CHARADES.

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NO. 1
An old man lay on a bed of death,
Slowly drawing each labored breath;
His pulse was felt by a friendly hand,
While the doctor issued a stern command
To swallow my first without delay,
If he wished to live till another day.
At this the patient looked my second,
And slowly spoke: “When Death has beckoned,
In vain the doctor's healing art;
I now am called, and I depart;
I'm glad I've lasted till my third.”
The listeners scarcely caught the word
With which escaped the unfettered soul,
And finished then his long—my whole.
H. C.

NO. 2
When I'm my first, I lie in bed;
My second wins me gold;
My third I keep safe in my head;
My fourth you may behold
In all its pride, when victory
Shall bid my whole light up the sky.