Do not milky pearls combine
In this steaming cup of mine?
What though round my youthful brow
I ne'er twine the myrtle's bough?
For such wreaths my soul ne'er grieves.
Whilst I own my Twankay's leaves.
Though for me no altar burns,
Kettles boil and bubble--urns
In each fane, where I adore--
What should mortal ask for more!
I for Pidding, Bacchus fly,
Howqua shall my cup supply;
I'll ne'er ask for amphoræ,
Whilst my tea-pot yields me tea.
Then, perchance, above my grave,
Blooming Hyson sprigs may wave;
And some stately sugar-cane,
There may spring to life again:
Bright-eyed maidens then may meet,
To quaff the herb and suck the sweet.

* * * * *


A CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO HACKNEY-COACH HORSES.

KINDLY COMMUNICATED BY OUR DOG "TOBY."

DEAR SIR,--I was a-sitting the other evening at the door of my kennel,
thinking of the dog-days and smoking my pipe (blessings on you, master,