ANOTHER RIP VAN WINKLE.

BY MARGARET EYTINGE.

"March!" said Spring. Quickly melting, the ice ran away, And the frost hurried out of the ground, And the leaves, brown and dry, dropped with Autumn's "good-by," With the wind went a-skurrying round. And from the deep mud in a low, swampy place A turtle his long neck thrust out, And winking and blinking his funny round eyes, He lazily peered all about. Then he dragged from the mire—like a snail on his back He bore it—his box-like abode, And patiently climbed for an hour or more Up the bank, till he came to the road. There an old man he met, who was crooked and gray, And who walked with a stout oaken cane. Cried the turtle, "Hello! please tell Ned that I'm here, And am waiting to see him again." "Who's Ned?" asked the man. "Just examine my top (I suppose you have learned how to spell), And a name and some figures he carved with his knife When we parted, you'll find on my shell." The old man he stooped with a grunt, for he was Decidedly lame in each knee. And he read, "August 1st, 1820—Ned Mott," And then chuckled, "Good gracious! that's me." "You!" the turtle exclaimed. "Why, Ned Mott is a boy Whose laugh can be heard for a mile; With hair brown as earth, and with eyes bright as mine— You! Excuse me, I really must smile." "I am he." "It can't be." "Yes, it can. Don't you see, Many years since you saw him have sped?" "What's years? I know nothing 'bout years, but I know That you are not rosy-cheeked Ned. "He's a boy, and he wears a small cap with a peak, And in summer picks berries called whortle. Oh! the stupidest thing is a stupid old man." "You mistake, 'tis a stupid old turtle. I'm Ned Mott." "You are not." "If I'm not, I'll be shot." "Then be shot," and he dropped with a thud, That sleepy, that ancient, that obstinate turtle, Head-foremost back into the mud.