Though now the bleak wind-king so boisterous seems,
And drives the tempest madly o'er the plain,
He smiles in Spring-time soft as April rain,
In Summer sleeps on flowers in zephyr-dreams.
BUBBLES.
BY JOHN NEAL.
"Hurrah for bubbles! I go for bubbles, my dear," stopping for a moment on his way through the large drawing-rooms, and looking at his wife and the baby very much as a painter might do while in labor with a new picture. "Bubbles are the only things worth living for."
"Bubbles, Peter!—be quiet, baby!—hush, my love, hush! Papa can't take you now."
Baby jumps at the table.