad luck to the day I iver left the owld counthry!—­to be bate by the likes o’ them! (faix, and I’ll sit down when I’m ready, so I will, Ann Ryan; and ye’d better be listenin’ than drawin’ yer remarks).  An’ is it meself, with five good characters from respectable places, woud be herdin’ wid the haythens?  The saints forgive me, but I’d be buried alive sooner ‘n put up wid it a day longer.  Sure, an’ I was the granehorn not to be lavin’ at once-t when the missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver about the new waiter-man which was brought out from Californy.  “He’ll be here the night,” says she.  “And, Kitty, it’s meself looks to you to be kind and patient wid him, for he’s a furriner,” says she, a kind o’ lookin’ off.  “Sure, an’ it’s little I’ll hinder nor interfare wid him, nor any other, mum,” says I, a kind o’ stiff; for I minded me how them French waiters, wid their paper collars and brass rings on their fingers, isn’t company for no gurril brought up dacent and honest.  Och! sorra a bit I knew what was comin’ till the missus walked into me kitchen, smilin’, and says, kind o’ schared, “Here’s Fing Wing, Kitty; an’ ye’ll have too much sinse to mind his bein’ a little strange.”  Wid that she shoots the doore; and I, misthrustin’ if I was tidied up sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper collar, looks up, and—­Howly fathers! may I niver brathe another breath, but there stud a rayle haythen Chineser, a-grinnin’ like he’d just come off a tay-box.  If ye’ll belave me, the crayther was that yeller it ’ud sicken ye to see him; and sorra stick was on him but a black night-gown over his trowsers, and the front of his head shaved claner nor a copper biler, and a black tail a-hangin’ down from it behind, wid his two feet stook into the haythenestest shoes yer ever set eyes on.  Och! but I was upstairs afore ye could turn about, a-givin’ the missus warnin’, an’ only stopt wid her by her raisin’ me wages two dollars, an’ playdin’ wid me how it was a Christian’s duty to bear wid haythens, and taich ’em all in our power—­the saints save us!  Well, the ways and trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I couldn’t be tellin’.  Not a blissid thing cud I do, but he’d be lookin’ on wid his eyes cocked up’ard like two poomp-handles;