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Musicians call it the concord

Of óctaves lower and higher, Philosophers the sympathy

Of puppets on one wire.

Geologists find éven hard stone

Given to conglomerate, And not a botanist but knows

Each plant turns toward a mate;

All may be right or all be wrong

For ánything I know,
Beyond the simple matter of fact

It 's not for me to go.

They 've seen each other at a friend's;

Well done! you ’ve now to choose A pláce convenient to them both

For fréquent rendezvous.

The máll 's too public, and almost

As public evening Tea; 'Twére a real pity your good work

Should spoiled by tattling be;

Bút in a Propaganda school

As óften as they please They 'll come together, youth and maid,

In safety and at ease.

Here while he teaches little boys

She girls their catechism,

Streams fást the magnetism.

Your work is done; your youth and maid

No more need of your care;

They are a wedded pair.

A doúble folly so they cooked

Some twenty years ago,

Ask nót, for I don't know;

But this I know, the recipe

Succeéds even in these days, · And mérits of all culinary

Connoisseurs the praise. Walking across the mountains from CORTINA in VAL AMPEZZO to PREDAZZO in Val FIEME, July 24 – 26, 1854.

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SAID Vinegar-cruet to Mustard-pot once: –

"I wish you knew how to behave;
What pleásure can any one take in the feast,

While you keep still looking so grave?”

"Excuse me, dear Vinegar-cruet," replied

Mustard-pót, "I 've been thinking this hour
How háppy we'd áll be and merry the feast

Were you but a little less sour.”
OPPENAU, in the BLACK FOREST (BADEN), Octob. 12, 1854.

TEN broad stéps there 's tó my ládder, Five on one side, five on th’ other;

Ón the first step síts a móther
Rócking with her foót a cradle;
Lísten and you 'll hear her singing
"Húsh-a báby, báby húsh-a.”

Ón the sécond my heart trembles
To see seated á schoolmáster
Slápping learning with a lóng cane
Ínto á refract'ry púpil.

Ón the third step Alma Mater,
Stánding in the midst of doctors,
Púts a réd gown on the shoulders
Óf a young man leárned and módest.

On the fourth step the same young man Púts a gold ring on the finger

Kneeling bý him at the altar.

On the top step síts a fáther
In the evening by the fireside,
Children roúnd his kneés are playing,
Mother's washing up the tea-things.

Ón the first step down my ladder
Sit a géntlemán and lády,
Bóth with spectaclés, and reading
Hé the news, she Mrs. Trollope.

On the sécond step dówn, a lády
Ảnd a gentlemán sit trying
At the mirror, hé a brówn scratch,
Shé a ghastly row of white teeth.

Ón the third step down, a wrinkled
Withered granny knitting socks sits,
And a pálsied old man shakes out
Hís pipe's áshes on the táble.

Ón the fourth step down, two ármchairs,
One each side the fire, stand empty;
On two tábles át two bédsides
Lábelled phíals strewed about lie.

On the last step down, two sextons
Side by side two gráves are sódding;
Listen and you 'll hear them clápping
Thé soft hillocks with their shovels,

Yé that haven't yet seen my ládder,
Cóme look at it where it stands there
With its five up steps in sunlight,

Ánd its five steps down, in shadow. Walking from FALKAU to TRYBERG in the Black FOREST (BADEN), Octob. 8-9, 1854.

BEERDRINKER'S SONG,

UNDER A PICTURE OF GAMBRINUS.

GAMBRINUS was a gallant king

Reigned once in Flanders old, He was the man invented beer

As Í 've been often told.

Of mált and hops he brewed his beer

And made it strong and good, And some of it he bottled up

And some he kept in wood.

The golden crown upon his head,

The beérjug in his hand, Beerdrinkers, see before ye here

Your bénefactor stand.

Beerlóvers, paint him on your shields,

Upon your beérpots paint — 'Twere well a pope did never worse

Than máke Gambrinus Saint.

And now fill every man his pot

Till the foam óverflows; No higher praise ásks the good old king

Than fróth upon the nose.

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