“ Noah of old three babies had,

Or grown-up children rather;
Shem, Ham, and Japhet they were called :

Now who was Japhet's father ?"

“I have it now," Hodge grinning cried,

“ I'll answer like a proctor ;
Who's Japhet's father ? now I know;

Why Tom Long Smith, the doctor.”

25.

PAPER—A CONVERSATIONAL PLEASANTRY.-Franklin.

Some wit of old—such wits of old there were-
Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions care,
-By one brave stroke to mark all human kind,
Called clear blank paper every infant mind;
Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote,
Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true !
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.
1-(can you pardon my presumption ?)—I,
No wit, no genius, yet, for once, will try.

Various the papers, various wants produce ;
The wants of fashion, elegance, and use.
Men are as various; and, if right I scan,
Each sort of paper represents some man.
Pray note the fop ;-half powder, and half lace!
Nice as a bandbox were his dwelling-place.
He's the gilt paper which apart you store,
And lock from vulgar hands in the 'scrutoir.

Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,
Are copy paper of inferior worth !
Less prized; more useful; for your desk decreed;
Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.

The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare,
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is coarse brown paper; such as pedlers choose
To wrap up wares which better men will use.

Take next the miser's contrast; who destroys
Health, fame, and fortune in a round of joys.
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout:
He's a true sinking paper, past all doubt.

The retail politician's anxious thought
Deems this side always right, and that stark naught:
He foams with censure ; with applause he raves ;
A dupe to rumors, and a tool to knaves :
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,
While such a thing as foolscap has a name.

The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high,
Who jocks a quarrel if you step awry;
Who can't a jest, a hint, a look endure !
What is he ?—What ?-touch paper to be sure.

What are our poets ? (take them as they fall-
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all,)
Them and their works in the same class you'll find :
They are—the mere waste paper of mankind.

Observe the maiden, innocently sweet!
She's fair white paper! an unsullied sheet;
On which the happy man whom fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains.

One instance more, and only one, I'll bring !
'Tis the great man who scorns a little thing;
Whose thought, whose deeds, whose maxims are his own;
Formed on the feelings of his heart alone.
True, genuine, royal paper is his breast :
Of all the kinds, most precious, purest, best.

Alas! what pity 'tis that regularity,

Like Isaac Shove's is such a rarity,
But there are swilling wights in London town

Termed-jolly dogs,-choice spirits-alias swine,
Who pour in midnight revel, bumpers down,

Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine.

-а

These spendthrifts, who life's pleasures thus run on,

Dozing with headaches till the afternoon, Lose half men's regular estate of sun,

By borrowing too largely of the moon. One of this kidney, -Toby Tosspot hightWas coming from the Bedford late at night: And being Bacchi plenus,-full of wine,

Although he had a tolerable notion

Of aiming at progressive motion, 'Twasn't direct- 'twas serpentine. He worked with sinuosities, along, Like Monsieur Corkscrew, worming through a cork, Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong—a fork. At length, with near four bottles in his pate, He saw the moon shining on Shove's brass plate, When reading, “ Please to ring the bell,”

And being civil beyond measure,
Ring it!” says Toby—“ Very well;

I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure."
Toby, the kindest soul in all the town,
Gave it a jerk that almost jerked it down.
He waited full two minutes—no one came;

He waited full two minutes niore ;—and then,
Says Toby, “If he's deaf, I'm not to blame;

I'll pull it for the gentleman again.” But the first peal ’woke Isaac in a fright,

Who, quick as lightning, popping up his head,

Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed, Pale as a parsnip,-bolt upright. At length, he wisely to himself doth say,calming his fears, “ Tush! 'tis some fool has rung and run away;' When peal the second rattled in his ears ! Shove jumped into the middle of the floor;

And, trembling at each breath of air that stirred, He groped down stairs, and opened the street-door,

While Toby was performing peal the third.
Isaac eyed Toby, fearfully askant, -

And saw he was a strapper stout and tall,
Then put this question ;-“ Pray, sir, what d'ye want ?

Says Toby,—“I want nothing, sir, at all.”

“Want nothing -Sir, you've pulled my bell, I vow,

I
As if you'd jerk it off the wire."
Quoth Toby,-gravely making him a bow,—

“I pulled it, sir, at your desire."

“At mine!"_“Yes, yours; I hope I've done it well;

High time for bed, sir: I was hastening to it; But if you write up— Please to ring the bell,'

Common politeness makes me stop and do it."

Frank Hayman dearly loved a pleasant joke,

And after long contention with the gout,

A foe that oft besieged him, sallied out To breathe fresh air, and appetite provoke.

It chanced as he was strolling void of care,
A drunken porter passed him with a hare;
The hare was o'er his shoulder flung,

Dangling behind in piteous plight,
And as he crept in zigzag style,

Making the most of every mile,
From side to side poor pussy swung,

As if each moment taking flight.

A dog who saw the man's condition,

A lean and hungry politician,
On the lookout, was close behind-

A sly and subtle chap,
Of most sagacious smell,
Like politicians of a higher kind,

Ready to snap
At any thing that fell.

The porter staggered on, the dog kept near,

Watching each lucky moment for a bite,
Now made a spring, and then drew back in fear,

While Hayman followed, tittering at the sight.
Through many a street our tipsy porter goes,

Then 'gainst a cask in solemn thought reclined; The watchful dog the happy moment knows,

And Hayman cheers him on not far behind.

66

Encouraged thus—what dog would dare refrain ?
He jumped and bit, and jumped and bit, and jumped and

bit again;
Till having made a hearty meal,
He careless turned upon

his heel,
And trotted at his ease away,

Nor thought of asking-“what's to pay ?"
And here some sage, with moral spleen may say,
“This Hayman should have driven the dog away!
The effects of vice the blameless should not bear,
And folks that are not drunkards lose their hare.”

Not so unfashionably good,
The waggish Hayman laughing stood,
Until our porter's stupor v'er,
He jogged on tottering as before,
Unconscious any body kind
Had eased him of his load behind ;
Now on the houses bent his eye,
As if his journey's end were nigh,
Then read a paper in his hand,

And made a stand.
Hayman drew near with eager mien,
To mark the closing of the scene,

His mirth up to the brim;
The porter read the address once more,
And hicuped, " where's one Hayman's door?

I've got a hare for him !"

CHRISTMAS TIMES.—Anonymous. 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro' the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In the hope that St. Nicholas* soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads, And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap; When out on the lawn there rose such a clatter, I sprang