To a Sca-Bird. Lazily rocking on ocean's breast, Something in common, old friend, have we; Thou on the shingle seek'st thy nest, I to the waters look for rest, I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 15 HER LETTER. I'm sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance, In a robe even you would admire, It cost a cool thousand in France; In short, sir, "the belle of the season" A dozen engagements I've broken; That waits-on the stairs-for me yet. They say he'll be rich,-when he grows up,And then he adores me indeed. Her Letter. And you, sir, are turning your nose up, "And how do I like my position?" With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?" "And isn't it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that?" "And aren't it a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat?" Well, yes, if you saw us out driving And yet, just this moment, when sitting 17 In the bustle and glitter befitting The "finest soirée of the year,"In the mists of a gaze de Chambéry, And the hum of the smallest of talk,Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry," And the dance that we had on The Fork;" Of Harrison's barn, with its muster Of the candles that shed their soft lustre Of the moon that was quietly sleeping To "the best-paying lead in the State." Her Letter. Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny To think, as I stood in the glare Of fashion and beauty and money, That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water, 19 But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing! (Mamma says my taste still is low,) Instead of my triumphs reciting, I'm spooning on Joseph,-heigh-ho! Good-night, here's the end of my paper; For maybe, while wasting my taper, |