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in the same direction, yet another thousand miles, I anticipate the rising by two hours—another thousand, and I anticipate it by three hours, and so on, until I go entirely round the globe, and back to this spot, when having gone twenty-four thousand miles east, I anticipate the rising of the London sun by no less than twenty-four hours; that is to say, I am a day in advance of your time. Understand, eh?”

Uncle. “But Dubble L. Dee”.

Smitherton (speaking very loud). “Captain Pratt, on the contrary, when he had sailed a thousand miles west of this position, was an hour, and when he had sailed twenty-four thousand miles west was twenty-four hours, or one day, behind the time at London. Thus, with me, yesterday was Sunday

—thus with you, to-day is Sunday—and thus with Pratt, to-morrow will be Sunday. And what is more, Mr. Rumgudgeon, it is positively clear that that we are all right; for there can be no philosophical reason assigned why the idea of one of us should have preference over that of the other.” .

Uncle. "My eyes!—well, Kate—well Bobby! —this is a judgment upon me as you say. But I am a man of my word-mark that! You shall have her, my boy (plum and all), when you please. Done up, by Jove! Three Sundays in a row! I'll go and take Dubble L. Dee's opinion upon that.



CHE sits in a fashionable parlor,
W And rocks in her easy chair;
She is clad in silks and satins,

And jewels are in her hair;
She winks and giggles and simpers,

And simpers and giggles and winks; And though she talks but little,

'Tis a good deal more than she thinks.

She lies abed in the morning

Till nearly the hour of noon, Then comes down snapping and snarling

Because she was called so soon; Her hair is still in papers,

Her cheeks still fresh with paint,Remains of her last night's blushes,

Before she intended to faint.

She dotes upon men unshaven,

And men with “flowing hair;" She's eloquent over mustaches,

They give such a foreign air. She talks of Italian music,

And falls in love with the moon; And, if a mouse were to meet her,

She would sink away in a swoon.

Her feet are so very little,

Her hands are so very white,

Her jewels so very heavy,

And her head so very light;
Her color is made of cosmetics

(Though this she will never own),
Her body is made mostly of cotton,

Her heart is made wholly of stone.

She falls in love with a fellow

Who swells with a foreign air;
He marries her for her money,

She marries him for his hair!
One of the very best matches,

Both are well mated in life;
She's got a fool for a husband,

He's got a fool for a wife!


By SAMUEL LOVER W IDOW machree, it's no wonder you frown,

V Och hone! widow machree;
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black

Och hone! widow machree.
How altered your air,
With that close cap you wear,-
'T is destroying your hair,

Which should be flowing free;
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl, —

Och hone! widow machree!

Widow machree, now the summer is come,

Och hone! widow machree,

When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum?

Och hone! widow machree!
See the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares;
Why, even the bears

Now in couples agree;
And the mute little fish,
Though they can't spake, they wish,—

Och hone! widow machree.

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FAITH, I wish you'd TAKE ME! Widow machree, and when winter comes in,

Och hone! widow machree,-
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,

Och hone! widow machree.
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs,
And the kettle sings songs

Full of family glee;
While alone with your cup
Like a hermit you sup,
Och hone! widow machree.

And how do you know, with the comforts I've


Och hone! widow machree,-
But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the

Och hone! widow machree!
With such sins on your head,
Sure your peace would be fled;
Could you sleep in your bed

Without thinking to see
Some ghost or some sprite,
That would wake you each night,

Crying “Och honel widow machree!”

Then take my advice, darling widow machree,

Och hone! widow machree,-
And with my advice, Faith, I wish you'd take me,

Och hone! widow machree!
You'd have me to desire
Then to stir up the fire;
And sure hope is no liar

In whispering to me,
That the ghosts would depart
When you'd me near your heart,-

Och hone! widow machree!

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