dalled about this Lady that Hon. C. J. Caesar, Mayor of Rome, sail for Egypt with a Peace Fleet intending for to give Mrs. Cleopatra a war scare.

But soonly he return home with baldheaded expression of one who has been Rude to a Lady. "What was your impression of Cleopatra?" ask a Roman reporter for interview. "Sic terror alibi!" say Mr. Caesar, which were a pretty mean curse to throw at a Lady, even in those early dates.

Mrs. Cleopatra were Politickal Boss of Egypt for 103 years, and she looked even younger. But one day she found she could not do no more harm to Egypt, so she got mad & killed herself by being stung by a wasp which was concealed in a basket of lemons.

When Mrs. Macdonald stop-off telling me this sad news I ask, "What do this prove about Suffergettes?" "When Ladies is too uplifted they are apt to get too top-lofty," report Hon. Lusy.

"Then you refuse to be strong & vote?" I ask earnestly. "I prefers to be a poor, weak woman of gentle & retiring habits," says Mrs. Macdonald. So she hit Hon. Carpet another punish with broom-handle.

Mr. Editor, I wish to join my penmanship with such distinguished names as Katherine de Medici, Col. George Harvey, Joan of Arc, Mrs. Carry Nation, Sappho, Mary Queen of Scotch & May Irwin. Like them distinguished Suffergettes I know that if the Ladies want anything & don't get it, it is because they don't want it. When the Ladies does get the vote they will show what foolish things they can do with it. But is not that what the Vote is for? If the Sterner Sex have used it that way for so long, why shouldn't the Crosser Sex get a chance?

He Liked Music

Going to the village band concert to-night?" "No."

"I thought you liked music."

"I do."

"Then why don't you go to the band concert?" "Because I like music."

Paddy's Content

BY LAWRENCE KYRLE DONOVAN.

Paddy McShane had no shoes to his feet-
Sorra a shoe!-divil a shoe!

And his houghs they looked red as he tramped in the

street,

Och, wirrahoo!

But he said: "Is it shoes that ye'd stick on me toes? How'd me feet feel the ground, sorra one of ye knows; And who'd pay for mendin' 'em, do you suppose? Go off wid ye-do!

Paddy McShane had no hat on his head-
Sorra a hat!-divil a hat!

And the rain it came down on his red scratch, instead―
Och, think of that!

But he said: "Is it God's blessed sunshine and air
That ye'd shut from me head? Och, would one of ye

dare!

For a trifle of rain or av wind, who would care?
Shtop botherin' Pat.

Paddy McShane had just nothing at all

Sorra a thing!-divil a thing!

But he thought: "When I'm down, there's no distance to fall;"

And he would sing:

"Faix, the merciful Master is good to his poor;
What is man, whom he made, if he cannot endure?
Troth, it's little I want, but that little is sure,
For it comes from the King!"

The Wedding Journey

He: Dearest, if I had known this tunnel was so long,

I'd have given you a jolly hug.

She: Didn't you? Why, somebody did.

Immortality

BY WILLIAM KNOX.

[This poem was first repeated to Lincoln by Dr Duncan of New Salem, who found it in an almanac. It was no uncommon thing for the Great President, when overcome with sadness and sorrow, to break out in the dirge-like lamentation, "Oh, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud?"]

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-flying meteor-a fast-flying cloud-
A flash of the lightning-a break of the wave—
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around and together be laid;

And the young, and the old, and the low, and the high, Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The infant, a mother attended and loved;
The mother, that infant's affection who proved;
The father, that mother an infant who blest—
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure-her triumphs are by;

And alike from the minds of the living erased

Are the memories of those who loved her and praised.

The hand of the king, that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap;

The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread;
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint, who enjoyed the communion of heaven;
The sinner, who dared to remain unforgiven;
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

'Tis the wink of an eye; 'tis the
From the blossom of health to the
From the gilded saloon to the bier a
Oh! why should the spirit of mortal