10.

  11.

My first is four-sixths of a step that is long,

My second is a person of state;

My whole is a thing that is known to be wrong,

And is a strong symptom of hate.

Without my first you can not stand,

My second beauteous fair command;

Together I attend your will,

And am your humble servant still.

  25.

  26.

My first is a very uncomfortable state,

In cold weather it mostly abounds.

My second’s an instrument formed of hard steel,

That will cause the stout foe to stagger and reel,

And when used, is a symptom of hate.

My whole is an author of greatest renown,

Whose fame to the last day of time will go down.

My first is found in every house,

From wintry winds it guards.

My second is the highest found—

In every pack of cards.

My whole, a Scottish chief, is praised

By ballad, bard, and story,

Who for his country gave his life,

And, dying, fell with glory.

  36.

  37.

In camps about the centre I appear;

In smiling meadows seen throughout the year;

The silent angler views me in the streams,

And all must trace me in their morning dreams,

First in the mob conspicuous I stand,

Proud of the lead, and ever in command.

My first is a part of the day,

My last a conductor of light,

My whole to take measure of time,

Is useful by day and by night.

There was a man who was not born,

His father was not born before him,

He, did not live, he did not die,

And his epitaph is not o’er him.

  48.

  49.

My first is a letter commanding to wed,

Or to lift your sole till it reaches your head;

Nothing worth as a whole, it is plain to all men

That divided in halves, it is equal to ten;

My second, though nothing, compared to the other,

Is worth more as a partner than its double-faced brother;

It moans and it sighs, and when joined to my first,

Pronounces the doom of the sinner accursed.

My third, you will find his whole value depends

On the worth and position of neighbors and friends,

And, when both the other two following fair,

Changes doom to desire, and a curse to a prayer.

My fourth, though it formeth no part of a hundred,

Shows where it can justly and evenly be sundered;

’Tis found in the elements everywhere present,

’Tis found in all seasons, unpleasant or pleasant,

’Tis the chief of all lands, and yet can not wait

On continent, hemisphere, empire, or state.

Though ne’er in Great Britain suspected to lower,

’Tis the heart of each quarter of that mighty power;

It always belonged to the animal race,

In the mineral kingdom they gave it a place,

And, being impartial, they could not deny,

The vegetable order its virtue to try;

And yet, since creation, it never was known

In beast, bird, or fish, root, branch, stem, or stone.

My whole you’ll find growing in pasture and barns,

Or grown in coats, carpets, warm blankets, and yarns,

In England, in Saxony, France, and old Wales,

And in sundry more places it always prevails.

Of quadrupedal origin—still it is known

In bipedal families oft to be shown;

But the strangest of all its strange forms, and conditions

Is seen in the covering of sage politicians.

  51.

  52.

Three-fourths of a cross, and a circle complete,

An upright where two semicircles meet,

A rectangle triangle standing on feet,

Two semicircles, and a circle complete.

  70.

  71.

I am scornful and scowling, compassionate, meek;

I am light, I am dark, I am strong, I am weak.

I’m piercing and clean, I am heavy and dull;

Expressive and languid, contracted and full.

I’m a globe and a mirror, a window, a door,

An index, an organ, and fifty things more.

I belong to all animals under the sun,

And to those who were long understood to have none.

My language is plain, though it can not be heard,

And I speak without even pronouncing a word.

Some call me a diamond—some say I am jet;

Others talk of my water, or how I am set.

I’m a borough in England, in Scotland a stream,

And an isle of the sea in the Irishman’s dream.

The earth without me would no loveliness wear,

And sun, moon, and stars at my wish disappear.

Yet so frail is my tenure, so brittle my joy,

That a speck gives me pain, and a drop can destroy.

Add, was the word the master gave to Dick,

Dick scratched his head, and looking rather thick,

Replied, “Hereafter it would make it stick.”

“Dick,” cried the master, “rudeness is a sin;

Behold the stocks, I’ll surely put you in.”

“That,” answered Dick, “won’t alter it a feather,

Hereafter it would make it hold together.”

“Dick,” said the man, “if you insult me so,

Your shoulders and my rod I’ll put in Co.”

“ ’Tis all the same,” said Dick, “my worthy master,

Hereafter it would make it stick the faster.”

Whether old Homer tippled wine or beer,

Julep or cider, history is not clear;

But plain it is—the bard, though wont to roam,

But for one liquid, never had left home.

My first is found on the ocean wave,

In the spring, the pit, and the mine;

My second below earth’s surface you have,

Where seldom the sun can shine.

My whole your dinner-table must grace,

And seldom fails to obtain a place.

  88.

Take half of the needle

By which sailors steer

Their ship through the water,

Be it cloudy or clear;

Do not really break it—

This of all things were worst—

But in your mind take it,

And this makes my first.

At thanksgiving or Christmas,

My second you see;

With care well compounded,

From grain, shrub, and tree.

My whole like some people

Who make great pretense,

Of words have a plenty,

But no great stock of sense.

My first is a negative greatly in use,

By which people begin when they mean to refuse;

My second is Fashion, or so called in France,

But, like other whims, is the servant of chance.

An article always in use is my whole,

With texture and form under fashion’s control;

But, alas! not a thing can it see which goes by,

Although many have four sights, and all have one eye.

  95.

My tongue is long, my breath is strong,

And yet I breed no strife;

My voice you hear both far and near,

And yet I have no life.

As I was beating on the far east grounds,

Up starts a hare before my two greyhounds;

The dogs, being light of foot, did fairly run,

To her fifteen rods, just twenty-one;

And the distance that she started up before,

Was six-and-ninety rods, just and no more;

Now, I would have you Merry boys declare

How far they ran, before they caught the hare.

Four letters form me quite complete,

As all who breathe do show;

Reversed, you’ll find I am the seat

Of infamy and woe.

Transposed, you’ll see I’m base and mean,

Again of Jewish race;

Transposed once more, I oft am seen

To hide a lovely face.

  102.

My first is the name to an article given

For ladies and dandies to put on their linen;

It comes from the forest, I’ve heard people say,

And is made from the skin of an animal gay.

My second is a fruit that comes from the South,

The juice of it is sour, and ’twill pucker your mouth;

’Tis found in candy shops all over the town,

And, stranger to say, it is almost round.

My whole is an article that is often seen

In the gardens and fields almost covered with green;

It is very sweet, and also pleasant to eat,

And in hot summer days affords a rich treat.

I am composed of twelve letters.

My 2, 8, 9, is a substance dug out of the earth.

  “   6, 11, 12, 8, is a numeral.

  “   4, 2, 3, is an ancient instrument of war.

  “   12, 8, 1, is a vessel used in former times.

  “   5, is a vowel.

  “   4, 7, 1, 9, is a hard substance.

  “   10, 9, is a pronoun.

My whole is now before you.

  109.

  110.

My first may be fashioned of iron or wood,

And at window or door for safety is placed;

In village or town it does more harm than good,

Leading people their health, time, and money to waste.

My second’s a lady, bewitching and fair,

And for love of her people will labor and strive;

Will rise before dawn, and be wearied with care,

And pursue her with ardor as long as they live.

My whole is what ladies admire and approve,

The shopkeeper’s boast—the purchaser’s prize;

’Tis a ninepenny chintz—’tis a one-shilling glove—

It is something which makes people open their eyes.

My first must grace a legal deed,

With its companion, firm and red;

Its help in marriage, too, they need,

Before the blessing can be said.

My second half a hundred is,

If in the shortest way you spell;

You soon must guess me after this,

I may as well the secret tell.

My whole, by his celestial strains

Bears the rapt soul to worlds above;

The Great Creator’s power proclaims,

And tells of the Redeemer’s love.

  117.

  118.

My first is stationed near your heart,

And serves to brace the mortal frame;

Of young and old it forms a part,

And to fair woman gives a name.

Who builds a ship must it employ,

To give it strength to stem the flood,

And Adam felt no real joy

Till in new form by him it stood.

My second may be long or short,

Or tight or loose, or wet or dry,

Of cotton, silk, or woolen wrought,

Of any texture, strength, or dye—

Be made of iron, gold, or steel,

Of love or hate, of good or ill,

May gently bind, or heavy feel,

May give support, or rudely kill.

My whole is formed by fashion, skill, and care,

And what few ladies from their dress can spare.

  125.

  126.

What skillful housewife does not know

When, where to place my first?

When nicely done, it will not show;

Conspicuous, it is worst.

My second all the world must do,

Either with head or hand,

In different ways the same pursue,

On water, or on land.

My whole a picture is of life,

Varied with good or ill,

With bright or dull, with light or dark,

Arranged with art and skill.

Just equal are my head and tail,

My middle slender as can be,

Whether I stand on head or heel,

’Tis all the same to you or me.

But if my head should be cut off,

The matter’s true, although ’tis strange,

My head and body, severed thus,

Immediately to nothing change.

  liv    sin      transgre      procur   damn       

A   ing       er s     ssion          ed     ation.

  dy    Redeem  pa   purchas   salv

  135.

  136.

  137.

Go wide o’er the world,

And everywhere seek me—

In earth, sea, or air,

Thou never shalt meet me!

Go wide o’er the world—

I always am there—

Wherever thou roamest,

In earth, sea, or air!

Go speak to the woodland,

And question of me—

Oh ne’er shall thou find me,

With forest or tree!

Go, speak to the woodland,

I ever am there,

And live in its whispers,

Though lighter than air!

Go, winnow the wave,

And seek for my breath—

Ah, ocean and river,

Reveal but my death!

Go, winnow the wave,

Tho’ with winter it shiver—

There—there shalt thou find me,

’Mid ocean and river!

In whirlwinds I revel,

Yet in zephyrs expire—

I flourish in warmth,

And I perish in fire!

The winter I cherish,

Yet each season I shun;

Half living in harvest,

In summer, undone!

I come with the warlock—

I go with the ghoul—

I shriek with the wizard—

I hoot with the owl!

I ride on the hazel

Which witches have rent—

I fly on the wing

Which the eagle hath bent.

I come and I go—

Oft unseen and unsought;

I live but in words—

I perish in thought.

So to all and to each,

I bid you adieu;

Yet to all and to each,

I stay double with you!

I’m a heavy drag—few things more slow.

Cut off my head, and give me a bow,

And swiftly through the air I go.

I follow the plough, and yet I never walk,

Have plenty of teeth, yet neither eat nor talk,

Am strongly barred, and yet I never close,

I scratch and break, but never deal in blows.

A pair of little quadrupeds,

Transpose them, and you’ll find

The lords of ocean, or the aids

For disciplining mind;

Or that which cheers the midnight hour,

Or gilds the flagstaff high;

Now test your transposition power,

And for the answer try.

I’m in the book, but not on any leaf;

I’m in the mouth, but not in lip or teeth;

I’m in the atmosphere, but never in the air;

I wait on every one, but never on a pair;

I am with you wherever you may go;

And every thing you do I’m sure to know;

Though when you did it I should not be there,

Yet when ’twas done, you’d find me in the chair.

I am composed of seventeen letters.

My 4, 6, 10, is what we all do.

  “   5, 8, 14, 11, is a great part of the body.

  “   1, 13, 9, 15, is the name of a fish.

  “   7, 16, 2, 10, is a part of speech.

  “   13, 8, 3, is the name of a fowl.

  “   6, 15, 14, is a girl’s name.

  “   17, 6, 10, 15, is very useful to vessels.

  “   13, 6, 12, is a personal pronoun.

My whole is what we may all expect if we live.

