"I knew that little rascal was at the bottom of it! but there is honour in the midshipmen's berth still. What is the reason that they thus sought to deprive me of my property?"--"You wouldn't allow them to take any live stock on board that cruise, sir." "So--so--wild justice, hey? But come to the ghost."--"Why, sir, I wanted to have the cow unwatched for a quarter of an hour every middle watch; so I took the shark's head we had caught a day or two before, scraped off most of the flesh, and whipped it in a bread-bag,--it shone brighter in the dark than stinking mackerel;--so I whips him out when I wants him, and wabbles his jaws about. I was safely stowed under the bowsprit from your shot; and when your honour walked in on one side of the manger, I walked, with my head under my arm, out of the other." "Well, Joseph, there are your five guineas: and, gentlemen," said the Honourable the Captain Augustus Fitzroy Fitzalban, bowing to his officers, "I wish you joy of your ghost!" OLD AGE AND YOUTH. BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. Old Age sits bent on his iron-grey steed; Youth rides erect on his courser black; And little he thinks in his reckless speed Old Age comes on, in the _very same track_. And on Youth goes, with his cheek like the rose, And his radiant eyes, and his raven hair; And his laugh betrays how little he knows, Of AGE, and his sure companion CARE. The courser black is put to his speed, And Age plods on, in a quieter way, And little Youth thinks that the iron-grey steed Approaches him nearer, every day! Though one seems strong as the forest tree, The other infirm, and wanting breath; _If ever_ YOUTH baffles OLD AGE, 'twill be By rushing into the arms of DEATH! On his courser black, away Youth goes, The prosing sage may rest at home; He'll laugh and quaff, for well he knows That years must pass ere Age _can come_. And since too brief are the daylight hours For those who would laugh their lives away; With beaming lamps, and mimic flowers, He'll teach the night to mock the day! Again he'll laugh, again he'll feast, His lagging foe he'll still deride, Until--when he expects him least-- Old Age and he stand side by side! He then looks into his toilet-glass, And sees Old Age reflected there! He cries, "Alas! how quickly pass Bright eyes, and bloom, and raven hair!" The lord of the courser black, must ride On the iron-grey steed, sedate and slow! And thus to him who his power defied, Old Age must come like a conquering foe. Had the prosing sage not preach'd in vain, Had Youth not written his words on sand, Had he early paused, and given the rein Of his courser black to a steadier hand: