REID, THE CANDIDATE.

I saw a brave compositor
Go hustling o'er the mead,
Who bore a banner with these words:
"Hurrah for Whitelaw Reid!"
"Where go you, brother slug," I asked,
"With such unusual speed?"
He quoth: "I go to dump my vote
For gallant Whitelaw Reid!"
"But what has Whitelaw done," I asked,
"That now he should succeed?"
Said he: "The stanchest, truest friend
We have is Whitelaw Reid!
"There are no terms we can suggest
That he will not concede;
He is converted to our faith,
Is gallant Whitelaw Reid!
"The union it must be preserved—
That is this convert's creed,
And that is why we're whooping up
The cause of Whitelaw Reid!"
"If what you say of him be sooth,
You have a friend indeed,
So go on your winding way," quoth I,
"And whoop for Whitelaw Reid!"
So on unto the polls I saw
That printer straight proceed
While other printers swarmed in swarms
To vote for Whitelaw Reid.

A VALENTINE.

Four little sisters standing in a row—
Which of them I love best I really do not know.
Sometimes it is the sister dressed out so fine in blue,
And sometimes she who flaunts the beauteous robe of emerald hue;
Sometimes for her who wears the brown my tender heart has bled,
And then again I am consumed of love for her in red.
So now I think I'll send this valentine unto the four—
I love them all so very much—how could a man do more?

KISSING-TIME.

'Tis when the lark goes soaring,
And the bee is at the bud,
When lightly dancing zephyrs
Sing over field and flood;
When all sweet things in Nature
Seem joyfully a-chime—
'Tis then I wake my darling,
For it is kissing-time!
Go, pretty lark, a-soaring,
And suck your sweets, O bee;
Sing, O ye winds of summer,
Your songs to mine and me.
For with your song and rapture
Cometh the moment when
It is half-past kissing-time
And time to kiss again!
So—so the days go fleeting
Like golden fancies free,
And every day that cometh
Is full of sweets for me;
And sweetest are those moments
My darling comes to climb
Into my lap to mind me
That it is kissing-time.
Sometimes, may be, he wanders
A heedless, aimless way—
Sometimes, may be, he loiters
In pretty, prattling play;
But presently bethinks him
And hastens to me then,
For it's half-past kissing time
And time to kiss again!