THE BUTTERFLY.
“Don’t kill me,”—caterpillar said,
As Clara raised her heel,
Upon the humble worm to tread,
As though it could not feel.
“Don’t kill me—I will crawl away,
And hide me from your sight,
And when I come, some other day,
You’ll view me with delight.”
The caterpillar went and hid
In some dark, quiet place,
Where none could look on what he did,
To change his form and face.
And then, one day, as Clara read
Within a shady nook,
A butterfly, superbly dressed,
Alighted on her book.
His shining wings were dotted o’er
With gold, and blue, and green,
And Clara owned she naught before
So beautiful had seen.
COLD WATER.
You may boast of your brandy and wine as you please,
Gin, cider, and all the rest;
Cold water transcends them in all the degrees,
It is good—it is better—’tis BEST.
It is good to warm you when you are cold,
Good to cool you when you are hot;
It is good for the young—it is good for the old,
Whatever their outward lot.
It is better than brandy to quicken the blood,
It is better than gin for the colic;
It is better than wine for the generous mood,
Than whisky or rum for a frolic.
’Tis the best of all drinks for quenching your thirst,
’Twill revive you for work or for play;
In sickness or health, ’tis the best and the first—
Oh! try it—you’ll find it will pay.
THE TELEGRAPH—ITS SECRET.
Looking up in musing wonder
At the silent wires above him,
And profoundly meditating,
Suddenly says Mike—that’s Michael—
Suddenly says Pat—that’s Patrick—
“Can you show me, can you tell me,
How it is that news and letters,
How it is that big newspapers,
Full of news, and fun, and wisdom,
Travel ever back and forward,
Travel with the speed of lightning—
Always going, always coming,
And yet never interfering;
While we, sitting under, watching,
Can not see them, can not hear them,
Can not draw their secret from them;
Can not tell how ’tis they do it,
Can not quite believe they do it,
Though we all the while do know it?”
“Should you ask me, Mike”—that’s Michael—
“Should you ask,” says Pat—that’s Patrick—
“How these silent wires above us
Talk, and write, and carry letters—
Carry news, and carry orders,
Though we can not see nor hear them,
Sitting under, watching, listening—
Can not see them, can not hear them,
Can not catch the smallest whisper
Of the messages they carry—
I should answer, I should tell you,
That those little wires are hollow,
With a passage running through them
From the one end to the other;
And they send, not papers through them,
And they send, not written letters;
But they send—these strange magicians—
Through those passages so narrow,
Whispering spirits, living fairies,
Flying ever back and forward,
Message-bearing, hither, thither—
Faithful messengers, that tell not
You, nor me, though watching, listening,
What the messages they carry.”
“Och! indade,” says Mike—that’s Michael—
“Do you know it, Pat”—that’s Patrick—
“Do you know it, Pat, for certain?
Have you seen the whispering spirits?
Have you seen these living fairies?
Have you heard them shooting by us?
Have you heard their fairy whisper?
Tell me, do you know it, surely?
Tell me, is it only blarney?”
Then in anger, Pat—that’s Patrick—
Proudly answered, “Mike”—that’s Michael—
“Sure you know I’m Pat”—that’s Patrick—
“Sure you know I was in College;
Four long years in F——m College—
Hewing wood and bearing water,
Kindling fires, and chores achieving,
For the great and learned scholars
Of the mighty F——m College.
So you needn’t, Mike”—that’s Michael—
“Set me down for a Know-Nothing;
Needn’t reckon me a Hindoo;
Needn’t doubt that what I tell you
Is as true as if a lawyer
Should have told it to a jury;
Or as if a man in Congress
Or in caucus said and swore it
On his everlasting honor,
On his faith and on his conscience;
This, I trust, will satisfy you.”