His heart was sad, and his foot was sore,

When a stranger knocked at the cottager’s door;

With travel faint, as the night fell down,

He had missed his way to the nearest town,

And he prayed for water to quench his thirst,

And he showed his purse as he asked for my first.

The cotter was moved by the stranger’s tale,

He spread the board, and he poured the ale:

“The river,” he said, “flows darkly down

Betwixt your path and the lighted town,

And far from hence its stream is crossed

By the bridge on the road that you have lost;

Gold may not buy, till your weary feet

Have traversed the river and reached the street,

The thing you ask; but the wandering moon

Will be out in the sky with her lantern soon;

Then cross o’er the meadow, and look to the right,

And you’ll find my second by her light.”

My second shone like a silver floor,

When the traveler passed from the cotter’s door;

He saw the town on its distant ridge,

Yet he sighed no more for the far-off bridge;

And his wish of the night soon gained its goal,

For he found my first when he reached my whole.

My first is a letter, an insect, a word,

That means to exist; it moves like a bird.

My next is a letter, a small part of man,

’Tis found in all climes; search where you can.

My third is a something seen in all brawls.

My next you will find in elegant halls.

My last is the first of the last part of day,

Is ever in earnest, yet never in play.

My whole gives a light, by some men abhorred,

The blessings from which no pen can record.

I’m composed of letters four,

A turkey, cock, or hen;

Behead me, and I upward soar.

Put on my head again,

Transpose me, then a beast I am,

Both bloodthirsty and wild,

That preys on many a helpless lamb,

And oft devours a child.

I have wings, yet never fly—

I have sails, yet never go—

I can’t keep still, if I try,

Yet forever stand just so.

An emblem of stupidity,

My first in forests found;

Up in air oft rises high,

Though fastened to the ground,

But by sharp means it is removed,

And managed various ways;

By art or skill may be improved,

Or, perhaps, it makes a blaze.

My second is of every kind,

Is good, or bad, or gay;

Is dull or bright, to suit all minds,

By night as well as day.

The patient seaman keeps with care my whole,

And well it knows his secrets night and day;

And though it has no tongue, nor heart, nor soul,

It tells the story of the ship’s long way.

Tell me why is it, if you lend

But forty dollars to a friend,

It does your kindness more commend

Than if five hundred you should send?

My first is a busy industrious thing,

Without which no bundle your porter can bring;

My second is nothing to speak of, yet stands

For thousands and millions, in money or lands;

My third is a question we meet every day,

Relating to things we do, think, or say;

My whole is the questioner—once it was you,

If not, ’twas your brother, or cousin, or—whew!

It was somebody else whom your grandmother knew.

My first is a preposition.

  “   second implies more than one.

  “   third is a pronoun.

  “   fourth some people do not pay.

  “   whole is not consistent.

I am a word of four letters often used in prayer.

Transposed, I become what every one professes.

Transposed again, I become an adjective, the qualities of which every one despises.

Transposed again, I am part of a horse.

My first is poison, slow yet sure,

That preys on many frames;

Compounded oft of things impure,

And called by many names.

My first and second form my whole,

That’s one of Satan’s dens;

Many a man has lost his soul,

Through meeting there with friends.

I am a word of four letters—the name of a Cape.

Transposed, I am a portion of the earth’s surface.

Transposed again, I am a kind of meat.

Transposed again, I become a verb signifying to wash.

I prove 2 = 1, thus:—

x = a; then x² = ax

x² - a² = ax - a²

(x + a)(x - a) = a(x - a)

x + a = a

2a = a

2 = 1

Who will detect the fallacy?

Ethereal thing, on unseen wing,

Through space my first is wandering;

It nothing sees, it nothing knows,

Yet all that’s known and seen it shows.

Brick, iron, mud, stone, reed, or wood,

My second in all climes has stood—

A lodge, a nest, where love may rest,

Or a prison, gloomy, dark, unblest.

Away on the bleak and desolate peak

Where the rude tempests howl and shriek,

Like a friendly eye, looking out from the sky.

My whole to the wanderer gleams on high.

In every hedge my second is,

As well as every tree,

And when poor school-boys act amiss,

It often is their fee.

My first likewise is always wicked,

Yet ne’er committed sin,

My total for my first is fitted,

Composed of brass or tin.

When winter months have passed away,

And summer suns shine bright,

You ope the coffer where I lay,

And bring my first to light.

My second is a valiant knight,

Who wears his crest and spur,

And when he’s challenged to a fight,

He does not long demur.

My whole, as ancient fables say,

Was once a friend of Juno,

In dress he makes a great display—

His name by this time you know.

When innocence first had its dwelling on earth,

In my first’s lovely form it alighted;

And still to this time, from the hour of its birth,

In my first it has greatly delighted.

My second’s a part of a smart lady’s dress,

Yet on age it may also be found;

Again, ’tis a garb when the heart feels distress—

And my whole does with pleasure abound.

My first is male or female, young or old,

’Tis very sad if you are forced to doubt one;

Much must we pity the false heart or cold,

Who is so selfish as to live without one.

My second is a noble work of art,

Which brings together distant shores and lands;

Though neither feet it has, nor head, nor heart,

’Tis often furnished with a hundred hands.

My whole in youth or age, sickness or health,

In joy or sorrow, charms to life can give;

Without it, all in vain are hoards of wealth,

By it unblest in solitude we live.

My first is when the summer wind

Sweeps rustlingly through the trees,

When the jasmine spray and the eglantine

Are swayed by the whispering breeze;

My second, a weapon of bloody strife,

Of steel, so cruel and cold,

Which ruthlessly takes the soldier’s life,

The cowardly, and the bold;

My whole is a Poet, by every one known,

So wide is his renown.

My first in the garden luxuriantly grows,

Delicious and sweet, as every one knows;

My second a noisy, vain, garrulous thing,

The lord of a harem, as proud as a king;

My whole is still prouder, and seems to rejoice

As much in his tail as he does in his voice.

O’er a mighty pasture go

Sheep in thousands, silver white;

As to-day we see them, so

In the oldest grandsire’s sight.

They drink—never waning old—

Life from an unfailing brook;

There’s a shepherd to their fold,

With a silver-horned crook.

From a gate of gold let out,

Night by night he counts them over;

Wide the field they rove about,

Never hath he lost a rover:

True the dog that helps to lead them,

One gay ram in front we see;

What the flock, and who doth lead them,

Sheep and shepherd, tell to me?

Ye mortals—wonder! I’m an elf,

A strange, mysterious thing;

More powerful than all the sprites

Within a magic ring.

I speak—although I have no tongue—

I speak, and thrill the soul;

I sing—and many a song I’ve sung

Resounds, while ages roll.

I am a weapon, strong and keen,

All made of glittering steel;

But human souls—not senseless flesh—

My sharp two-edges feel.

The greatest writer e’er was born—

But, ah!—a thievish elf;

For what I write is not, alas!

Original with myself.

I often take a cooling bath;

But, like the Ethiop’s skin,

When I have bathed, I’m blacker still

Than when I did begin!

Most kind am I; I glad the heart

Of many a wretched wight,

And many a sufferer is by me

Transported with delight.

Most cruel I; I’ve pierced the soul

With cutting, burning darts;

I’ve dashed the fondest hopes to earth,

I’ve crushed the lightest hearts.

Yet wise and powerful as I am,

A very slave am I;

I’m forced the mandates to obey

Of both the low and high.

Now, witty brains, tell who this is,

Who blesses and who curses;

Who has no hands, yet still who is

The writer of these verses.

That gentle picture dost thou know,

Itself, its hues, and splendor gaining?

Some change each moment can bestow,

Itself as perfect still remaining;

It lies within the smallest space,

The smallest framework forms its girth,

And yet that picture can embrace

The mightiest objects known on earth:

Canst thou to me that crystal name

(No gem can with its worth compare)

Which gives all light, and knows no flame?

Absorbed is all creation there!

That ring can in itself inclose

The loveliest hues that light the heaven,

Yet from its light more lovely goes

Than all which to it can be given!

From 6 take nine, from 9 take 10;

From 40 take 50, and 6 remain.

There is a mansion, vast and fair,

That doth on unseen pillars rest;

No wanderer leaves the portals there,

Yet each how brief a guest!

The craft by which that mansion rose,

No thought can picture to the soul;

’Tis lighted by a lamp which throws

Its stately shimmer through the whole.

As crystal clear, it rears aloof

The single gem which forms its roof,

And never hath the eye surveyed

The master who that mansion made.

X U R, X U B,

X, 2 X U R 2 me.

I was before the world begun,

Before the earth, before the sun;

Before the moon was made, to light

With brighter beams the starry night;

I’m at the bottom of the sea,

And I am in immensity;

The daily motion of the earth

Dispels me, and to me gives birth;

You can not see me if you try,

Although I’m oft before your eye;

Such is my whole. But, for one part,

You’ll find in taste I’m rather tart;

Now I become the abode of men—

And now, for groveling beasts, a pen;

I am a man who lives by drinking;

Anon I keep a weight from sinking;

To take me, folks go far and near;

I am what children like to hear;

I am a shining star on high;

And now, its pathway through the sky;

My strength o’erpowers both iron and steel;

Yet oft I’m left behind the wheel;

I’m made to represent a head;

Am found in every loaf of bread;

Such are the many forms I take,

You can not count all I can make;

Yet, after all, so strange am I,

Soon as you know me, then I die.

SINGLE HANDED ALPHABET.

Up and down two buckets ply

A single well within;

While the one comes full on high,

One the deeps must win.

Full or empty, never ending,

Rising now, and now descending,

Always while you quaff from this,

That one lost in the abyss,

From that well the waters living

Never both together giving.

Come from my first—ay, come! the battle dawn is nigh,

And the screaming trump and thundering drum are calling thee to die!

Fight as thy father fought, fall as thy father fell;

Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought, so forward, and farewell!

Toll ye, my second, toll! Fill high the flambeau’s light,

And sing the hymn of a parted soul beneath the silent night,

The wreath upon his head, the cross upon his breast,

Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed—so take him to his rest.

Call ye my whole—ay, call the lord of lute and lay,

And let him greet the sable pall with a noble song to-day;

Go, call him by his name! no fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier’s fame on the turf of a soldier’s grave.

Amid the serpent race is one

That earth did never bear;

In speed and fury there be none

That can with it compare.

With fearful hiss—its prey to grasp—

It darts its dazzling course,

And locks in one destroying clasp

The horseman and the horse.

It loves the loftiest heights to haunt—

No bolt its prey secures;

In vain its mail may valor vaunt,

For steel its fury lures!

As slightest straw whirled by the wind,

It snaps the starkest tree;

It can the might of metal grind,

How hard soe’er it be!

Yet ne’er but once the monster tries

The prey it threats to gain:

In its own wrath consumed it dies,

And while it slays is slain.

Moce ye inugeison nose hist dilerd suesg

Ti si ton cufidlift ouy liwl socfens,

Thaw si hatt burmen—hiwhc fi ouy ivdedi,

Ouy hent liwl hington veale no theire dies?

Ages ago, when Greece was young,

And Homer, blind and wandering, sung;

Where’er he roamed, through street or field,

My first the noble bard upheld;

Look to the new moon for my next,

You’ll see it there, but if perplexed,

Go ask the huntsman, he can show

My name—he gives it many a blow;

My whole, as you will quickly see,

Is a large town in Tuscany,

Which ladies soon will recognize—

A favorite head-dress it supplies.

A tree that, without life or root,

Without a blossom, bud, or flower,

Bears various and most precious fruit,

That comes and goes in one short hour.

