out like a telescope;
'Twad tak a dreadfu' length o' drop
To settle her annuity.

Will puzion do't?--It has been tried;
But, be't in hash or fricassee,
That's just the dish she can't abide,
Whatever kind o' gout it hae.
It's needless to assail her doubts,
She gangs by instinct, like the brutes,
An' only eats an' drinks what suits
Hersel' and her annuity.

The Bible says the age o' man
Threescore and ten, perchance, may be;
She's ninety-four. Let them who can,
Explain the incongruity.
She should hae lived afore the flood--
She's come o' patriarchal blood,
She's some auld Pagan mummified
Alive for her annuity.

She's been embalmed inside and oot--
She's sauted to the last degree--
There's pickle in her very snoot
Sae caper-like an' cruety.
Lot's wife was fresh compared to her--
They've kyanized the useless knir,
She canna decompose--nae mair
Than her accursed annuity.

The water-drop wears out the rock,
As this eternal jaud wears me;
I could withstand the single shock,
But not the continuity.
It's pay me here, an' pay me there,
An' pay me, pay me, evermair--
I'll gang demented wi' despair--
I'm charged for her annuity.

_George Outram._

K. K.--CAN'T CALCULATE

What poor short-sighted worms we be;
For we can't calculate,
With any sort of sartintee,
What is to be our fate.

These words Prissilla's heart did reach,
And caused her tears to flow,
When first she heard the Elder preach,
About six months ago.

How true it is what he did state,
And thus affected her,
That nobody can't calculate
What is a-gwine to occur.

When we retire, can't calculate
But what afore the morn
Our housen will conflaggerate,
And we be left forlorn.

Can't calculate when we come in
From any neighborin' place,
Whether we'll ever go out agin
To look on natur's face.

Can't calculate upon the weather,
It always changes so;
Hain't got no means of telling whether
It's gwine to rain or snow.

Can't calculate with no precision
On naught beneath the sky;
And so I've come to the decision
That't ain't worth while to try.

_Frances M. Whitcher._

NORTHERN FARMER

NEW STYLE

Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaaey?
Proputty, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'em saaey.
Proputty, proputty, proputty--Sam, thou's an ass for thy paains:
Theer's mo