He kept a store, A place of refuge to which all might fly In the dark hour of bleak adversity, When sunshine friends, like summer birds, had flown. He was misfortune's shield,--a goodly man! In fact, so kind a soul could scarce be found; For he would lend to any graceless wight A sum of money, and would never ask His bond or bill, or even say "Be sure To pay me this again next week, or so." _He never craved a debtor in his life!_ * * * * * Around his house, in many a goodly pile, All sorts of wares were ranged in order nice, Shoes, hats, great-coats, and gowns, with many pairs Of certain parts of dress (not pantaloons), Which, it is said, some married females wear. Above his door Invitingly were hung three golden balls, As if to say, "Who pennyless would go?" Here is a banking-house, whence every man Who has an article to leave behind, May draw for cash, nor fear his cheque unpaid. Ah me! full many an ungrateful wight In this same store, without a sigh or tear, Parted his _bosom friend_, altho' he knew That friend must dwell among the _unredeemed_. WHY THE WIND BLOWS ROUND ST. PAUL'S. BY JOYCE JOCUND. Whoever has walked round St. Paul's church-yard must have had good evidence of the wind being always boisterous there, on the most balmy day of spring, in summer's more sultry hour, in autumn's bracing time, or in winter's chilling air; all tides and every season bear strong testimony that the wind is ever blowing there, not in those gentle gales that love to play and wanton round other edifices, but in such rude, boisterous burstings, that the traveller is fain to look to his footing, and put up with a _blow_ which is neither to be parried nor returned. I cannot fix the precise date, but it was during the last century, that a bit of a breeze was kicked up in the higher circles among the Winds; and, from the strife that ensued, more serious consequences seemed to threaten than were at first apprehended. Whether the East was intent on going westward, or the North determined on veering to the south, is of trifling import. From words the disputants nearly came to blows, and the weathercocks were sadly put to their shifts during all the changes that occurred: those who consulted them found how little attention was paid to the cardinal points, which from time immemorial had been considered their cardinal virtues; in short, it was impossible to tell which way the wind lay. Nothing was to be heard among them but wranglings, wailings, and contentions. "As for you," roared old Boreas, addressing a mild-looking individual personifying the South wind, "a poor, soft, effeminate creature, only fit to breathe o'er a bed of violets, what, in the name of all that's trifling, can you possibly presume to know?"