BY HELEN GRAY CONE.

She gazed upon the burnished brace
Of partridges he showed with pride;
Angelic grief was in her face;
“How could you do it, dear?” she sighed,
“The poor, pathetic, moveless wings! 
The songs all hushed—­oh, cruel shame!”
Said he, “The partridge never sings.” 
Said she, “The sin is quite the same.

        “You men are savage through and through. 
          A boy is always bringing in
        Some string of bird’s eggs, white or blue,
          Or butterfly upon a pin. 
        The angle-worm in anguish dies,
          Impaled, the pretty trout to tease——­”
        “My own, I fish for trout with flies——­”
          “Don’t wander from the question, please!”

        She quoted Burns’s “Wounded Hare,”
          And certain burning lines of Blake’s,
        And Ruskin on the fowls of air,
          And Coleridge on the water-snakes. 
        At Emerson’s “Forbearance” he
          Began to feel his will benumbed;
        At Browning’s “Donald” utterly
          His soul surrendered and succumbed.

        “Oh, gentlest of all gentle girls,”
          He thought, “beneath the blessed sun!”
        He saw her lashes hung with pearls,
          And swore to give away his gun. 
        She smiled to find her point was gained,
          And went, with happy parting words
        (He subsequently ascertained),
          To trim her hat with humming-birds.

A SONG OF SARATOGA.

BY JOHN G. SAXE.

        “Pray what do they do at the Springs?”
          The question is easy to ask: 
        But to answer it fully, my dear,
          Were rather a serious task. 
        And yet, in a bantering way,
          As the magpie or mocking-bird sings,
        I’ll venture a bit of a song,
          To tell what they do at the Springs.

        Imprimis, my darling, they drink
          The waters so sparkling and clear;
        Though the flavour is none of the best,
          And the odour exceedingly queer;
        But the fluid is mingled, you know,
          With wholesome medicinal things;
        So they drink, and they drink, and they drink—­
          And that’s what they do at the Springs!

Then with appetites keen as a knife,
They hasten to breakfast, or dine;
The latter precisely at three,
The former from seven till nine. 
Ye gods! what a rustle and rush,
When the eloquent dinner-bell rings! 
Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat—­
And that’s what they do at the Springs!

Now they stroll in the beautiful walks,
Or loll in the shade of the trees;
Where many a whisper is heard
That never is heard by the breeze;
And hands are commingled with hands,
Regardless of conjugal rings: 
And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt—­
And that’s what they do at the Springs!