So thus it proves that slight affairs Do oft, as none deny, For good or evil, unawares, Be waiting with reply. The influence of every plot, Or action bold or sly, Or good or bad, mistake or not, Will speak, we may rely. He strove in vain, with cough and strain. And finger swallowed nigh, Or in, or out, to force the clout, Or turn the thing awry. But tight as wadding in a gun, Or cork in jug of rye, The choking gag, but half-way down, Fast in his throat did lie. [Illustration: A TIGHT PLACE.] Not finger point, or second joint, Or heaving cough, or pry, Did seem to change its posture strange, Or work a passage by. The Lord was there, as everywhere— His ways who can descry? He turned to use the rag that missed The cook’s incautious eye. The race was short, as it must be When lungs get no supply Of ever needful oxygen, The blood to purify. It matters not how large or small The man, or beast, or fly, A little air must be their share, Or else to life “good bye.” Slow grew his pace, and black his face, And blood-shot rolled his eye; And from his nerveless fingers fell The fragments of the pie. The broken crust rolled in the dust, While scattered currants fly; But ah, the fatal part had gone Upon its mission high. Then down he dropped, a strangled man, Without a witness nigh— And Death, the grim old boatman, ran His noiseless shallop by. NEW YEAR’S CALLERS. Heigh ho, the New Year is again upon us with its open houses, its “hope you’re wells,” and its “bye bye’s.” Let what will grow dull or rusty, the sweeping scythe of old Time is ever sharp and busy. How tempered must be that blade which nothing can dull or turn aside. Now as I sit by my window and look pensively out upon the streets I see them crowded with callers, all anxious to increase the number of their acquaintances. They ring, scrape, and wait. The door opens and they disappear from my view, but fancy pictures them out as they doubtless appear inside, embarrassed because of a painful dearth of words. The weather, fortunately, is a standing theme of conversation. It will always bear comment, and but for this how many callers—who perhaps can hardly come under the head of acquaintances—would wish themselves well out upon the street again, even before sampling the customary wine and cake. But Fashion is King, and when he nods, his satellites and minions must obey or perish. But I, who come not under the awe of his scepter, have few calls to make. With a leaking roof and no bolt to my door I can keep “open house” without going to the expense of procuring cake or wine, and for this left-handed blessing may the Lord make me truly thankful. [Illustration: STARTING OUT.]