Volume 99 — THE AMERICAN GIRL.

She "guesses" and she "calculates," she wears all sorts o' collars, Her yellow hair is not without suspicion of a dye; Her "Pappa" is a dull old man who turned pork into dollars. But everyone admits that she's indubitably spry. She did Rome in a swift two days, gave half the time to Venice, But vows that she saw everything, although in awful haste; She's fond of dancing, but she seems to fight shy of lawn-tennis, Because it might endanger the proportions of her waist. Her manner might be well defined as elegantly skittish; She loves a Lord as only a Republican can do; And quite the best of titles she's persuaded are the British, And well she knows the Peerage, for she reads it through and through. She's bediamonded superbly, and shines like a constellation, You scarce can see her fingers for the multitude of rings; She's just a shade too conscious, so it seems, of admiration, With irritating tendencies to wriggle when she sings. She owns she is "Amur'can," and her accent is alarming; Her birthplace has an awful name you pray you may forget; Yet, after all, we own "La Belle Américaine" is charming, So let us hope she'll win at last her long-sought coronet.