My first is an adjective, short and dry,

Which an absence of moisture seems to imply,

Or, in reference to mind, that kind of wit,

Which is slack on the rein, and sharp on the bit

My second is a sort of hole, or den,

Unfit for the resort of timid men,

Whence once the righteous came safely out,

While the wicked were wholly put to rout.

My whole is an author of classic fame,

If you know the man, please tell me his name.

Read see how me

Down will I love

And you love you

Up and you if

Ere from the east arose the lamp of day,

Or Cynthia gilt the night with paler ray—

Ere earth was form’d, or ocean knew its place,

Long, long anterior to the human race

I did exist. In chaos I was found,

When awful darkness shed its gloom around.

In heaven I dwell, in those bright realms above,

And in the radiant ranks of angels move.

But when th’ Almighty, by his powerful call,

Made out of nothing this stupendous ball,

I did appear, and still upon this earth

Am daily seen, and every day have birth.

With Adam I in Paradise was seen,

When the vile serpent tempted Eve to sin;

And, since the fall, I with the human race

Partake their shame and manifest disgrace.

In the dark caverns of old ocean drear

I ever was, and ever shall appear.

In every battle firmly I have stood,

When plains seem lav’d, whole oceans dy’d with blood.

But, hold—no more! It now remains with you

To find me out and bring me forth to view.

Figures, they say, won’t lie; but here

Is something either false or queer.

I find that, in my family,

One taken from two still leaves me three,

And two from two, by the same score,

Leaves a remainder of just four.

My first is a measure much used in the East,

Or a close-covered vehicle drawn by one beast;

My second is a prefix—a small preposition—

Two thirds of a tavern—a paid politician;

My whole, though part of a vessel, has stood

Alone on the prairie, or ’neath the great wood,

And often is found, poor, wretched, and mean,

The city’s proud palaces squatting between.

What’s that the poor’s most precious friend,

Nor less by kings respected—

Contrived to pierce, contrived to rend,

And to the sword connected.

It draws no blood, and yet doth wound;

Makes rich, but ne’er with spoil;

It prints, as earth it wanders round,

A blessing on the soil.

The eldest cities it hath built,

Bade mightiest kingdom rise; it

Ne’er fired to war, nor roused to guilt:

Weal to the states that prize it!

Revolving round a disk I go

One restless journey o’er and over;

The smallest field my wanderings know,

Thy hand the space could cover:

Yet many a thousand miles are passed

In circling round that field so narrow:

My speed outstrips the swiftest blast,

The strongest bowman’s arrow.

I have no life, yet, as I fly,

A thing of beauty to the eye,

I bear, my glittering shape beneath,

A part of my Creator’s breath;

With ever-changing shade and hue

I rise and vanish from the view,

And, though a phantom deemed, I share,

In portions, water, earth, and air.

I go, but never stir,

I count, but never write,

I measure and divide, and, sir,

You’ll find my measures right.

I run, but never walk,

I strike, but never wound,

I tell you much, but never talk,

In my diurnal round.

A word of one syllable call to your mind,

The letters of which will, if rightly combined,

Provide you with two kinds of fuel—ay, more,

A warm piece of clothing—and fasten your door.

Let two Roman fives at extremities meet.

At the right hand of these, add two circles complete;

Then five times one hundred place at the right hand,

And a nice winter’s comfort they make as they stand.

I’m black or white, I’m brown or gray,

I’m tall or flat, I’m grave or gay,

As soft as wool, or stiff as tin,

A nest for wits to nestle in.

I hold great intellects, yet oft

Am bothered with the weak and soft,

And sometimes crusty, hard, and thick

They fill me with well burned brick.

Fashion controls me, yet I wear

Some aspects to make fashion stare.

Though always for one place designed,

I change as often as the wind.

I’m dumb, and yet, in spite of that,

Make more than half of every “Chat,”

I’m mild—yet none can hate—(don’t doubt me)

Nor raise a fighting-cock without me.

In every home I stand confessed,

A friend of quiet, peace, and rest;

Take off my head, and on your head

My streamers rise, black, brown, or red;

Cut now again, and take my neck off,

You leave my substance not a speck of,

But, with ethereal lightness gay,

I pass in idle breath away.

’Tis said of lawyers Grab and Clinch,

They take an ell when you offer an inch;

But I can do a smarter thing—

Give me an ell, I will make it ring;

If for advice you come to me

When you are ill, I call for the fee;

If any road you chance to wend,

You think you’ve reached the very end,

I come and give it such a turn,

You find there’s something yet to learn;

If to the inn you seek for rest,

I chuck you in a box or chest;

The beggar’s rags I make so proud,

He of his garments boasts aloud;

The aged and infirm with me

Lose caution and timidity;

For, young or old, to every one

I furnish, if not muscle, bone.

One of a gallant vagrant band,

My name is known in every land;

In all earth’s changes I am there;

Without me none may war declare,

Or treat of peace, or try their parts

On manufacture, tillage, arts;

By me a patient saint of old

Was changed into a warrior bold;

I made old Abner’s father near;

His wife was deaf, I made her hear;

His house I put upon his back;

His jaw an iron bond I make;

Bad spirit by my presence claims

To be the end of human aims;

And a young bear is seen to be

A coveted jewel of the sea.

I consist of eleven letters.

My 9th, 7th, and 1st, is where infants often repose;

  “   3d, 10th, and 7th, is a foreign plant much used by us;

  “   1st, 7th, 5th, 9th, 4th, and 11th, is to treat by word of mouth;

  “   6th, 4th, 7th, and 8th, is a delicious fruit;

  “   2d, 7th, and 3d, to do which affords great satisfaction;

  “   4th, 7th, and 5th, is an essential part of the head;

  “   3d, 10, 7th, and 8th, is often used for joy or sorrow;

  “   whole is the name of a distinguished writer for Merry’s Museum.

What was the difference—can you show—

Between the Prodigal in his woe,

And Lazarus, in his low estate,

Feeding on crumbs at Dives’ gate?

MERRY’s MUSEUM

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES.

The rose shall cease to blow,

The eagle turn a dove,

The stream shall cease to flow,

Ere I will cease to love.

The sun shall cease to shine,

The world shall cease to move,

The stars their light resign,

Ere I will cease to love.

The tiger couches in the wood,

And waits to shed the traveler’s blood;—

So couch we.

We spring upon him to supply

What men unto our wants deny;

And so springs he.

Work, work, work!

My labor never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread—and rags,

That shattered roof—this naked floor,

A table—a broken chair,

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank

For sometimes falling there!

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat in unwomanly rags,

Plying her needle and thread.

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch.

She sang the “Song of the Shirt.”

There’s a grim hearse horse,

In a jolly round trot,

To the churchyard a poor man is going, I wot.

The road it is rough,

And the hearse has no springs,

And hark to the dirge the sad driver sings—

“Rattle his bones over the stones,

He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns.”

Of all the birds that e’er I did see,

The owl is the strangest in every degree,

For all the long day she sits in a tree,

And when the night comes, away flies she,

To whit-to-whoo.

To whom drinkest thou? Sir Noodles, to you.

This song is well sung, I make you a vow,

And he is a knave that aileth now.

Nose, nose, and who gave thee that jolly red nose?

Cinnamon and ginger, nutmeg and cloves,

And they gave me my jolly red nose.

Full five hundred years I’ve hung,

In my old grey turret high,

And many a different theme I’ve sung,

As the hours went winging by.

I’ve pealed the chimes of a wedding morn;

Ere night I’ve sadly tolled to say

That the maid was coming love lorn,

And here I end my lay.

The joyful can sing on spirit wings

Each morn his lofty height,

In rapt’rous notes he sweetly sings,

And hails th’ approaching light;

But I from grief no solace know,

No portal from the night,

All joys to me insipid grow,

Afford me no delight.

There was a man who was Nott born,

His father was Nott born before him;

He did Nott live, he did Nott die,

And his epitaph is Nott o’er him.

Hark! the muffled drum sounds the last march of the brave,

The soldier retreats to his quarters, the grave,

Under Death, whom he owns his Commander-in-chief,

No more he’ll turn out with the ready relief;

But in spite of Death’s terrors or cannon’s alarms,

When he hears the last trump he’ll stand to his arms!

Farewell! brother soldiers, in peace may you rest,

And light lie the turf on each veteran breast,

Until that review when the souls of the brave

Shall behold the chief ensign, fair mercy’s flag, wave;

Then, freed from Death’s terrors and hostile alarms,

When we hear the last trump, we’ll stand to our arms.

To you who live single, if this at all trouble you,

My first comes in kindness, commanding to double you.

And again, it will double you, if, like a clown,

You lift high your sole, and bend your head down;

Or, cut it in twain, two V’s will appear,

And V counting five, both make ten it is clear.

My second, alas! comes shrouded in gloom,

It is O, which makes wo, the sinner’s sad doom.

Now see what a change comes over the scene,

If my third, which is O, be added again.

Now ’tis woo—and what bachelor’s heart does not beat,

To woo a sweet damsel, to keep warm his feet;

To cheer by her smiles his lone hours—and thus

Escape, by good fortune, the bachelor’s curse!

My fourth and my last, as I’ll go on to tell,

Is nought more or less than a capital L.

Now L being fifty, will even divide

One Hundred, or teachers and books have all lied.

Now examine with care, and plain you will see

That to unlock a secret, an L is the key;

For woo, with L added, is changed into wool,

Whether worn on a sheep, or an African’s skull.

Whether made into clothing, for bed or for body,

For “sage politician” or some other noddy.

It is used, the world over, in commerce and trade;

But its last use, I trow, was to make a charade.

Not a rose that blooms,

Not a ring that assumes

The rainbow’s beautiful front,

But’s indebted to me,

As ye plainly see,

For the scent or splendor on’t.

The moon and the stars

That around ye roll,

The systems ye can not discern,

Are warmed by my rays,

And partake of the soul

And the spirit that in me burn.

And nothing throws back with such splendor my rays,

As the sea’s mighty mirror in midsummer days.

’Twas at night, when the bell had tolled twelve,

And poor Susan was laid on her pillow,

In her ear whispered some fleeting elf—

“Your love is now tossed on the billow”

Far, far at sea.

All was dark as she woke out of breath—

Not an object her fears could discover;

All was still as the portals of death,

Save fancy, which painted her lover

Far, far at sea.

So she whispered a prayer, closed her eyes,

But the phantom still haunted her pillow,

While in terror she echoed his cries,

As struggling he sunk on the billow

Far, far at sea.

Lightly tread—’tis holy ground:

Countless dead hark, hark around;

Angel guards their watches keep,

While frail mortals sink to sleep:

And the moon, with feeble rays,

Gilds the stream that bubbling plays,

And murmurs, as soft it flows,

Music meet for lovers’ woes.

At the peaceful midnight hour,

Every sense and every power

Chainéd lies in downy sleep;

Then our careful watch we keep,

While the wolf, in nightly prowl,

Bays the moon with hideous howl;

Closed are bars, a vain resistance;

Shrieks are raised, but no assistance;

Silence! or you’ll meet your fate;

Your keys, jewels, money, plate.

Locks, bolts, and bars soon fly asunder,

Then to rifle, rob, and plunder.

The coward skulking round a house,

Is like a mouse-trap as you see,

For that will puzzle any mouse,

And pusillanimous is he.

It is not aloud (allowed).

Private earing (privateering) is unlawful.

Glorious Apollo from on high beheld us

Wand’ring to find a temple for his praise;

Sent Polyhymnia hither to shield us

While we ourselves such a temple might raise.

Thus then, Guards, hands and hearts joining,

Sing we in harmony Apollo’s praise.

