I never nursed a dear gazelle. But I was given a paroquet— How I did nurse him if unwell! He's imbecile but lingers yet. He's green, with an enchanting tuft; He melts me with his small black eye: He'd look inimitable stuffed, And knows it—but he will not die!

I had a kitten—I was rich In pets—but all too soon my kitten Became a full-sized cat, by which I've more than once been scratched and bitten: And when for sleep her limbs she curled One day beside her untouched plateful, And glided calmly from the world, I freely own that I was grateful.

And then I bought a dog—a queen! Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug! She lives, but she is past sixteen, And scarce can crawl across the rug. I loved her beautiful and kind; Delighted in her pert bow-wow: But now she snaps if you don't mind; 'T were lunacy to love her now.

I used to think, should e'er mishap Betide my crumple-visaged Ti, In shape of prowling thief, or trap, Or coarse bull-terrier—I should die. But ah! disasters have their use; And life might e'en be too sunshiny: Nor would I make myself a goose, If some big dog should swallow Tiny.

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

[A farmers daughter, during the rage for albums, handed to the author an old account-book ruled for pounds, shillings, and pence, and requested a contribution.]

£. s. d.
This world's a scene as dark as Styx,
Where hope is scarce worth 26
Our joys are borne so fleeting hence
That they are dear at 18
And yet to stay here most are willing,
Although they may not have 1
WILLIS GAYLORD

ON THE BRINK.

I watched her as she stooped to pluck A wild flower in her hair to twine; And wished that it had been my luck To call her mine;