THE KNOWING CHILD.

"L'Infant terrible!"

"MAIS, gardez vouz, mon cher," she said,

And then the mother smiled;

"Speak very softly, if you please, He's such a knowing child!"

My simple sister spoke the truth;
There is n't, I suppose,

A thing on earth he should n't know
But what that urchin knows!

And all he knows the younker tells
In such a knowing way;

For what he knows, you may be sure,
He does not fear to say.

He knows he is an arrant churl,

Although he looks so mild;

And

worst of all-full well he knows

He is a knowing child.

He knows

I've often told him so

I am averse to noise;

He knows his uncle is n't fond

Of martial little boys;

And that, no doubt, is why he pounds

His real soldier drum

Beneath my window, morn and night,
Until my ear is numb!

He knows my age- - that dreadful boy –

Exactly to a day;

He knows precisely why my locks
Have not a thread of gray.

He knows - and says (what shocking talk

For one so very small!)

My head - without my curly scratch

Looks like a billiard ball!

He knows that Mary's headache means
She does n't wish to go;

And lets the sacred secret out
Before her waiting beau!

He knows why Clara always coughs
When she is asked to sing;

He knows (and blabs !) that Julia's bust
Is not the real thing!

He knows about the baby too;
Though he has often heard
The nurse's old, convenient tale,
He don't believe a word.

And when those ante-natal caps

Their future use disclose,

He knows again,

the knowing imp,

Just what his uncle knows!

Ah! well; no doubt, what Time may bring

'Tis better not to see;

I know not what the changeful Fates

May have in store for me;

H

But if within the nuptial noose

My neck should be beguiled,

Heaven save the house from childlessness

And from a knowing child!

IDEAL AND REAL.

IDEAL.

OME years ago, when I was young,

SOME

And Mrs. Jones was Miss Delancy; When wedlock's canopy was hung

With curtains from the loom of fancy; I used to paint my future life

With most poetical precision, My special wonder of a wife;

My happy days; my nights Elysian.

I saw a lady, rather small

(A JUNO was my strict abhorrence), With flaxen hair, contrived to fall

In careless ringlets, à la Lawrence; A blond complexion; eyes that drew

From autumn clouds their azure brightness; The foot of Hebe; arms whose hue Was perfect in its milky whiteness!

There might have been a baker's dozen ;

A parson, of the ruling sect;

A bridemaid, and a city cousin ;

A formal speech to me and mine,

(Its meaning I could scarce discover ;)

A taste of cake; a sip of wine;

Some kissing — and the scene was over!

A cherub pictured, rather faintly,
Beside a pallid dame who wore
A countenance extremely saintly.
but nothing could I hear,
Except the softest prattle, maybe,
The merest breath upon the ear,
So quiet was that blesséd baby!

I saw,

REAL.

I see a woman, rather tall,

And yet, I own, a comely lady; Complexion - such as I must call (To be exact) a little shady;

A hand not handsome, yet confessed
A generous one for love or pity;
A nimble foot, and neatly dressed
In No. 5 extremely pretty!

I see a group of boys and girls

Assembled round the knee paternal With ruddy cheeks and tangled curls, And manners not at all supernal. And one has reached a manly size; And one aspires to woman's stature;

And one is quite a recent prize,

And all abound in human nature!

The boys are hard to keep in trim;
The girls are often rather trying ;

And baby - like the cherubim -
Seems very fond of steady crying!
And yet the precious little one,

His mother's dear, despotic master,
Is worth a thousand babies done
In Parian or in alabaster!

And oft that stately dame and I,
When laughing o'er our early dreaming,
And marking, as the years go by,

How idle was our youthful scheming,
Confess the wiser Power that knew
How Duty every joy enhances,
And gave us blessings rich and true,
And better far than all our fancies.

THE GAME OF LIFE.

A HOMILY.

'HERE 's a game much in fashion, I think it's

THERE
called Euchre,

(Though I never have played it, for pleasure or lucre,) In which, when the cards are in certain conditions, The players appear to have changed their positions, And one of them cries, in a confident tone, "I think I may venture to go it alone!"

While watching the game, 't is a whim of the bard's
A moral to draw from that skirmish of cards,

And to fancy he finds in the trivial strife
Some excellent hints for the battle of Life;

Where whether the prize be a ribbon or throne—
The winner is he who can go it alone!