Pet. No, no, now don't; you let my chickens alone.

Op. Will you let me in, then?

Pet. No, I won't.

Op. Well then, I'll catch one.

(Imitates the peeping of a

chicken, pretends to catch it and throw it in.)

Pet. Take 'im out! take 'im out!

Op. Will you open the door? Will you open the door if

I'll take it out?

Pet. Yes, I will.

Op. (Opens the cover.)

Pet. That's right; take him out;

take him out.

Now open the door.

Op. (Takes out chicken, peeping.)

Pet. No, I won't.

Op. You promised to.

Pet. I don't care if I did.

Op. Now, I am determined to empty you out.

Pet. No, no, now don't.

Op. Yes, I will. Here you go. (Turns over the box, with Peter struggling to keep in it.)

Pet. (Loud voice.) No, no, now don't.

Op. Yes, I will; here you go. (Empties box.) Where are you? I did not see you come out!

Pet. (Beneath the floor). I'm 'way down in the cellar, you old fool!

Op. Good-night to you.

Pet. (Very faint, as if still further off) Good-night.

THE OLD CHAPEL BELL.

Within a churchyard's sacred ground,
Whose fading tablets tell

Where they who built the village church

In solemn silence dwell,

Half hidden in the earth, there lies
An ancient chapel bell.

Broken, decayed and covered o'er
With mouldering leaves and rust;
Its very name and date concealed
Beneath a cankering rust;
Forgotten-like its early friends,
Who sleep in neighboring dust.

Yet it was once a trusty bell,
Of most sonorous lung,

And many a joyous wedding peal,

And many a knell had rung,

'Ere Time had cracked its brazen sides

And broke its tongue.

And many a youthful heart had danced

In merry Christmas-time,

To hear its pleasant roundelay,

Rung out in ringing rhyme;

And many a worldly thought been checked

To list its Sabbath chime.

A youth-a bright and happy boy,

One sultry summer's day, Aweary of his bat and ball,

Chanced hitherward to stray,

To read a little book he had
And rest him from his play.

"A soft and shady spot is this!"
The rosy youngster cried,
And sat him down, beneath a tree,
That ancient Bell beside;

(But, hidden in the tangled grass,
The Bell he ne'er espied.)

Anon, a mist fell on his book,

The letters seemed to stir,

And though, full oft, his flagging sight

The boy essayed to spur,

The mazy page was quickly lost
Beneath a cloudy blur.

And while he marvelled much at this,
And wondered how it came,

He felt a languor creeping o'er
His young and weary frame,
And heard a voice, a gentle voice,
That plainly spoke his name.

That gentle voice that named his name,
Entranced him like a spell,

Upon his ear, so very near

And suddenly it fell;

Yet soft and musical, as 'twere

The whisper of a bell.

"Since last I spoke," the voice began,

"Seems many a dreary year! (Albeit, 'tis only since thy birth

I've lain neglected here ;)
Pray list, while I rehearse a tale

Behooves thee much to hear.

"Once, from yon ivied tower, I watched

The villagers, around,

And gave to all their joys and griefs,

A sympathetic sound.

But most are sleeping, now, within

This consecrated ground.

"I used to ring my merriest peal
To hail the blushing bride;
I sadly tolled for men cut down
In strength and manly pride;
And solemnly, not mournfully,—
When little children died.

"But, chief, my duty was to bid
The villagers repair,

On each returning Sabbath morn,
Unto the House of Prayer,
And in his own appointed place,
The Saviour's mercy share.

"Ah! well I mind me of a child,

A gleesome, happy maid,

Who came with constant steps to church
In comely garb arrayed,

And knelt her down full solemnly,
And penitently prayed.

"Years rolled away,—and I beheld
The child to woman grown;
Her cheek was fairer, and her eye
With brighter lustre shone;
But childhood's truth and innocence
Were still the maiden's own.

"I never rang a merrier peal,
Than when, a joyous bride,
She stood beneath the sacred porch,
A noble youth beside,

And plighted him her maiden troth,
In maiden love and pride.

"I never tolled a deeper knell,
Than when, in after years,

They laid her in the churchyard here,
Where this low mound appears—

(The very grave, my boy, that you
Are watering now with tears.”)

The boy awoke, as from a dream,
And, thoughtful, looked around,
But nothing saw, save at his feet

His mother's lowly mound,
And by its side that ancient Bell,
Half hidden in the ground.

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE FLEA POWDER.

A Frenchman once-so runs a certain ditty-
Had crossed the Straits to famous London city,
To get a living by the arts of France,

And teach his neighbor, rough John Bull, to dance.
But lacking pupils, vain was all his skill;
His fortunes sank from low to lower still,
Until at last, pathetic to relate,
Poor Monsieur landed at starvation's gate.
Standing, one day, beside a cook-shop door,
And gazing in, with aggravation sore,

He mused within himself what he should do
To fill his empty maw, and pocket too.
By nature shrewd, he soon contrived a plan,
And thus to execute it straight began:
A piece of common brick he quickly found,
And with a harder stone to powder ground,
Then wrapped the dust in many a dainty piece
Of paper, labelled "Poison for de Fleas,"
And sallied forth, his roguish trick to try,
To show his treasures, and to see who'd buy.
From street to street he cried, with lusty yell,
"Here's grand and sovereign flee poudare to sell!"
And fickle Fortune seemed to smile at last,
For soon a woman hailed him as he passed,
Struck a quick bargain with him for the lot,
And made him five crowns richer on the spot.
Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale,
Went into business on a larger scale,

And soon throughout all London scattered he
The "only genuine poudare for de flea."
Engaged, one morning, in his new vocation
Of mingled boasting and dissimulation,
He thought he heard himself in anger called;
And, sure enough, the self-same woman bawled,
In not a mild or very tender mood,

From the same window where before she stood.