Then saw in sudden fear
Sir Crocodile draw near,
And heard him speak, with feelings of distraction;
“Since all of you have dined
Well suited to your mind,
You surely cannot grudge me satisfaction!”

And sooth, a deal of guile
Lurked in his ample smile,
As down his throat the roaring lion hasted;
“Economy with me,
Is chief of all,” said he,
“And I am truly glad to see there’s nothing wasted.”

“TWO SOULS WITH BUT A SINGLE THOUGHT.”

BY WILLIAM THOMSON.

“My soul is at the gate!”
The sighing lover said. 
He wound his arms around her form
And kissed her golden head.

“My sole is at the gate!”
The maiden’s father said. 
The lover rubbed the smitten part,
And from the garden fled.

A RISKY RIDE.

BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.

     “A risky ride,” they called it. 
       Lor bless ye, there wasn’t no risk: 
     I knew if I gave ’er ’er head, sir,
       That “Painted Lady” would whisk
     Like a rocket through all the horses,
       And win in a fine old style,
     With “the field” all a-tailin’ behind ’er
       In a kind of a’ Indian file.

* * * * *

     You didn’t know old Josh Grinley—­
       “Old Josh o’ the Whitelands Farm,”
     As his father had tilled afore ’im,
       And his afore ’im.—­No harm
     Ever touched one of the Grinleys
       When the ’Ollingtons owned the lands;
     But they ruined themselves through racing,
       And it passed into other hands. 
     Ain’t ye heard how Lord ’Ollington died, sir,
       On that day when “Midlothian Maid”
     Broke down when just winning the “Stewards’”? 
       Every farthing he’d left was laid
     On the old mare’s chance; and vict’ry
       Seemed fairly within his grasp
     When she stumbled—­went clean to pieces. 
       With a cry of despair—­a gasp—­
     Lord ’Ollington staggered backwards;
       A red stream flowed from his mouth,
     And he died—­with the shouts ringing round him: 
       “Beaten by Queen o’ the South!”
     But I’m going on anyhow,—­ain’t I? 
       I began about my ride;
     And I’m talking now like a novel
       Of how Lord ’Ollington died.

     Don’t ask me to tell how I’m bred, sir;
       Put my “pedigree” down as “unknown,”
     But a good ’un to go when he’s “wanted,”
       From whatever dam he was thrown. 
     Old Joshua—­he’s been my mother
       And father all rolled into one;—­
     It was ’im as bred and trained me;
       Got me “ready” and “fit” to run. 
     It’s been whispered he saved my life, sir—­
       Picked me up one winter’s night,
     Wrapped up in a shawl or summat,—­
       The tale’s like enough to be right.