Here every generous sentiment awaking,

Music inspiring our mutual joy,

Each social bumper giving and partaking,

Song and good cheer our time employ.

On! by the spur of valor goaded,

Pistols primed and rifles loaded,

Courage strikes on hearts of steel.

While each star through the dark gloom of night,

Lends a clear and cheering light,

Who a doubt or fear can feel?

Now through woods like serpents creeping,

Then on our prey like lions leaping,

Calvert to the onset leads us.

Let the weary traveler dread us.

Struck with terror and amaze;

While our swords in lightning pouring,

Thunder to our rifles roaring.

When the rosy dawn awaking

Paints with gold the verdant lawn;

Flies, on the wings of time disporting,

Sip the sweets and taste the dawn.

Warbling birds the day proclaiming,

Singing sweet the lively strain;

They forsake their leafy dwelling,

To secure the golden grain.

See; content the humble gleaner

Picks the scattered ears that fall.

Nature, all her children viewing,

Kindly bounteous cares for all.

Sweet are the roses that bloom by yon fountain,

And sweet are the cowslips that spangle the grove,

And sweet is the breeze that blows o’er the mountains;

But sweeter by far is the lad that I love.

I’ll weave a gay and fresh blooming garland,

With lilies and roses,

And sweet, blooming posies,

To give to the lad my heart tells me I love.

May the brow of the brave never want a wreath of laurel.

No gems which pluméd fortune wears,

No drop that hangs from beauty’s ears,

Nor the bright stars which night’s blue vault adorn,

Nor rising suns that gild the vernal morn,

Shine with such lustre as the tear that breaks

For other’s woe down virtue’s manly cheeks.

’Tis good to tread the churchyard’s walks,

And mark the graves on either side;

Or where the rough old sexton talks

With sheer contempt of human pride;

To contemplate the scattered bones

That meet the eye so often there;

To read the inscription on the stones,

And think what fleeting things we are.

’Tis good at twilight’s sober hour,

To sit on some neglected tomb,

And dwell on death’s all-startling power,

And muse upon our certain doom.

Because these thoughts are sure to win

The spirit more or less from sin.

A living sinner’s transgression procured damnation.

A dying Redeemer’s passion purchased salvation.

Early to bed, and early to rise,

Makes a man healthy,

Wealthy, and wise.

Music awakes

The native voice of undissembledjoy,

And thick around the woodland hymns arise.

Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd

Leaves his mossy cottage, where with peace

He dwells, and from the crowded folds in

Order drives his flock, to taste the verdure of

The morn.

  163.

It is but D sent, as you see,

If you 500 send,

But truly XL lent ’twill be,

When you the 40 lend.

The weapon’s a steel pen, I think,

Unless I’ve made a blunder;

When Hatchet dips it in the ink,

I’d like to stand from under.

“Old lady”—quotha! think of that.

My goodness—heart-alive!

I tell you, Mr. Hatchet—flat!

I’m scarcely sixty-five.

   SIX IX XL

IX X L

  ———————

   S I X

Cross you are, cross you be,

Cross, too cross, you are for me.

Come, ye ingenious ones, this riddle guess,

It is not difficult, you will confess.

What is that number which, if you divide,

You then will nothing leave on either side?

The number -8-.

I—O—A

Insert W, it makes Iowa.

“    T,        “       Iota.

Read down and up,

And you will see

How I love you,

If you love me.

The boy can see his shadow,

The shadow can’t see him.

It would make it a lie.

It would make Italy.

The gong makes a din,

The cook makes a dinner.

One-sided, sir.

Once I did, sir.

The one close their eyes,

The other eye their clothes.

The letter B.

Of ell, it makes bell.

  “  ill,        “      bill.

  “  end      “      bend.

  “  in         “      bin.

  “  rags     “      brags.

  “  old       “      bold.

  “  one      “      bone.

The dog worries him.

The groom curries him;

The dog bites him,

The groom bits him.

The letter A.

It changed Job to Joab.

   made Ner  –  near.

   “    her  –  hear.

   “    cot  –  coat.

   “    gin  –  gain.

   “   cub  –  Cuba.

The “lap” is the place where infants repose,

And “tea” is a plant that we use;

To “Parley” ’s to treat by word, I suppose,

And “pear” is a fruit we all choose.

Many youth like “to eat,” I’m afraid, beyond measure,

And part of the head is the “ear,”

And what is more common than, when we feel pleasure,

Or grief, to give vent to a “tear.”

“Peter Parley” ’s distinguished I’m sure as a writer,

And welcom’d by all with a smile;

And surely no book is a greater exciter

Than this, which goes many a mile.

The one suffered wantonly;

The other from want only.

  1.

  2.

  8.

My first is seen in pillared halls,

Where kings and princes dwell;

’Tis found in every woodland vale,

In every sunny dell.

Upon the yellow sandy beach,

The ocean billows roar,

My next—you’ll find it in the foam,

Rippling upon the shore.

Within the dark and gloomy cave,

Hid from the sun’s bright glare,

Precious jewels line the walls,

And my third is always there.

My fourth and last is found in France,

But never seen in Spain;

It has always been in England’s clime,

In every monarch’s reign.

My whole from Jupiter’s court on high,

Descends to cheer the earth;

Without his presence there would be

Of happiness a dearth.

I am composed of 14 letters:

My 1, 4, 3, 1, 9, 6 is a handsome kind of cloth.

My 2, 5, 11 is a conjunction.

My 8, 7, 5, 9 is a number.

My 10, 3, 12, 13 is to kill.

My whole is a celebrated day.

  18.

My first is a female,

My second the same,

My whole is much dreaded—

Pray what is its name?

I am composed of 14 letters.

My 13, 11, 7, 3, 1, 12 is a dream.

My 8, 14, 10, 9 is a net.

My 1, 6, 8, 4, 13, 14, 2, 5 is a balance.

My whole is a celebrated man.

  26.

I cheer the pilgrim’s lonely way,

As toils he on from day to day;

Curtail me, and I then am found

What students do on college ground;

Curtail once more, and by inspection

You’ll find I am an interjection.

My first speeds proudly through our land;

My next is what my first doth do;

My whole is one of that noble band

Who signed the freedom of our land,

And struggled bravely through.

  36.

  38.

Fair Bessy promised to bestow

My first upon her lover,

And much I hope that no dark clouds

Around the pair may hover.

Sweet Bessy’s age is just eighteen,

Of gold she has my second;

On bearing off the lovely prize

How many beaus had reckon’d!

And now my riddle I’ll conclude,

And hope you’ll not me quiz,

For what I say is very true—

My whole fair Bessy is.

  48.

I am composed of 21 letters.

My 4, 9, 12 is a Greek preposition.

My 7, 5, 8, 14 a vessel used in the Scotch sea.

My 17, 13, 21 is entity.

My 18, 19, 3, 10 is a bed formed by birds.

My 1, 11, 15 is to dip.

My 20, 6, 2, 16 is to tarnish.

My whole is want of symmetry.

In my first, relations most generally find

An interest of a peculiar kind;

My second, an adverb of humble degree,

Combined with my first names a beautiful tree.

’Twas night—a stormy, tempestuous night,

All wakeful and anxious the crew,

As they watched my first in its wild, mad flight,

While over the waves it flew.

And now, in the midst of these wild alarms,

My second is dashed on the shore,

Till Ocean opens her treacherous arms,

And gathers it home once more.

Let us turn from these dreary scenes away,

So solemn and filled with gloom,

And in meadows or pleasant gardens stray,

Where in beauty my whole doth bloom.

I am composed of 12 letters:

My 1, 9, 11 is an animal.

My 3, 9, 10, 11 is a grain.

My 4, 5, 7 is part of a barn.

My 12, 2, 6, 8 is a stone.

My whole is a body politic.

  69.

A preposition my first;

My second’s a number;

My third a brisk motion

That drives away slumber;

My whole is a service

For which dearly we pay;

At least, ’tis charged so

In hotel bills they say.

  76.

My 1st is in pie, but not in cake.

My 2d is in hoe, but not in rake.

My 3d is in house, but not in barn.

My 4th is in wool, but not in yarn.

My 5th is in take, but not in give.

My 6th is in strainer, but not in sieve.

My 7th is in rye, but not in wheat.

And my whole is sometimes good to eat.

Entire, I am of bloody mien,

And spread destruction all around;

Beheaded—cheerfully I’m seen

Where pleasure’s votaries are found.

  92.

The initial letters, joined aright,

A famous Jew will bring to light.

Fi rwods locdu fiatsys het rhtea,

Eht threa gimth nidf sles earc;

Utb oswrd eilk rumsem isbdr padret,

Dan veale tub typem rai.

A itleti dsai—nad yrtul isda—

Nac peeder yoj tarpim,

Naht shots fo dowrs chwih chear teh dahe

Tbu venre chout het ahetr.

the puzzle is, to get from the entrance, A, to the centre, B, without crossing any of the white lines.

  123.

My whole, I lightly swim

The smooth lake’s sparkling brim,

Or down the river skim.

Transpose me, all around

The wide world’s endless bound,

In every clime I’m found.

My first, you hear its sullen roar

When wandering by the ocean’s shore;

My second in the gambler’s art

Hath played no mean or paltry part,

But, fired with sordid thirst to win,

It often aids him in his sin.

My whole is something that is found

Upon the face of all around,

Yet if you take from me my face,

I am a title commonplace.

I am composed of 12 letters:

My 11, 7, 2, 6, 1 is a place of trade.

My 9, 12, 3 is a locality where a certain individual passed the night.

My 5, 4, 10, 8 is a useful animal.

My whole is a well-known personage.

  151.

I’m pretty, I’m useful in various ways,

But if often you kiss me, ’twill shorten your days;

I part with one letter, and then I appear

What young men are fond of all days in the year;

I part with two letters, and then without doubt,

I’m just what you are if you can’t find me out.

  165.

  177.

Nine less ten,

With fifty twice told,

Is what many feel

When they’are growing old.

  192.

Dear friends, your notice now I crave,

For I’m a king, a queen, a slave;

Each human being claims my name,

And rightly, too, so where’s the blame?

Although I’m never more than one,

Just cross me once, you’ll find I’m some!

Whate’er my state of toil or rest,

I always love myself the best.

I may be greater, never less,

So now, young Merrys, please to guess.

  205.

Deep in the wood of spreading oaks,

Beneath the tangled boughs,

Where Nature dwells untouched by man,

My first in luxury grows.

My next in gorgeous robes arrayed,

Is queen of all her kind,

Where Nature’s touch is most displayed

In beauty undefined:

My whole a lovely garden treasure,

Emblem of love, of joy, and pleasure.

  221.

I am composed of 8 letters:

My 7, 4, 6 is a tumor.

My 5, 3, 1, 8 is a fluid.

My 2, 6 is a pronoun.

My whole is sometimes worn by a lady or gentleman.

The red-lipped morn rose fresh; and everywhere

The sunbeams welcome found, save one,

Which fluttered through the close-barred windows where

The gambling wretches, who the daylight shun,

With red wine flushed, and eyes bloodshot and red,

Wearied my first. Again, and yet again,

They the uncertain tide of fortune fed

With gold ill-gotten, other gold to gain.

Oh, what a ruin here! of God’s most noble work,

Of life’s great end, and of the deathless soul!

My second here we see! Ah, dangers lurk

Where passions rule—not principles control!

In vain my third is raised; a warning voice!

Their hearts are hardened, and they will not hear.

Useless to give my whole, or point to joys

Which but provoke the ribald jest or sneer!

