account of you. You'll have
enough sins to answer for, old woman, without that.

MRS. W. I never did such a thing, and you--

MR. W. Yes--and you think Mary Jane can play, don't you? You think she
can sit down and jerk more music than a whole orchestra, don't you?
But she can't. You might about as well set a crowbar to opening
oysters as set her to playing on that piano. You might, indeed!

MRS. W. You talk like a fool, Wilkins!

MR. W. Play! She play? Pshaw! Why, she's drummed away at that polka
for six months and she can't get her grip on it yet. You might as well
try to sing a long-metre hymn to "Fisher's Hornpipe," as to undertake
to dance to that polka. It would jerk your legs out at the sockets,
certain, or else it would give you St. Vitus' dance, and cripple you
for life.

MRS. W. Mr. Wilkins, I'm going to tell you a secret.

MR. W. Oh! I don't want to hear your secrets--keep them to yourself.

MRS. W. It's about Mary Jane's singing.

MR. W. What?

MRS. W. Mary Jane, you know--her singing.

MR. W. I don't know, and I don't want to; she shan't take lessons, so
dry up.

MRS. W. But she shall take them!

MR. W. I say she shan't!

MRS. W. She shall, and you can't help it.

MR. W. By George! What do you mean? I'm master in this house I'd like
you to know.

MRS. W. Yes--but she's been taking lessons for a whole quarter, while
you were down town, and I paid the bill out of the market money.

MR. W. Well! I hope I may be shot! You don't mean to say that? Well,
if you ain't a perfectly abandoned wretch, hang me! Farewell, Mrs.
Wilkins, farewell! I'm off by the first express-train for the
West! I'll stop at Chicago, where the cars wait fifteen minutes for
refreshments and a divorce--I'll take the divorce, that will be
indeed refreshing! Farewell! F-a-r-e-well! Fare-r-r-r-r-r-r-well! Mrs.
Wil-l-l-l-l-l-l-kins!

THE MARINERS WIFE.

WM. JULIUS MICKLE.

THIS WAS A FAVOURITE RECITATION OF THE LATE CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.

And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Make haste, lay by your wheel;
Is this a time to spin a thread,
When Colin's at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa'.

And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop's satin gown;
For I m