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SONG-BIRDS IN CAPTIVITY. For very many years has our pen been unceasingly employed in pleading hard for the unrestricted freedom of our sweet singers among the feathered tribe; but, alas! the human heart is a perplexing curiosity. People read what we say; pretend to enjoy it, aye, applaud us to the skies; yet do they act in direct opposition to our advice, and disregard all our remonstrances ! Nothing daunted, we shall continue to persevere; aud see if we cannot at least break the heart which hitherto has only bent. Our cause is a good one. We do not deny having made some converts, but we are desirous of making many more, and through them, of doing good at compound interest. It appears that people will keep birds, whether suited for a cage or not. The practice, too, is largely on the increase! Hence the greater necessity for our pointing out all that will conduce towards making them happy. Happy! the word is a mockery, when applied to a bird in confinement. If we could but read the heart of a bird, and enter into its feelings at this season, whilst immured in a room, or a prison of wire, we should or ought to shudder at our “cruelty to animals." We rail loudly against it, and yet practice it daily! Is it not so ? Conscience, be honest! Accustomed as we are to range the fields, and almost to acquire the language (certainly the feelings) of the “ free" songsters as they revel in delight around us, we speak to a point on this matter. Oh! that all “ adinirers of our writings on Song-Birds” could join us in our walks ; letting us chat to them by the way as we wandered through the young growing corn, in shady lanes, by brooks and rivulets, in copses, meadows, and leafy woods. We would try and convince them of what they are so slow to learn, so unwilling to believe. Nay, more; we are vain enough to believe our argument would prevail with many—for we should be away from the noise of cities; buried in Nature's lovely bosoun. We feel sure that the influences of this sweet season, and its surrounding charms, could not but melt the heart. Each step we took, we could " illustrate” our argument-for we would point to everything having life, and address ourself to the very soul of the listening ear. We love to reason in the fields ! And why ? Simply because we always get our own way. Nature is such an all-powerful special pleader!

my lad ?”

A GENTLEMAN said to a country lad," whose pigs are those,

Whoy they belong to that thar big sow. “No, I mean who is their master.” Whoy,” again answered the lad, “ that little ’un there : he is a rare 'un to feight.”

As Pat Hogan, an American emigrant, sat enjoying his connubial bliss, upon the banks of a southern creek, he espied a turtle, emerging from the stream_"Oh, honey!” he exclaimed, solemnly, " that's ever I should come to America to see a snuff-box walk ?"

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A HINT TO “ LONG PREACHERS." A Short time ago, at a Wesleyan Chapel, situate in a pleasant village, in Derbyshire, a preacher having a sermonized" a little too long in the afternnon, on re-entering the pulpit in the evening, found laid in a conspicuous place the following

laconic note :--“ If we be Wesleyans, let us have Wesley's rule—that is, preach twenty minutes or half-an-hour.”

ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.
The morning sun's enchanting rays
Now call forth every songster's praise ;
Now the lark, with upward flight,
Gaily ushers in the light;
While wildly warbling from each tree,
The birds sing songs to liberty.
But for me no songster sings,
For me no joyous lark upsprings;
For I, confined in gloomy school,
Must own the pedant's iron rule,
And, far from sylvan shades and bowers,
In durance vile must pass the hours;
There con the scholiast's dreary lines,
Where no bright ray of genius shines,
And close to rugged learning cling,
While laughs around the jocund spring.
How gladly would my soul forego
All that arithmeticians know,
Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach,
Or all that industry can reach,
To taste each morn of all the joys
That with the laughing sun arise ;
And unconstrain'd to rove along
The bushy brakes and glens among;
And woo the muses gentle power,
In unfrequented rural bower!
But, ah! such heav'n approaching joys
Will never greet my longing eyes;
Still will they cheat in vision fine,
Yet never but in fancy shine.
Oh, that I were the little wren
That shrilly chirps from yonder glen!
Oh, far away I then would rove,
To some secluded hushy grove;
There hop and sing with careless glee,
Hop and sing at liberty;
And 'till death should stop my lays,
Far from men would spend my days.

“A COUPLE of Belgian giants,” says the Cincinnati Globe, are now in the city for the purpose of exhibition. They are so long, that it takes two days to exhibit them.”

PETREA'S NOSE. This was, as we have often remarked, large and somewhat clumsy. Petrea had great desire to deform it, particularly for the approaching festivities. “ What have you done to your nose ?" "What is amiss with your nose ?” were the questions which assailed Petrea on all sides, as she came down to breakfast on the morning of the journey. Half laughing and half crying, Petrea related how she had made use of some innocent machinery during the night by which she had hoped somewhat to alter the form of this offending feature, the consequence of which had, unfortunately been the fixing of a fiery red saddle across it, and a considerable swelling beside. “ Don't

cry, my dear girl," said her mother, bathing it with oatmeal-water, “it will only inflame your nose the more.” “ Ah !" burst forth poor Petrea, "anybody is really unfortunate who has such a nose as mine. What in the world can they do with it ? They must go into a convent.” It is very much better," said the mother, “to do as one of my friends did, who had a very large nose, much larger than yours, Petrea.” “Ah! what did she do ?” asked Petrea eagerly. “ She made herself so beloved that her nose was beloved too,” said her mother; "her friends declared that they saw nothing so gladly as her nose as it came in at the door, and that without it she would have been nothing." Petrea laughed, and looked quite cheerful. “Ah!" said she, “ if my nose can but be beloved, I shall be quite reconciled to it." - You must endeavour to grow above it," said the good prudent mother, jestingly, but significantly.-Miss Bremer.

