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." SHE THE MODERN BELLE By STARK HE sits in a fashionable parlor, She is clad in silks and satins, And jewels are in her hair; 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 falls in love with the moon; Her feet are so very little, Her hands are so very white, Her jewels so very heavy, (Though this she will never own), She falls in love with a fellow WIDOW MACHREE By SAMUEL LOVER IDOW machree, it's no wonder you frown,- Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown, Och hone! widow machree. How altered your air, With that close cap you wear,— 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,- When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum? Och hone! widow machree! See the birds go in pairs, Now in couples agree; Though they can't spake, they wish, Och hone! widow machree. FAITH, I WISH YOU'D TAKE ME! Widow machree, and when winter comes in,- To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, Sure the shovel and tongs Full of family glee; While alone with your cup Och hone! widow machree. And how do you know, with the comforts I've towld, Och hone! widow machree, But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld, Och hone! widow machree! That would wake you each night, 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 That the ghosts would depart Och hone! widow machree! |