Let us be thankful that the sunlight glad

Brings to our hearts but gladsomeness and praise!

Ne’er be the daylight in our haunts forbade!

Ne’er let us fear the noontide’s searching gaze!

a. A European sea.

b. A seaport of Russia.

c. A celebrated mountain.

d. A town in Tipperary, Ireland.

  232.

When eyes and limbs are wrapt in sleep,

Within one’s comfortable bed,

My first o’er both will nightly creep,

With thirsty fangs and noiseless tread.

My second prowls in every clime,

Where echoes not the human tread,

And thick the mountain forests twine

Their sunless branches overhead.

And when through groves of oak and birch,

The backwoods men and maids pursue

For blackberries their jovial search,

How often have the startled crew

Fled with my whole from sounds they reckoned

Were like the hoarse voice of my second!

1CE   a   horrid  X    took       2  bt  his  wife          stoo500

a time       bearing   1000an   de provocation ed   but     she

THEINSTE5IIOLN   for   he   JUcouldRE    her      came

she  500E1000O50ISHE500   ^t H ⁱ I ^m M ^e   with   a

100U500GE50.

The troop arranged for battle

Without my first would fly;

And whether good or bad,

Without it you would die.

Go seek the earth and ocean,

For smallest things you guess;

Yes, bring the atom from the air,

And still my second’s less.

The traitor, when condemn’d to die,

May calm his cares and pray;

Yet when the axe sounds "dust to dust,"

My whole he’s borne away.

I am composed of letters five,

The part of speech is adjective,

From either way I spell the same;

Pray tell me then what is my name.

  249.

I am as black as black can be,

Yet by a curious fantasy,

See my tracings, when time has fled,

You’ll find them black, though often red.

“Up! Stir the rough logs to a ruddier glow!

And spread forth the gladsome cheer!

For the night hangs dark on the plain below,

And the swift-winged storm is near!”

(Full oft my first,

When loud storms burst,

Shelters some wanderer from their worst!)

“Let the white sail flutter free and wide!

How our smooth prow cuts the laughing foam!

Faster, yet faster, oh, may we glide!

For we’re going home, boys!—going home!”

(May the good God’s hand

Keep that gallant band

From my second’s wrath, and guide to land!)

“Let the song be heard, the dance, and mirth!

Glad be each heart, each step be light!

Away with care and the woes of earth!

Gay be the festal hall to-night!”

(So the revelers sang,

And the goblets rang,

While my third kept chime with a glimmering clang!)

“To the strife! to the strife!—’tis the trumpet calls!

The foeman comes! To arms, ye brave!

On, soldiers, on! He wins, who falls,

A lasting fame and a patriot’s grave!”

(May God’s own might,

In the hour of fight,

Help those who strive for my whole and the right!)

White as driven snow are we—

Black as ink or ebony;

Red and yellow, gray and blue,

Golden, pink, and purple, too.

Glittering like a spangled dress,

Every color we possess;

Few and many, large and small,

Sometimes not beheld at all.

Thick and thin, and high and low,

Moving fast and moving slow;

Fell destruction send we forth,

East and west, and south and north.

Fire and flame we fling around

With a fearful mighty sound;

Vegetation soon would fade

Did we but withdraw our aid;

Dearth and famine would prevail;

Death would reign o’er hill and dale;

Never two alike you’ll see—

Puzzled reader, what are we?

I am composed of 11 letters:

My 1, 4, 5, 2, 8, 9 is a Scripture name with which we are all familiar.

My 3, 7, 5, 6 is an article of food.

My 8, 10, 11 is a nickname.

My whole is a Scripture name.

I’m worn by many a lady fair,

In ironing I need much care;

Behead, and I’m a purling stream,

Where many a poet loves to dream!

Behead again, oh! mortal frail,

And I will cause thy cheek to pale.

284. If you a journey ever take,

No matter when or where,

My first you’ll always have to pay,

Before you can get there.

My second you will seldom see,

If London through you go;

But still ’tis what I hope you are;

Few better things I know.

I say my whole till next we meet,

When well-known names I hope to greet.

I am composed of 9 letters:

My 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 has done more damage than my 6, 7, 8, 9.

My whole is, at present, deplorable.

In northern regions cold and wild,

My first you see, a mountain child,

In grandeur rise from its bed of snow,

And smile on the iron-bound coast below.

My second is loved by the school-boy bright,

With his rosy cheek and eye of light,

And to gain it oft he will truant play,

And leave master and lessons far away.

In sunny lands, where the fire-flies glow,

And fragrant breezes softly blow,

My whole you may find so fresh and fair,

And who would not wish in that treat to share?

I’m found in every mountain,

In every running vale,

Though never in the breezes found,

I’m found in every gale.

You’ll find me in the dark,

But never in the light;

You’ll always find me in the day,

But never in the night.

About your form, dear little one,

You’ll vainly look for me,

And yet in head, and hand, and arm

I’m always sure to be.

I’m not in nose, or eye, or lips,

Yet I’m in every feature,

In boys and girls I’m never found,

Yet I’m in every creature.

I’m found in Merry’s Magazine—

In Uncle Merry’s face;

And everywhere Aunt Sue appears,

I claim an honest place.

My first gave us early support;

My next a virtuous lass;

To the fields, if at eve you resort,

My whole you will probably pass.

Though for years I had lived, I was unknown to fame,

Till I rescued a slave, and I gave him my name.

Though then Abolitionist—still I enthrall,

And unless I imprison—of no use at all.

’Tis strange I should be both a boon and a blow,

But when you discern me, this fact you will know.

Doctors’ stuff I convey and small matters unfold,

Yet rare gems I preserve and great nuggets of gold.

In form I am round or three-cornered or square,

And at once I am known as both common and rare.

If you wish to be safe when you look at a show,

You must pay for, and take me, and sit in a row.

Clothed in crimson, and purple, and black I am seen,

Yet in gardens in winter I’m constantly green.

I am valued and dear, though ’tis equally clear,

I am scorned and am hated when placed on the ear.

Both of light goods and heavy I carry the trade,

Yet in gold I’m oft clothed and in jewels arrayed.

If bad passion disturb, or should ill-will excite,

I become the forerunner of many a fight.

Yet stranger than all these remarkable things,

I’m a gift oft bestowed by princes and kings.

My first you are when over the ground

You lightly trip to the river’s bank,

Where my second may always be found;

Beware my whole, ’tis cold and dank.

And fatal, too, to many a one

Who will not its danger carefully shun.

I am composed of 13 letters:

My 9, 10, 7, 1 was a good man.

My 4, 5, 13, 2, 8 is an unhappy wretch.

My 11, 12, 3, 6 is an adjective.

My whole is an extraordinary tale.

My first in cities is well known

And by me many live,

Obtain their freedom in the town,

And then a vote can give;

My second we can never see,

Whether on the land or sea;

My whole the sailor often braves,

When he plows the briny waves.

Why strains my first his wearied sight,

Across the silent main,

And loiters on the lonely beach?

He looks, alas! in vain.

For the chilly hand of Death has passed

My second’s stately side,

And its gallant crew are sunk beneath[pg 63]

The ocean’s briny tide.

Though time may pass with silent step,

And years go quickly by,

Yet My whole shall feed the vital flame

And its power shall never die.

I am composed of 15 letters:

My 9, 7, 8 is what wicked children often do.

My 14, 7, 3, 8 affords amusement to boys.

My 7, 13 is a preposition.

My 11, 2, 3, 4 is often pleasant in summer.

My 5, 1, 6, 12 is a girl’s name.

My 15, 12, 10 is often taken from trees.

My whole is the name of one of our generals.

I am not found on any ground,

But always in the air;

Though charged each cloud with thunder loud,

You can not find me there.

Now, if from France you choose to dance

Your way just into Spain,

I there am seen, and near the queen,

In hail, in mist, and rain.

My first, in distant lands

Full many a temple stands,

Once builded by his hands;

The marble from the mine,

His hand hath caused to shine

In beauty half divine;

My next in tropic lands

Grows where the roving bands

Roam o’er the desert sands;

My whole went forth—the world,

From chaos rudely hurled,

Along its orbit whirled.

My first is a domestic animal.

My second is a very useful article.

My third in sound is a Hebrew measure of liquids.

My whole is a list of names or things.

I am composed of 10 letters:

My 7, 5, 10 is a medicine.

My 6, 9, 1 is an adverb.

My 4, 2, 8, 3 may always be seen on Broadway.

My whole is a city.

I knew a man, not many years gone by,

Who had a block of timber in each eye,

Without impairing, in the least, his sight,

Or filling those who saw him with affright.

And what was more amazing, free to roam,

Fur-covered thousands made his head their home;

Two heavy buildings also rested there,

By them unnoticed, and no less his care.

A curse upon his meals he often had,

And saw with joy it made another glad.

Strangest of all, for every house he let,

A half a score of insects did beset.

At length he did become a seasoned dish,

To grace a throne, which suited well his wish;

And all this while an arrow, mind, was in him,

Which to the things he loved did firmly pin him.

My first’s a maiden’s Scripture name,

My second’s less than me,

My whole—ah! so unmerciful

I hope I ne’er shall be.

My first is half of what you do

When you are wildly dreaming;

My second our two horses drew

One day when Jack was teaming.

My whole the wolves eat when they can,

’Tis said they love me dearly;

And when I’m stripped to cover man,

I run about quite barely.

I am composed of 12 letters:

My 3, 6, 11, 2 is a puss-animalous noise.

My 8, 1, 9, 5 can make one very comfortable at some seasons of the year.

My 4, 10, 12, 7 is a pronoun.

My whole is the name of a humorous writer.

I am composed of 19 letters:

My 6, 7, 5 is an animal.

My 8, 19, 2 is a boy’s nickname.

My 13, 14, 5 is an eatable.

My 18, 1, 4, 9 is government.

My 15, 17, 11, 12 are very painful.

My 16, 10, 1, 3, 17, 4, 9, 2, 11 is ferocious.

My whole is what we all wish for.

I am composed of 14 letters:

My 1, 5, 7, 14 is a companion.

My 4, 8 is an interjection.

My 10, 11, 13, 12, 2, 11, 3 is a scoundrel.

My 6, 11, 9 is in very common use in the kitchen.

My whole is a village on the Hudson.

As an enigma, I am composed of five letters:

My 1, 5, 3 is a body of water.

My 3, 2, 5 is a liquor.

My 5, 3, 1, 4 is a point of the compass.

My 1, 5, 3, 4 is a place to rest.

My 3, 4 is a preposition.

My 1, 3, 2, 5 occurs every day.

I am in the men, but not in the boys.

I am in the playthings, but not in the toys.

I am in the north, but not in the south.

I am in the nose, but not in the mouth.

I am in the minister, but not in his hat.

I am in the kitten, but not in the cat.

I am in the barn, but not in the floor.

I am in the window, but not in the door.

I am in the county, but not in the state.

I am in the pencil, but not in the slate.

On this green grassy ball of a structure called earth,

I have dwelt unregarded for innumerable years,

And none more attached to the land of their birth,

More deep in its pleasures, its grief and its fears;

I sport ’mid the waves of the ocean and sea,

Or rest on the bank of some flowery glade.

Or join the fairies who dance on the lea,

Or play in the checkers of sunshine and shade,

But still I’m intent in my welfare I trust,

And not to vain empty frivolity given.

When I come to the end of all time, as I must,

I’m safe in the hope of dwelling in heaven.

To a word of consent join the first half of fright,

Next subjoin what you never beheld in the night;

Now, these rightly connected, we quickly obtain

What numbers have seen, but will ne’er see again.

