Monsoor Pacha, as two gentlemen may,
     Civilized, city-bred, link we our hands: 
  Now from the town to the desert away! 
     Ours is a friendship whose spirit demands
     The scope of the sky and the stretch of the sands.

  Monsoor Pacha, doff your courtier’s garb;
     We have given to courtesy all of its dues;
  Spring to your throne on the back of your barb,
     Shake to the breezes your regal burnous,
     Wave your lance-sceptre wherever you choose!

  Monsoor, my chief! ah, I know you at length! 
     King of the desert, your children are come
  To cluster, like sheep, in the shade of your strength,
     Or to strike, like young lions, for country and home,
     When your eyes are ablaze at the roll of the drum!

  Monsoor, my chief! now one gallop, to see
     The land you have sworn that no despot shall grind! 
  Though sun-tanned and arid, by Allah! ’tis free! 
     Its crops are these lances:  these sons of the wind,
     Our steeds, are its flocks—­a grim harvest to bind!

  Monsoor, my chief! how we dash o’er the sand,
     Hissing behind us like storm-driven snow! 
  Flash the long guns of your wild Arab band,
     Brandish the spears, and the light jereeds throw,
     As, half-winged, through the shrill singing breezes we go!

  Monsoor, my chief! send the horses away: 
     The sports of your tribe I have seen with delight. 
  Now let us watch while the rose-tinted day
     Fades from the desert, and peace-bearing Night
     Shakes the first gem on her brow in our sight.

  Monsoor, my host! lo, I enter your tent,
     As brother by brother, hands clasping, is led: 
  I sleep like a child in a dream Heaven-sent;
     For have I not eaten the salt and the bread? 
     And Monsoor will answer for me with his head.

GEORGE H. BOKER.

CONSTANTINOPLE, Jan. 10, 1875.

HOW HAM WAS CURED.

This was in slave times.  It was also immediately after dinner, and the gentlemen had gone to the east piazza.  Mr. Smith was walking back and forth, talking somewhat excitedly for him, while Dr. Rutherford sat with his feet on the railing, thoughtfully executing the sentimental performance of cutting his nails.  Dr. Rutherford was an old friend of Mr. Smith who had been studying surgery in Philadelphia, and now, on his way back to South Carolina, had tarried to make us a visit.

“You see,” Mr. Smith was saying, “about a week ago one of our old negroes died under the impression that she was ‘tricked’ or bewitched, and the consequence has been that the entire plantation is demoralized.  You never saw anything like it.”

“Many a time,” said Dr. Rutherford, and calmly cut his nails.