THE KING AND THE MAYOR OF A COUNTRY

TOWN. It happened that one of our kings had arranged to visit one of the corporation towns, and on such an occasion it was the custom of the mayor and corporation to present an address of welcome. The mayor, upon this occasion, was not gifted with eloquence, nor did he profess to be, but the barber of the town was acknowledged to have fluency of speech. The mayor, therefore, as he thought, judiciously engaged the barber to tell him what to say, when he should approach the king at the town hall. On entering the hall the mayor unfortunately held down his head. The barber then whispered—“ Hold up your head, and look like a man.” The mayor then bawled out to the king—"Hold up your head, and look like a man.” The king looked all astonishment. The barber then whispered to the mayor—" Damn you, you'll be the ruin of us all.” The mayor then sung out—“ Damme, you'll be the ruin of us all.” His majesty, upon this, made his exit, blazing with astonishment !

A GENTLEMAN observed to his wife, that she was beautiful, youthful, plentiful, and an armful.

THE BISHOP OF FREJUS, IN 1852, ADDRESSED LOUIS NAPOLEON IN THE FOLLOWING

MANNER: “ MonseignEUR,-Lips consecrated to the service of God and of truth will not to-day learn the language of flattery to address a Prince, whom so many acclamations salute with transport, and who is still better lauded by his works. But, when the Eternal, after a day's anguish, gives to the world a Constantine, a Charlemagne, or a Napoleon, to snatch society from an abyss, and seat it on religion and justice-its sole true and solid basis—it is permitted to a minister of the gospel to find accents in his heart, to come surrounded by his brethren, to tell the liberator who is passingPrince, receive our homage, accept our gratitude and live! Live, Prince, to accomplish, with the protection of Heaven and the benedictions of the Earth, the most elevated mission, and the most astonishing destiny of this epoch! The bishop and the clergy of this town and diocese, Monseigneur, will hold no other language in presence of your highness, nor other wishes for him at the foot of the altar. May those sentiments be pleasing to him. May those wishes be acceptable by the all-powerful.

ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.
Here would I wish to sleep. This is the spot
Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in;
Tir'd out and wearied with the riotous world,
Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred.
It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun,
From his meridian height, endeavours vainly
To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr
Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent,
And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook
Most pleasant. Such a one perchance did Gray
Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd.
Come I will sit me down and meditate,
For I am wearied with my summer's walk;
And here I may repose in silent ease;
And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er,
My barass'd soul, in this same spot, may find
The haven of its rest-beneath this sod
Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death.
I would not have my corpse cemented down
With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthworm
Of its predestin'd dues; no I would lie
Beneath a little hillock, grass o'er-grown,
Swath'd down with oziers, just as sleep the cotters.
Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave;
But there at eve may some congenial soul
Duly resort and shed a pious tear,
The good man's benison—no more I ask.
And oh! (if heavenly beings may look down
From where, with cherubim, inspir'd they sit,
Upon this little dim discovered spot,
The earth,) then will I cast a glance below

On him who thus my ashes shall embalm;
And I will weep, too, and will bless the wanderer,
Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine
In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe,
But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies.
Yet 'twas a silly thought, as if the body,
Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth,
Could taste the sweets of summer scenery,
And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze!
Yet nature speaks within the human bosom,
And spite of reason, bids it look beyond
His narrow verge of being, and provide
A decent residence for his clayey shell,
Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay
His body in the city burial place,
To be thrown up again by some rude seston,
And yield its narrow house another tenant,
Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust,
Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp,
Expos'd to insult, lewd, and wantonness?
No, I will lay me in the village ground;
There are the dead respected. The poor bind,
Unlettered as he is, would scorn to invade
The silent resting-place of death. I've seen
The labourer, returning from his toil,
Here stay his steps, and call his children round,
And slowly spell the rudely sculptur'd rhymes,
And in his rustic manner moralize.
I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken,
With head uncover'd, bis respectful manner,
And all the honours which he paid the grave,
And thought on cities, where e'en cemetries,
Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality,
Are not protected from the drunken insolence
Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc.
Grant, Heav'ı, that here my pilgrimage may close !
Yet if this be deny'd, wherever my bones
May lie—or in the city's crowded bounds,
Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep waters,
Or left a prey on some deserted shore
To the rapacious cormorant-yet still,
(For why should sober reason cast away
A thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my spirit
Shall wing its way to these my native regions
And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think
Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew
In solemn renunciation, and will smile
With joy that I have got my long'd release.

To such a pitch has the eccentric title, “ Mania," among writers become, that a book of bacchanalian songs, is about to be published under the title-Grog Blossoms; or, Pimples on the Mug of Genius.

“WHERE there's a will there's a way,” says the old proverb, and Shakspeare's marriage was a curious proof of this : for in the days of the great poet it might have been said, Shakspeare is the Will, and his wife Hath-a-way!

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