My first it is a curious thing,

Of Nature’s own produce,

And many who have lost a limb

Have found it of great use.

By my second’s wondrous power

Ships are made with ease,

To stem against both wind and tide

Across the boundless seas.

My whole is very often found

Together with my first,

And comes in very handy

When you would quench your thirst.

’Tis found in our troubles, ’tis mixed with our pleasures,

’Tis laid up above with our heavenly treasures;

“’Tis whispered in heaven, and ’tis muttered in hell,”

And it findeth a place in each sybilline spell;

In Paradise nestled, ’mid Eden’s fair flowers,

It has sported with Eve in rose-perfumed bowers;

’Tis muttered in curses, yet breathed in our prayers;

From the path of our duty it tempts us in snares.

Deep, deep in our hearts you will find it engraved;

Though in misery sunk, yet from sin it is saved.

’Tis found in the stream that flows on to the ocean;

Though in bustle forever, ’tis ne’er in commotion.

’Tis wafted afar o’er the land in each breath;

In the grave ’tis decaying—you’ll find it in death.

It is floating away on the broad stream of time,

Yet it findeth a place in eternity’s clime.

In the legends of nations it holdeth a place;

There’s no charm without it to the beautiful face.

In thunder you’ll hear it, if closely you listen;

In moonbeam and sunbeam forever ’twill glisten.

In the dew-drop it sparkles; ’tis found in the forest;

It whispers in peace when our need is the sorest.

My first is not so often doled

To beggar sad and urchin bold,

As when the full amount in gold

Was paid for paper one might hold,

My second is a rank extolled

As beings of superior mold,

With virtues rare and manifold,

When they by toadies are cajoled—

A rank not made through ballots polled

By freemen legally enrolled.

My whole, a fragrant plant, is sold

In parcels small to grannies old,

Who in their early life were told

“’Twill check a fever—cure a cold.”

The puzzle is, to get from the Entrance to the Center Bower, by following the space between the lines without crossing the lines.

If words could satisfy the heart,

The heart might feel less care;

But words, like summer birds, depart,

And leave but empty air.

A little said, and truly said,

Can deeper joy impart,

Than hosts of words which reach the head,

But never touch the heart.

(1) Mr. and Mrs. A. cross the river together, Mr. A brings the boat back.

(2) Mrs. B. and Mrs. C. cross, Mrs. A. returns.

(3) Mr. B. and Mr. C. cross, Mr. and Mrs. B. return.

(4) Mr. A. and Mr. B. cross, Mrs. C. returns.

(5) Mrs. C. and Mr. B. go over, and Mr. A. returns for his wife.

Be not too wise nor over nice

For if you be, you little see,

How like an idiot you be.

Merry nephews, merry nieces,

Merry cousins all,

Merry aunts, with merry faces.

Merry uncles, take your places

Round the merry hall.

Here’s a book of merry jingles,

Made for merry times;

Merry here with Merry mingles,

Merry groups, and Merrys single,

"Merry’s Book of Rhymes."

Aunt Sue glowing, Fleta flashing,

Uncle Joe in smiles,

Mattie warbling, Buckeye dashing,

Older crowing, Hatchet slashing,

Each in his own style.

Merry nephs and nieces, meeting

Wheresoe’er you may,

Robert Merry sendeth greeting,

Hoping he may have a seat in

All your merry play.

When in merry circles chatting

Round the merry hearth,

Merry wit with wit combatting,

Merry’s Rhymes will come quite pat in

To help on the mirth.

A rose was faint, and hung its head,

One sultry summer’s day,

When a Zephyr kindly fann’d its cheek,

Then sped upon its way.

That Zephyr now, where’er it roams,

Delicious perfume brings.

So kindness gathers, as it goes,

A fragrance for its wings.

Aunt Sue.

Are the snow-flakes pearly flowers

That in the skies have birth,

And gently fall in gleaming showers

Upon this barren earth?

Or, are they fleecy locks of wool,

From sheep that wander by

The silver streams, that, singing, roll

Through valleys in the sky?

Or, are they downy feathers, cast

By little birds above,

And hurried earthward by the blast,

Bright messengers of love?

No, they are pearly blossoms, flung

From heaven’s airy bowers,

To recompense us for the loss

Of summer’s blooming flowers.

Mattie Bell.

With what a lavish hand

God beautifies the earth,

When everywhere, all o’er the land,

Sweet flowers are peeping forth!

Down by the babbling brook,

Up in the silent hills,

The glen, the bower, the shady nook,

Their breath with fragrance fills.

They creep along the hedge,

They climb the rugged height,

And, leaning o’er the water’s edge,

Blush in their own sweet light.

They seem to breathe and talk;

They pour into my ear;

Where’er I look, where’er I walk,

A music soft and clear.

They have no pride of birth,

No choice of regal bower;

The humblest, lowliest spot on earth

May claim the fairest flower.

Children must be busy,

Always something learning;

Toys and trinkets, for their secrets,

Inside-outward turning.

While the top is spinning,

Boys are wondering all,

How it stands erect unaided,

Why it does not fall.

While the top is humming,

Still the wonder grows,

By what art the little spinner

Whistles as it goes.

Children learn while playing;

Children play while learning;

Pastimes, often more than lessons,

Into knowledge turning.

Kind words revive the weary soul,

And cheer its saddest hours,

As dew refreshes drooping leaves,

And brightens fading flowers.

They fall, like sunshine, round the path

Of those who weary roam,

And are the "open sesame"

To every heart and home.

We know the spring will soon appear,

When round us flies the swallow,

So kind words should be harbingers

Of gentle deeds which follow.

Upon the brow of want and care

The joys of life they fling,

And change the soul’s dark night to-day,

Its winter into spring.

Then let your deeds be gentle deeds,

Your words be words of love;

They are the brightest gems which shine

In angels’ crowns above.

Mattie Bell.

The Frost looked forth one still, clear night,

And whispered, “Now I shall be out of sight;

So through the valley and over the height

In silence I’ll take my way.

I will not go on like that blustering train—

The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,

Who make so much bustle and noise in vain;

But I’ll be as busy as they.”

Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest;

He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dress’d

In diamond beads; and over the breast

Of the quivering lake he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear

The downward point of many a spear,

That he hung on its margin, far and near,

Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept,

And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;

Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepp’d,

By the light of the morn were seen

Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees;

There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees;

There were cities with temples and towers; and these

All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair—

He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there

That all had forgotten for him to prepare—

“Now, just to set them a-thinking,

I’ll bite this basket of fruit,” said he,

“This costly pitcher I’ll burst in three;

And the glass of water they’ve left for me

Shall ‘tchick!’ to tell them I’m drinking!”

Miss H. F. Gould.

Why may not a woman skate?

She can walk, and run, and ride—

In dance, or hop, she’s always great—

Prithee why not skate or slide?

Skating is a useful art,

Full of dignity and grace;

Exercises limb and heart,

Gives the blood a healthful pace.

Why may not a woman skate?

Swan-like grace and queenly sway

Mark the vigorous, blooming Kate,

Sailing down yon glittering way.

Look! what conscious grace and power

In those broad, out-sweeping strides,

As down the silver-gleaming floor,

With still increasing speed she glides.

Why may not a woman skate?

Often on the frozen Scheldt,

Buxom Dutch girls, early, late,

For the prize of speed have dealt.

Sometimes from the inland town

To the city mart, or fair,

They in merry bands glide down,

And their precious burdens bear.

Why may not a woman skate?

To a friend’s, long miles away,

Oft they sail, with heart elate,

To make a call, or pass the day.

Often so do lovers meet,

Whispering, wooing, billing, cooing,

While upon their iron feet,

Miles and miles of talk they’re doing.

Why may not a woman skate?

What though ankles she reveal!

Skater’s ankles, critics state,

Are not over-much genteel.

What of that!—a trifling charge!

There’s a right for every wrong—

If the ankle’s somewhat large,

May be ’tis well set and strong.

Why may not a woman skate?

Six times we have put the question;

No one rising in debate,

No one offering a suggestion,

Silence gives consent. So, then,

Pretty girls, and women, too,

No less than rude boys and men,

May put on the iron shoe.

Try it, girls—ay, try the skate—

Good for service, seldom tired,

Able to sustain its weight,

Never weak, nor loosely wired—

The well-tried ankle you will find

In your need-hour just the one;

Bind your skates on—never mind!—

You will find it right good fun.

Spell, spell, spell!

A dozen words or more;

To your task and learn it well—

School days will soon be o’er.

Write, write, write!

A page all bright and clean;

Seize the moments in their flight,

No lost one fall between.

Learn, learn, learn!

Some useful thing each day.

From early morn till night returns,

Waste not your time in play.

It is said that the flowers, as well as the birds,

Have a language peculiar, with phrases and words;

And that oft, in the hush of a warm summer day,

You may hear, if you listen, whatever they say.

I have doubted till lately, and thought it was all

The whim of some dreamer, whom poet they call;

But since the sweet seventh of June, fifty-one,

My doubts have all vanished, like mists in the sun.

As I walked in the garden I saw a sweet rose,

Such as seldom on this side of Paradise grows,

With a deep, deepening blush overspreading its cheek,

Leaning down to a lily, as if it would speak.

Behind a tall orange in bloom, as it spread

Its rich fragrant shadow all over the bed,

Unperceived by the parties, I paused in my walk

And, in truth, overheard an intelligent talk.

First, a low, distant murmur arrested my ear,

Like the memory of tones which in dreaming we hear;

Then, clear and distinct, though subtile as thought,

Their simple, articulate language I caught.

“Thou fairest of gems,” said the rose, bending down,

“Too sweet for the earth and too chaste for a crown,

I would thou wert taller, that here, in my place,

The world might appreciate thy sweetness and grace.”

“Nay, nay, lovely rose,” the fair lily replied,

“It is safer in humble retirement to hide;

Earth’s praises I court not; my graces were given

To exhale, in their careless redundance, to heaven.”

As the rest of their talk was of love, and as I

Was acting the part of an eaves-dropping spy,

I will not report it; but this I have told,

As conveying a lesson for young and for old.

Blow, blow, ye winds, from the wide blue sea!

Oh, cool the heat of this fevered brow,

And still this heart with such melody

As your fluttering wings are wafting now!

Bear on, bear on, from that distant shore,

The loving tones of a household band

Whose cherished, forms I see no more,

Ye voices dim from my fatherland!

Such sad, sweet thoughts to me ye bring

Of my own far home with its ivied walls,

Of the vine-wreathed porch, where the zephyr sings

Through the rustling leaves, and the sunbeam falls—

Of the threshold stone, and the open door,

Of the kindred forms that gathered there,

At the stilly eve full hearts to pour,

In a gush of song on the listening air—

Of the noisy flow of the little brook,

Whose mossy banks our footsteps haunted;

Of winds which half their sweetness took

From fragrant bowers our hands had planted.

Fleta Forrester.

Trusting in the patient earth

For the coming need,

Went the hopeful sower forth,

Bearing precious seed.

Precious seed and full of hope,

Scattered far and wide,

O’er the plain—along the slope—

And by the river side.

Softened by the vernal rain,

Quickened by the sun,

Every little planted grain

Peep’d forth, one by one.

Nourished by the rain and dew,

And the genial light,

Blade by blade it upward grew,

Growing day and night.

Waving in the summer gales,

Bowing to the blast,

O’er the teeming intervales,

Ripening to the last.

Duly to the harvest white,

Goldenly it glows,

As with grateful heart, and light,

Forth the reaper goes.

