Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint--
(Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)
Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life--
(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
Toss the light ball--bestride the stick--
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy, and breathing music like the South,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,--
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,--
(I tell you what, my love,
I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

XLVIII. METAPHYSICS.

THOMAS CHANDLER HALIBURTON.--1796-1865.

_From_ TRAITS OF AMERICAN HUMOR.

Old Doctor Sobersides, the minister of Pumpkinville, where I lived in my
youth, was one of the metaphysical divines of the old school, and could
cavil upon the ninth part of a hair about entities and quiddities,
nominalism and realism, free-will and necessity, with which sort of
learning he used to stuff his sermons and astound his learned hearers,
the bumpkins. They never doubted that it was all true, but were apt to
say with the old woman in Moliere: "He speaks so well that I don't
understand him a bit."

I remember a conversation that happened at my grandfather's, in which
the Doctor had some difficulty in making his metaphysics all "as clear
as preaching." There was my grandfather; Uncle Tim, who was the greatest
hand at raising onions in our part of the country, but "not knowing
metaphysics, had no notion of the true reason of his not being sad"; my
Aunt J