sell-ibate go."

CHORUS.--Commenting genially on the idiosyncrasy of female
character evidenced in this revelation:

All over the world it is plain to espy
That woman a husband has e'er in her eye;
And if no fine fellow her husband can be,
She'll even take up with a _felo de se_!

XII.

The neighbors came in. "What a pity!" said they,
"To lose such a daughter, and in such a way."
"My daughter be hanged!" said the parent sublime,--
"_It's one thousand dollars I'm euchred this time!_"

CHORUS.--Deducing a beautiful and useful moral from this burst of
paternal agony:

My dear fellow-citizens, lay it to heart:
Who'd sell a young woman must work it up smart:
Or else, like the planter, whose story I've told,
He'll only go selling to find himself sold.

When I had finished singing, Captain Samyule Sa-mith exhibited a small
manuscript, and says he:

"The noise having ceased, I will proceed to read a small moral tale,
written by a young woman which lives in Boston, and is destined to
become an eddycator of mankind. The fiction is called

"MR. SMITH.[1]

"The first of April. You know the day. A point of time, an unit of
twenty-four hours, with a night on each side of it, and the sun laid on
top to keep it in its place. You have undoubtedly passed the day in New
England at some period of your miserable life. You have felt your
coarse nature repulsed, too, when some weary and desolate little child
has dreamily pinned a bit of paper to the hinder-most verge of the
garment men call a coat, and then called the attention of passers-by to
your appearance. You have despised that little, weary, hollow-eyed
child for it. Beware how you strike that child; for I tell you that the
child is the germ of the thing they call man. The germ will develop; it
will grow broadly and largely into the full entity of Manhood. In
striking the present Child you strike the future Man. Ponder this
thought well. Let it fester in your bosom.

[1] The idea that this moral and exciting tale appeared
originally in the _Atlantic Monthly_, is scornfully repelled by
the Editor of this work.

"John Smith sat at his table, in the lowest depths of a dreamy
coal-mine, and helped himself to some more pork and beans. I know not
what there was way down in the black recesses of the man's hidden soul
to make him want so much pork and beans. I look into my heart to find