Brightly as the sickle swings,

Flashing in the sun,

Merrily the reaper sings,

While the moments run.

Onward as the strong man goes,

Fall the golden heads,

Till the grain, in beauteous rows,

All the field o’erspreads.

Gather, gather now with care,

Binding up your sheaves,

Save what holy thrift and prayer

For the gleaner leaves.

Now, upon the groaning wain,

Pile your treasures high,

Thankful for the gentle rain,

And the genial sky.

Grateful for the bounteous earth,

Trusting all to come,

Now with songs of cheerful mirth,

Bring the harvest home.

Dance and sing in joyous ring,

Ere the day grows dim;

Rejoice, rejoice, with heart and voice,

Shout, shout the Harvest Hymn.

THE SNOW-HOUSE.

“A palace, or a cot—it matters not.”

See, Charlie, out there, by the elm tree,

The snow has been eddying round,

And has made, for our winter snow-house,

A broad and beautiful mound.

Come, Charlie, bring out your shovel,

And soon we will let them see

How nice, how snug, and how cosy,

Our winter palace can be.

The door shall be arched and lofty,

The room within shall be round;

And we’ll have a fireplace and chimney,

And a carpet of straw for the ground.

Then we’ll have a magnificent party,

And all our friends receive,

With chestnuts, popped corn, and candy,

On Christmas or New Year’s eve.

The Merrys all shall be invited,

Around our board to sit;

They with our house will be delighted,

And we’ll enjoy their wit.

Cold water, pure, sparkling, and bright,

Cold water forever for me;

Cold water you, too, must drink to-night,

Who have come to our apple spree.

For nothing else you will get to drink,

Of that most sure you may be;

No wine, no brandy will we allow

At our red-apple spree.

No cider, no rum, no lager bier,

Or any such stuff will you see;

But pure cold water, fresh from the pump,

We will have at our apple spree.

Drink as much as you will, good friends and true,

For nothing it costs, you see,

And in these hard times it is best to have

An economical spree.

So a spree we will have, and a jolly one too,

And none the worse shall we be

To-morrow, for having joined to-night

In a real red-apple spree.

Ruth.

Let them laud the notes that in music float

Through the bright and glittering hall,

While the amorous whirl of the hair’s bright curl

Round the shoulders of beauty fall;

But dearest to me is the song of the tree,

And the rich and the blossoming bough—

Oh! these are the sweets which the rustic greets,

As he follows the good old plow.

All honor be, then, to those gray old men,

When at last they are bowed with toil;

Their warfare then o’er, they battle no more,

For they’ve conquered the stubborn soil;

And the chaplet he wears is his silver hairs,

And ne’er shall the victor’s brow

With a laurel crown in his grave go down,

Like the sons of the good old plow.

Who does not love the Winter,

When all on earth below,

The houses, streams, the trees, and rocks,

Are covered o’er with snow—

When all is fair which once was bare,

And all is bright and gay,

When down the hillside rush the sleds,

Nor stop till far away?

And then the noise of all the boys,

When snow-balls fly around—

The snow-king in the meadow-field,

With icy jewels crowned—

And sparkling as the purest gold,

The scepter in his hand,

While icy courtiers, grim and still,

Await his high command.

And then when evening closes in

Around the household hearth,

We love to sit while jokes pass round,

And all is joy and mirth.

And then recount with ready tongues

The mishaps of the day,

Of plunges in the deep snow-drifts

When at our joyous play.

And though the Spring may boast its flowers,

And all its green-clad trees;

Though Summer, with its healthy showers,

Brings many a cooling breeze;

And though in Autumn with the crops

Of grain and fruit we’re blest,

Yet still I can not help but say,

I love the Winter best.

S. W.

’Tis a truth that earnest students,

With books and nature who commune,

Are in thought and feeling quickened

By the skies and breath of June.

While in boyhood, what could match it?

Schoolmates call so opportune;

“Come with me and range the forest—

Recreate, this day of June.”

Sister-schoolmates, gathering posies,

Stop to hear the red-breast’s tune,

And laugh at pretty squirrels running

Up the trees, in leafy June.

After-life, for prizes striving,

The student toils for lengthened rune—

Spirit (so success) is wafted

To him by the breath of June.

Month of months—let’s sing its praises!

Museum-readers, join the tune—

The freshest leaves, the brightest flowers,

All are thine, sweet month of June.

With mamma for a teacher,

’Tis easy to learn;

Her eye gives her boy courage,

As hard pages turn.

She says, “Now, my dear Freddy,

Learn every word right;

If you’re patient, the hard spots

Will vanish from sight.

“When this task is well finished,

Your work will be done;

Then the time comes for playing,

Says every one.

“Your fleet rock-horse is waiting;

And baby shall see.”

Freddy learned well his lessons,

And rides full of glee.

Don’t tell me of to-morrow,

There is much to do to-day,

That can never be accomplished,

If we throw the hours away.

Every moment has its duty—

Who the future can foretell?

Then why put off till to-morrow,

What to-day can do as well?

“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.

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.

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.”

Keep close—we’ll crowd the closer,

The harder it shall pour;

’Tis seldom one umbrella

Is called to shelter four;

But ours is large and generous,

And has a heart for more.

Yet faster, and yet faster,

The pelting sheets arrive,

And our one good umbrella

Is bound to shelter five,

For we are packed as snugly

As bees within a hive.

Now let it come in torrents—

We’re snug as snug can be;

What cares our brave umbrella

For five, or four, or three?

On every side ’tis shedding

The rain in careless glee.

The clouds are very leaky,

The bottom must be out,

But, with our good umbrella,

We have no fear nor doubt,

Though every stick above us

Rains like a tiny spout.

Heigho! ’tis coming faster,

The bottles sure have burst;

But hark! the brave umbrella

Says, "Clouds, do now your worst,

If you would wet these children,

You must destroy me first."

They must have thrown wide open

The windows of the sky;

But, with our good umbrella,

I think we’ll get home dry;

Or, if we do get sprinkled,

We’ll neither fret nor cry.

Step lightly, bonnie sister,

Keep close, sweet little pet,

With such a brave umbrella,

We shall not be much wet;

But Prink will have a drenching,

On that I’ll make a bet.

How like a river torrent

It pours along the street!

Prink cares not for umbrellas,

To him a bath’s a treat,

And our good India-rubbers

Are umbrellas for our feet.

What’s that you say, dear Nellie?

’Tis dropping on your arm?

Indeed, our kind umbrella

Didn’t mean you any harm;

And soon the good snug parlor

Will make all dry and warm.

Ha! ha! the wind is rising,

But we are almost there.

What if our good umbrella

Should fly away in air!

Run, Prink, and say we’re coming,

And open the gate—do you hear!

Let the fur-clad Laplander boast

Of the reindeer’s bird-like speed;

Let the Arab, for riding post,

Bet high on his mettlesome steed;

Let the Briton talk loud of the chase

With the fox, or the hare, or the stag;

Let the Yankee, stark mad in the race,

Count miles by the minutes, and brag;

The bird of the desert is ours—

Competitors all we defy—

A bird of such wonderful powers—

We scarce know if we ride or we fly.

You have all of the hippogriff heard,

For mettle and speed a rare thing,

Half-breed betwixt courser and bird,

Keeping pace with foot and with wing.

The bird of the desert is he,

The ostrich of beautiful plume,

Skimming earth, as a swallow the sea,

Or an eagle the lofty blue dome.

He laughs at the speed of the hind,

For pursuers he feels no concern,

He travels ahead of the wind,

And leaves the dull lightning astern.

Turn up the generous soil—

’Tis rich in hidden wealth,

And well repays your earnest toil

With plenty, peace, and health.

Plow with a bold, strong hand—

Drive deep the glittering share;

No surface-scratching will command

Earth’s treasures rich and rare.

Then, if you’d freely reap,

With bounteous freedom sow—

And while you wake, and while you sleep,

The precious grain will grow.

Poor faithful Watch! thy watch of life is o’er,

And mute and senseless near the kitchen door

Thou lay’st, a breathless corpse,

Where thou stood to guard before;

Thy pliant temper, known and praised by all,

Thy prompt obedience to thy master’s call;

Whether to climb the hill, or scour the plain,

Or drive encroaching hogs from out the lane;

Thy quick return, on motion of his hand,

To guard the door, or wait a fresh command;

Thy joy to meet at eve, with fawning play,

Domestic faces, absent but a day;

Thy bark, that might the boldest thief affright,

And patient watch through many a dreary night—

All speak thy worth, but none could save thy breath,

For what is merit ’gainst the shafts of Death?

Sleep, then, my dog! thy tour of duty o’er,

Where thief and trav’ler can disturb no more;

Content t’ have gained all that thou now canst have—

Thy master’s plaudit and a peaceful grave!

By the bubbling fount ’mid the greenwood shades,

In the leafy world of the forest glades,

No more the birds, at the blush of morn,

Trill their sweet notes; they are gone—all gone!

Voices of summer, I’ve listed long

For the witching strains of your matin song;

Through the woodland dim, o’er the rustling lawn,

I have sought you oft; but you’re gone—all gone?

No more do you start in your still retreat

At the thundering tramp of the horses’ feet,

Or the wandering note of the bugle horn;

But the woods are mute, for you’re gone—all gone!

’Mid the wild wood’s haunts, through your lonely nests,

The rude winds play, and the snow-wreath rests

In their yielding curve, while in jeering scorn

The cold blast whistles, "Gone—all gone!"

They say that ye sing ’neath a sunnier arch

Of the azure skies, where the seasons’ march

Brings but one endless vernal dawn;

But my heart is sad, for you’re gone—all gone!

The Christmas tree!

The Christmas tree!

O gather around it now;

Its fruits are free

For you and for me,

And they hang from every bough.

Its flowers are bright,

And they grew in a night,

For yesterday it was bare

Did ever you see

An evergreen tree

So fruitful and so fair?

Look! here is a rose!

And who would suppose

An orange and a pear

Would grow by the side

Of the garden’s pride?

But here, you see, they are.

And, stranger yet,

Here’s a bon-bon, set

On the same identical stem,

With two plums, so big

That a neighboring fig

Seems lost in the shadow of them.

And here, what’s this?

As I live, ’tis a kiss,

And just where a kiss should be;

A tulip full blown,

Hard by it is shown—

Indeed, ’tis a wonderful tree.

Here, bravo! I’ve found

Merry’s Museum, bound—

This must be the Tree of Knowledge;

Besides which, behold!

All lettered in gold,

A poem fresh out from the college.

Hold! hold! my good sirs,

Here’s a nice set of furs—

’Tis a fir-tree, you all must agree;

And here, not incog.,

Is a sweet sugar-hog—

Does that make a mahogany-tree?

Oh! who would have guessed?

Here’s a nice little chest,

Of course ’tis a chestnut-tree;

Not so fast, cousin Knox,

Here’s a beautiful box—

A box-tree it surely must be.

Your proof something lacks,

For here is an ax.

You must own ’tis an axle-tree now;

Hallo! here’s a whip,

For your horsemanship—

’Tis a whipple-tree, then, you’ll allow.

What now shall be said?

Here are needles and thread—

Let’s see—shall we call it tre-mend(o)us?

Oh, pshaw! pray do stop,

I’m ready to drop—

Your puns are absurdly stupendous.

It was just outside of the village,

In a cool, sequestered nook,

On the right was the murmuring forest,

On the left was the babbling brook.

Behind, the o’ershadowing mountain

Reared its gray old head to the sky,

While before it, the widening valley

Stretched out like a sea to the eye.

