ld bachelor, "I may some day. But I have been reading
up on the subject and the scientists agree that if a man takes proper care
of himself there is no reason why his mind should begin to fail before he
is eighty at least."--_Chicago Record-Herald._

CRUSHED.

MR. W.S. Gilbert was once at the house of a wealthy but ignorant and
pretentious woman. She asked Mr. Gilbert several questions about musical
composers, to show that she knew all about them.

"And what about Bach?" she asked. "Is he composing nowadays?"

"No, ma'am," answered Gilbert; "he is decomposing!"--_Tit-Bits._

IN A STREET CAR.

Blodgett--You see that homely woman hanging to that strap?

Foster--How do you know she is homely? You can't see her face.

Blodgett--I can see she is hanging to a strap.--_Boston Transcript._

Poems by Dickens and Thackeray.

Verses from the Pen of Two of England's Most Celebrated
Novelists.

With the notable exception of Sir Walter Scott, no writer of English
novels has attained any marked distinction as a poet. But like men engaged
in hundreds of other occupations, celebrated novelists have at times
succumbed to the allurements of the muse, and have offered some of their
thoughts to the world through the medium of verse. Among these were
Dickens and Thackeray.

"The Ivy Green," by Dickens, lends grace to the "Pickwick Papers," while
Thackeray's "The Church Porch" plays an interesting part in the novel
"Pendennis."

THE IVY GREEN.

[Recited by the Old Clergyman at Manor Farm.]

Oh! a dainty plant is the ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stones decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim;
And the moldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a stanch old heart has he;
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge oak-tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round,
The rich mold of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,
And nations have scatt