THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

I wrote some lines, once on a time, In wondrous merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer, I laughed as I would die; Albeit, in the general way, A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came; How kind it was of him, To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed. And, in my humorous way, I added (as a trifling jest), "There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched, And saw him peep within; At the first line he read, his face Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad. And shot from ear to ear; He read the third; a chuckling noise I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar; The fifth; his waistband split; The sixth; he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can.

THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER. A BALLAD. JOHN G. SAXE.

An Attorney was taking a turn, In shabby habiliments drest; His coat it was shockingly worn, And the rust had invested his vest.

His breeches had suffered a breach, His linen and worsted were worse; He had scarce a whole crown in his hat, And not half-a-crown in his purse.

And thus as he wandered along, A cheerless and comfortless elf, He sought for relief in a song, Or complainingly talked to himself:

"Unfortunate man that I am! I've never a client but grief; The case is, I've no case at all, And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief!

"I've waited and waited in vain, Expecting an 'opening' to find, Where an honest young lawyer might gain Some reward for the toil of his mind.

"'Tis not that I'm wanting in law, Or lack an intelligent face, That others have cases to plead, While I have to plead for a case.

"O, how can a modest young man E'er hope for the smallest progression— The profession's already so full Of lawyers so full of profession!"

While thus he was strolling around, His eye accidentally fell On a very deep hole in the ground, And he sighed to himself, "It is well!"

To curb his emotions, he sat On the curb-stone the space of a minute, Then cried, "Here's an opening at last!" And in less than a jiffy was in it!

Next morning twelve citizens came ('Twas the coroner bade them attend), To the end that it might be determined How the man had determined his end!

"The man was a lawyer, I hear," Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse; "A lawyer? Alas!" said another, "Undoubtedly he died of remorse!"

A third said, "He knew the deceased, An attorney well versed in the laws, And as to the cause of his death, 'Twas no doubt from the want of a cause."

The jury decided at length, After solemnly weighing the matter, "That the lawyer was drownDed, because He could not keep his head above water!"

SONNET TO A CLAM. JOHN G. SAXE Dum tacent CLAMant

Inglorious friend! most confident I am Thy life is one of very little ease; Albeit men mock thee with their similes And prate of being "happy as a clam!" What though thy shell protects thy fragile head From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea? Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee, While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed, And bear thee off—as foemen take their spoil— Far from thy friends and family to roam; Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home, To meet destruction in a foreign broil! Though thou art tender, yet thy humble bard Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!

VENUS OF THE NEEDLE.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

O Maryanne, you pretty girl, Intent on silky labor, Of sempstresses the pink and pearl, Excuse a peeping neighbor!

Those eyes, forever drooping, give The long brown lashes rarely; But violets in the shadows live,— For once unvail them fairly.

Hast thou not lent that flounce enough Of looks so long and earnest? Lo, here's more "penetrable stuff," To which thou never turnest.

Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped! How slender, and how nimble! O might I wind their skeins of thread, Or but pick up their thimble!

How blest the youth whom love shall bring, And happy stars embolden, To change the dome into a ring, The silver into golden!

Who'll steal some morning to her side To take her finger's measure, While Maryanne pretends to chide, And blushes deep with pleasure.

Who'll watch her sew her wedding-gown, Well conscious that it IS hers, Who'll glean a tress, without a frown, With those so ready scissors.

Who'll taste those ripenings of the south, The fragrant and delicious— Don't put the pins into your mouth, O Maryanne, my precious!

I almost wish it were my trust To teach how shocking that is; I wish I had not, as I must, To quit this tempting lattice.

Sure aim takes Cupid, fluttering foe, Across a street so narrow; A thread of silk to string his bow, A needle for his arrow!