acy that's woolly, blythe and free.
And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot,
For _I_ have tasted liberty--these others, _they_ have not!
So, even caged, the democratic 'coon more glory feels
Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels!

Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy and O'Neill,
To Jasper Burke and Colonel Jones, and tell 'em how I feel;
My compliments to Cockrill, Munford, Switzler, Hasbrook, Vest,
Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead and the rest;
Bid them be steadfast in the faith and pay no heed at all
To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncy Filley's gall;
And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering here
By cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer.

THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S BRIDE.

The women folk are like to books--
Most pleasing to the eye,
Whereon if anybody looks
He feels disposed to buy.

I hear that many are for sale--
Those that record no dates,
And such editions as regale
The view with colored plates.

Of every quality and grade
And size they may be found--
Quite often beautifully made,
As often poorly bound.

Now, as for me, had I my choice,
I'd choose no folio tall,
But some octavo to rejoice
My sight and heart withal.

As plump and pudgy as a snipe--
Well worth her weight in gold,
Of honest, clean, conspicuous type,
And just the size to hold!

With such a volume for my wife,
How should I keep and con?
How like a dream should speed my life
Unto its colophon!

Her frontispiece should be more fair
Than any colored plate;
Blooming with health she would not care
To extra-illustrate.

And in her pages there should be
A wealth of prose and verse,
With now and then a jeu d'esprit--
But nothing ever worse!

Prose for me when I wished for prose,
Verse, when to verse inclined--
Forever bringing sweet repose
To body, heart, and mind.

Oh, I should bind this priceless prize
In bindings full and fine,
And keep her where no human eyes
Should see her charms, but mine!

With such a fair unique as this,
What happiness abounds!
Who--who could paint my rapturous bliss,
My joy unknown to Lowndes!

EZRA J. M'MANUS TO A SOUBRETTE.

'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met,
And yet, ah yet, how swift and tender
My thoughts go back in