,
He looks after the stamps.

LES ENFANTS PERDUS.

What has become of the children all?
How have the darlings vanished?
Fashion's pied piper, with magical air,
Has wooed them away, with their flaxen hair
And laughing eyes, we don't know where,
And no one can tell where they're banished.

"Where are the children?" cries Madam Haut-ton,
"Allow me, my sons and daughters,--
Fetch them, Annette!" What, madam, those?
Children! such exquisite belles and beaux:--
True, they're in somewhat shorter clothes
Than the most of Dame Fashion's supporters.

Good day, Master Eddy! Young man about town,--
A merchant down in the swamp's son;
In a neat little book he makes neat little bets:
He doesn't believe in the shop cigarettes,
But does his own rolling,--and has for his pets
Miss Markham and Lydia Thompson.

He and his comrades can drink champagne
Like so many juvenile Comuses;
If you want to insult him, just talk of boys' play,--
Why, even on billiards he's almost _blase_,
Drops in at Delmonico's three times a day,
And is known at Jerry Thomas's.

And here comes Miss Agnes. Good morning! "_Bon jour!_"
Now, isn't that vision alarming?
Silk with panier, and puffs, and lace
Decking a figure of corsetted grace;
Her words are minced, and her spoiled young face
Wears a simper far from charming.

Thirteen only a month ago,--
Notice her conversation:
Fashion--that bonnet of Nellie Perroy's--
And now, in a low, confidential voice,
Of Helena's treatment of Tommy Joyce,--
Aged twelve,--that's the last flirtation.

What has become of the children, then?
How can an answer be given?
Folly filling each curly head,
Premature vices, childhood dead,
Blighted blossoms--can it be said
"Of _such_ is the kingdom of heaven?"

CHINESE LANTERNS.

Through the windows on the park
Float the waltzes, weirdly sweet;
In the light, and in the dark,
Rings the chime of dancing feet.
Mid the branches, all a-row,
Fiery jewels gleam and glow;
Dreamingly we walk beneath,--
Ah, so slow!

All the air is full of love;
Misty shadows wrap us round;
Light below and dark above,
Filled with softly-surging sound.
See the forehead of the Night