Richard was wong after all—to tell a fellah to buy what he has no n-need of and as for s-selling my necessawies -I-I'm dash'd if I'll do anything of the kind—n-no— not for P-poor Richard-nor—nor ANY OTHER MAN.

But there's one vewy nonthensical pwoverb which says "A b-bird in the hand is worth two in the bush."

Th-the man who invented that pwoverb must have been a b-born idiot. How the dooth can he t-tell the welative v-value of poultry in that pwomithcuous manner? Suppothe I've got a wobbing-wedbweast in my hand(I nearly had the other morning-but he flew awayconfound him!)-Well-suppothe the two birds in the bush are a bwace of partwidges-you-you don't mean to t-tell me that that wobbin-wedbweast would fetch as m-much as a bwace of partwidges? Abthurd! P-poor Richard can't gammon me in that sort of way.

Then there's another

"The pitcher goes oft to the well, but the pitcher at last may be broken."

Now this I take to be a sort of alle-What is that word now, which m-means something diffewent to what it weally means?-an alle-alligator?-no-allicompanealkali?—all-no-allegory-that's it. The pitcher is a sort of allegowy-and means, of courth, a person. Well -if-if a person goes t-to the well, it stands to all weason th-that he can't go to the bad; and if he dothn't go to the b-bad-he can't be bwoken-so Poor Richard's out again there. But if he weally means a pitcher—a thing for holding water, you know-why, suppothing it is bwoken (as any weal pitcher may be any day of the week), the only thing a fellah can do is to b-buy another. They're not so vewy expensive, after all. I d-dare say you could buy a stunner for half-a-crown-so what's the use of making such a jolly wow about it?

This eccentwic old party then goes on to say, that "Those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. Now, conside wing what a vewy small pwoportion of

people occupy tenements of this descwiption, I should have thought the best thing to say would have been, "Th-those who d-don't live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones." I-I'm sure it would have embwaced a gweater n-number of the community-p-particularly ththose little b-blackguards in the stweets, who can never even have been in the Cwystal Palace in their lives—and yet are always shying things about-b-beathly balls that hit you-and then webound back in a mistewious sort of way into their hands and playing at t-tip cat—a howwid kind of game, in which a fellah strikes a bit of wood on the ground that flies up into the air-and-if it doesn't hit you, he wins-that is, he gets it back again—and if— if it does hit you, you lose—that is, you lose your temper -at least I know I do.

But the m-most widiculous makthim of all is

"Take care of the pence, and the pounds will take care of themselves."

Did you ever hear such nonthense? If there's one thing I hate to cawwy about with me it'th coppers. Somehow or other-I never had but vewy few pence in my life and those-I-I gave away to one of t-those organ fellahs in the stweet. Ha, ha!-I suppose he bought m-monkeys or some howwid thing with it-I-I don't care. I only hope I shall never see any more b-beathly coppers again-howwid things! Fancy!-I had to put them in my pocket-I-I hate putting things in my pocket. Th-that's a sort of thing no fellah should do-it spoils the shape of one's clothes so. And then the muff says that the pounds will take care of themselves! I don't believe a word of it. Besides-I don't mind cawwying pounds-I mean pounds sterling, not pounds weight, of course-I rather like pounds. They-they'd be pwetty little things-if it wasn't for the change. But then a fellah can always give the change away, if he likes. Let me see-th-there's something more about money that Poor Wichard says-Oh, I wemember

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some.

If you would know the value of money, try to borrow

By Jove!-yes-he-he's wite there-he's wite at last -Poor Richard is.-(If he'd been Rich Richard he wouldn't have hit that off so well.)-Yes-if you would know the value of money, twy to bowwow some. Vewy twue-and I'll tell you another thing-when you've found out how valuable it is-ha, ha!-NEVER LEND IT. Th-that's my makthim.

From "London Society."

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN.

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,

And that cannot stop their tears.

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,
The young birds are chirping in the nest,
The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers are blowing toward the west-
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!-

They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.

Do you question the young children in their sorrow,
Why their tears are falling so?—

The old man may weep for his to-morrow
Which is lost in Long Ago;

The old tree is leafless in the forest

The old year is ending in the frost

The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest-
The old hope is hardest to be lost:

But the young, young children, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand

Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
In our happy Fatherland?

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,

For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses
Down the cheeks of infancy;

"Your old earth," they say, " is very dreary;
"Our young feet," they say, "are very weak!
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary,-
Our grave-rest is very far to seek.

Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children,
For the outside earth is cold,

And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,
And the graves are for the old.

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True," say the children, "it may happen

That we die before our time,

Little Alice died last year-her grave is shapen
Like a snowball, in the rime.

We looked into the pit prepared to take her-
Was no room for any work in the close clay :
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.'

If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,
With your ear down, little Alice never cries;

Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,
For the smile has time for growing in her eyes;
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in
The shroud by the kirk-chime!

It is good when it happens," say the children,
That we die before our time."

Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking
Death in life, as best to have!

They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,
With a cerement from the grave.

Go out, children, from the mine and from the city-
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do;
Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty-
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows
Like our weeds anear the mine?

Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine!

"For oh," say the children," we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap;

If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them and sleep.

Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping—
We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring

Through the coal-dark underground;
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.

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For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning-
Their wind comes in our faces,

Till our hearts turn, our heads, with pulses burning,
And the walls turn in their places;

Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling-
Turns the long light that drops adown the wall—
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling-
All are turning, all the day, and we with all.
And all the day, the iron wheels are droning;
And sometimes we could pray,

'O ye wheels' (breaking out in a mad moaning),
'Stop! be silent for to-day!'"

Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing
For a moment, mouth to mouth—

Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing
Of their tender human youth!

Let them feel that this cold metallic motion

Is not all the life God fashions or reveals;

Let them prove their living souls against the notion
That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,

Grinding life down from its mark;

And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark.