He foolishly attempts to leave the car while it is in motion, in order to save a few moments. Immediately afterwards he wishes he hadn’t, and sits down with considerable feeling to think over his rashness. There was a time, no doubt, when he could jump on and off a car like a newsboy; but that time has evidently gone by. When we consider the roughness of his seat, and the unexpected manner in which he settled on it, we have to acknowledge that he sits with considerable grace. However, as he has lost time instead of gaining it, by the action, he will perhaps try to catch a better hold of the old rascal’s forelock the next time he is running past him. SIMON RAND. No poet, however gifted, can get along without his muse, any better than a navigator can without his compass. If the goddess is not at his elbow, the lyre hangs mute upon the wall, and the pen corrodes in the ink. Then what can the poor limited rhymer do without a muse to inspire him? As mine is at present leaning over the back of my chair in a very encouraging manner, I will strike my harp and lay the following heart-rending tale before the world in verse. _First Gossip_—“Was she false?” _Second Gossip_—“Ay, false as her teeth.” —_Old Volume._ In Siskiyou, a tanner lived, Whose name was Simon Rand; He loved the miller’s daughter, fair Annetta Hildebrand. The maiden loved the tanner, too, (At least the maid so said,) And she the happy day had named The parson would them wed. The golden day-dreams lengthened as The season shorter grew, And Cupid slung his bow across His shoulder, and withdrew. A golden pointed arrow lay Imbedded in each heart; The little god conjectured they Could never live apart. But fire will test the iron safe, And powder prove the mine, And tempests try the ship at sea, The woodman’s axe the pine; And gold will sound the human heart, The maiden’s love it tries; It is the plummet weight that proves How deep affection lies. One Jacob Towle, a rival, came To darken Simon’s days; His clothes were fine, his purse a mine, He drove a span of bays! The fair Annetta was his mark; He deftly played his hand; He turned her giddy head around, And love, from Simon Rand. The tanner saw his dove prove daw, And scarce believed his eyes; But change was there, in look and air, And in her curt replies. He called one night, in hopes he might Back his affianced win; Word came by “sis” (an old game this), “Annetta was not in.” But ah! how keen are lovers’ eyes When rivals are around; A glossy hat hung in the hall; He reached it with a bound. “See, my child, a pleasing sight!” Said he with a ghastly smile; “For into fraction, into mite, I’ll smash the villain’s tile.”