’Twas a rare, sweet spot, and a lovely

As ever this fair world knew;

There spring came earliest always,

And summer the latest withdrew.

Day reluctantly left it at evening,

And hastened to greet it at dawn,

And stars, birds, and flowers loved to visit

The place where my mother was born.

It was a beautiful morning, quite early in May,

The fathers all plowing, the children all play;

The mothers all spinning, as busy as bees,

And the birds quite as busy all round in the trees;

While some were singing songs over and over,

Sometimes in the tree-tops, then down in the clover,

Young Robert was trying his very best notes,

And the strength of his song by the length of his throat.

Chorus—Envy me, envy me,

 Cordially, cordially,

 Fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks!

 Just act your pleasure, sir.

Sometimes he was singing to Jemmy the farmer,

And then to Miss Alice, and trying to charm her;

Next moment he’d light on the top of a thistle,

And either be singing or trying to whistle:

Miss Alice, Miss Alice! it will give me much pleasure

To sing you a sonnet while I am at leisure.

I will sing you a good one, and very explicit,

And stop when I choose, or whenever you wish it.

Chorus—Certainly, certainly, etc.

While Jemmy is plowing and learning to whistle,

My wife is at home, in the shade of a thistle,

In a neat little nest, with a wild rose behind it.

You need not look for it, for you never can find it.

The farmer is plowing, and soon will be mowing;

While he’s cutting the daisies his corn will be growing.

When the heads on the barley are ripe, and the cherry,

Mary Lincoln and I will be singing so merry.

Chorus—Cordially, cordially,

Envy me, envy me,

Fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks!

Just act your pleasure, sir.

When the leaves on the trees and the flowers on the clover

Are withered and faded, and Summer is over;

When the grass on the meadows is leveled and gone,

We will sing our last sonnet and leave you alone.

We will fly far away to the rice and the cotton;

But let not our thistle and rose be forgotten.

We are certain to come again early in Spring,

And bring some choice music, which we promise to sing.

Chorus—Cordially, cordially,

Envy me, envy me,

Fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks!

Just act your pleasure, sir.

A Lapland merchant must needs, one day,

To a distant market go;

But he had no horse, and he had no sleigh,

To carry him over the snow.

"Yet go I must," said the sturdy man—

"There is a way for every will—

Each new necessity has its plan,

For the earnest mind to fulfill."

So he drew, from the ice-bound river, a scow,

And lined it with furs and moss,

Then harnessed a reindeer to its prow,

With a rope his horns across.

No track was there—but the traveler knew

The way over valley and plain;

Like a well-trained steed, the reindeer flew,

And brought him safe back again.

The fashion he set is in fashion now,

Among the fur-clad Norse;

They use for a sleigh a flat-bottomed scow,

And a reindeer for a horse.

Said the resolute man, "They shall serve my turn;

Whatever we must, we may,

And sooner or later each man will learn,

That where there’s a will there’s a way."

The boys were blowing bubbles,

Bright red, and green, and blue,

And every changing color

That ever mortal knew.

They floated in the window,

And glided past my chair,

But in a moment perished,

And faded in the air.

The boys, with shouts and laughter,

Blew till quite out of breath,

While high in the leafy maple

The bubbles gleamed till death.

Too much like earthly pleasure

Seemed the bubbles, bright and gay;

They charm a fleeting moment,

Then vanish, away—away.

Sweet love’s ecstatic potion

Our spirits long to sip,

But Death may dash the nectar

From the unsullied lip.

And he who quaffs the longest,

Whose heart divinely glows,

Finds clouds will gather round him,

For earthly joys must close.

Some grasp at wealth’s bright beacon,

And follow where it leads—

Sometimes to fairest honor,

Sometimes to foulest deeds

And often proves a bubble,

A floating thing of air—

Eludes the weary victim,

And leaves him starving there.

If love’s so frail a treasure,

And wealth may fade away;

If earthly joys are changing,

And fame lives but a day;

Then where are shining jewels

That will not break at last,

And leave us, eager viewers,

All mourning for the past?

High in the holy heavens,

A pearl of price untold

Shines brighter far than rubies,

More precious than fine gold.

It can not fade or perish,

Can never pass away;

It is a hope in Jesus,

A trust in God alway!

M. A. L.

Just look upon that group of boys,

Brim full of frolic, spunk, and noise,

When, at the word, "The school is done,"

They rush to liberty and fun.

Pell-mell, they run, and jump, and leap,

Tumbling in one promiscuous heap,

Until you wonder by what token

They ’scape with heads and limbs unbroken.

Bold, reckless, cunning, cool, or sly,

What won’t they do? what won’t they try?

They’re up to every kind of scheme,

To test their strength, and let off steam.

’Tis an epitome of life,

Without its shades of care and strife;

Each has his private joke, and cracks it,

Regardless how the other takes it.

And there’s the point—boys take rough jokes

More pleasantly than older folks,

Not heeding much what’s said or done,

So they can have their fill of fun.

Sweet bird! that through the shadows

Of the night, so sad and lone,

Warblest thy notes of gladness,

With softly thrilling tone.

’Tis when the gloom is deepest,

And all is hushed in fear,

Save that night-winds are moaning

Through the stillness dark and drear;

’Tis then thy voice is sweetest,

And seems wafted from above,

As to the sad and sorrowing

Come words of hope and love.

Thou’rt heard within the casement,

Through the weary night of pain;

And thy warble is an earnest

That the day will come again.

Methinks thou art a spirit-bird,

Sent from a holier sphere;

Such spirits do not linger

Amidst the sorrowing here.

That’s right, Benny, go it strong,

Go it high, and go it long,

Swiftly run, and boldly leap,

Froggy Charles is quite a heap.

Charley Frog, now take your jump;

Benny, make yourself a lump;

’Tis a wholesome sport and rare—

Rest and toil an equal share.

Now you’re down, and now you’re up;

Now you leap, and now you stoop;

Now you rest, and now you run;

Any way, ’tis right good fun.

The earth hath treasures fair and bright,

Deep buried in her caves,

And ocean hideth many a gem

With his blue, curling waves;

Yet not within her bosom dark,

Or ’neath the dashing foam,

Lives there a treasure equaling

A world of love at home!

True, sterling happiness and joy

Are not with gold allied,

Nor can it yield a pleasure like

A merry fireside.

I envy not the man who dwells

In stately hall or dome,

If, ’mid his splendor, he hath not

A world of love at home.

The friends whom time hath proved sincere,

’Tis they alone can bring

A sure relief to hearts that droop

’Neath sorrow’s heavy wing.

Though care and trouble may be mine,

As down life’s path I roam,

I’ll heed them not while still I have

A world of love at home.

I must hasten home, said a rosy child,

Who had gayly roamed for hours;

I must hasten home to my mother dear—

She will seek me amid the bowers.

If she chides, I will seal her lips with a kiss,

And offer her all my flowers.

I must hasten home, said a beggar girl,

As she carried the pitiful store

Of crumbs and scraps of crusted bread,

She had gathered from door to door;

I must hasten home to my mother dear—

She is feeble, and old, and poor!

I must hasten home, said the ball-room belle,

As day began to dawn;

And the glittering jewels her dark hair decked,

Shone bright as the dews of morn;

I’ll forsake the joys of this changing world,

Which leave in the heart but a thorn.

I must hasten home, said a dying youth,

Who had vainly sought for fame—

Who had vowed to win a laurel wreath,

And immortalize his name;

But, a stranger, he died on a foreign shore—

All the hopes he had cherished were vain.

I am hastening home, said an aged man,

As he gazed on the grassy sod,

Where oft, ere age had silvered his hairs,

His feet had lightly trod;

Farewell! farewell to this lovely earth—

I am hastening home to God!

With meek and simple faith,

A child’s confiding love,

The infant cherub kneels to breathe

His prayer to God above.

And all the host of heaven is there,

To listen to that infant prayer.

"God, bring dear father home,

God, make dear mother well,

God, make me good, and let us come

All in Thy house to dwell."

Then, while their watch good angels keep,

"God giveth His beloved sleep."

Roses and tulips, with all their gay train,

O’er garden and landscape cause beauty to reign.

By the brook, or the hillside, or light woody grove,

Enchanted—delighted—on, smiling, we rove;

’Rapt up in fond thoughts of the verdure and bloom,

’Till autumn’s cold frost sweeps the whole to the tomb.

My emotions, when life seems thus passing and vain,

Even wisdom and prudence can hardly restrain.

Rude winter now comes, and with sleet, hail, and snow,

Right and left sends his arrows, as shivering we go.

Yet I see there’s a chance, even now, to be cheery,

Sitting snug by the fire, with old Robert Merry.

My cosy old friend, no winter is found

Unfurled in thy pages the whole season round!

Still birds sing their songs in some warm, sunny clime,

Ever speaking in music and talking in rhyme;

Unless you may tell us some odd tale that’s true,

Making all of us merry, Old Merry, with you!

B.

Sure I am, I do not know

Why we love our Nebby so;

But I am sure, as sure can be,

Nebby knows why he loves me.

Mattie feeds Neb every day,

And ’tis as good as any play,

Just to see his pranks and freaks,

When to Nebby Mattie speaks.

When I go home from the store,

Nebby meets me at the door,

And says, most eloquently dumb,

"Nebby’s glad that you have come."

Nebby is a little pet;

Nebby don’t know how to fret;

But he knows the tenderest part

Of our Mattie’s tender heart.

Whence that sweet, inspiring strain,

Pealing on my ravished ear?

Hark! its thrilling notes again

From the courts of heaven I hear—

“Hallelujah to the Lamb,

Who hath bought us with His blood!

Honor, glory to His name,

We through Him are sons of God.”

Angels fain their notes would join

With that vast, triumphant song;

But their harps, though all divine,

Ne’er can reach that wondrous song

Learned on earth, and new in heaven,

Only they its chords can know

Who to God by grace are given,

Ransomed from the depths of wo.

Angels can not know or tell,

In their pure, unfallen bliss,

How a soul, redeemed from hell,

Sings the mystery of grace!

They the chosen, countless throng,

Ever round the throne above,

In their new and endless song,

Celebrate redeeming love.

The Chinaman his life consumes,

On opium regaling—

The Yankee his tobacco fumes

With equal zest inhaling—

Though trembling nerves and fitful glooms

Warn them that health is failing.

For almost everything that’s done

Some reason wit supposes,

But for the smoker’s faith, not one

The keenest wit discloses;

’Tis filthy, vulgar, costly fun,

Hateful to all good noses.

Well, isn’t that a funny dress?

You think he must be cruel,

With human bones set round his crown,

And skulls in place of jewels.

Yet in his countenance you see

Nothing severe or savage,

As if, with cannibal intent,

Our whole domain he’d ravage.

There’s no accounting for our tastes,

("De gustibus," and so forth;)

Some dote on very slender waists,

Some like hooped cisterns go forth.

Sneer not at Indian or Malay,

Nor get into a passion;

He does as you do day by day—

Follows the latest fashion.

White dandies strut in stove-pipe hats,

White women go bare-headed;

Which is most proper, red or white,

We leave in doubt deep shaded.

One sunny day a child went Maying—

When lo, while ’mid the zephyrs playing,

He saw his shadow at his back!

He turned and fled, but on his track

The seeming goblin came apace,

And step for step gave deadly chase!

Weary at last, with desperate might

The urchin paused and faced the fright,

When lo, the demon, thin and gray,

Faded amid the grass away!

’Tis thus in life—when shadows chase,

If we but meet them face to face,

What seemed a fiend in fear arrayed,

Sinks at our feet a harmless shade.

Peter Parley.