"Stupid woman," continued my father, "send her off immediately." "Did you ever hear of such a _dreadful_ creature?" said my mother. "Off she goes the first thing in the morning;" and sure enough our new cook gave place to another new one the very next day. My chief object in taking a trip in the "Omnibus" is the hope of meeting somebody, in the course of its rounds, who may recommend to us some treasure of a cook, likely to suit my mother, and remain with her, say, for a month or two; for this changing once a week worries the life out of me. You all know the proverb that speaks of too many cooks. How true it is in our case! We want _one_, instead of a multitude. I shall not mention the name of the personage who is proverbially said to "send cooks." Perhaps we have already had a protegée or two of his among our professors; but a cook of anybody's sending would be eagerly welcomed by me--so that she would but be a little steady, _and stop_! W. S. A SONG OF CONTRADICTIONS. BY LAMAN BLANCHARD. "I am not what I am."--_Iago._ I. The Passions, in festival meeting, I saw seated round, in a dream; And vow, by my hatred of cheating, The Passions are not what they seem. There's mirth under faces the gravest, There's woe under visages droll; There's fear in the breast of the bravest, And light in the desolate soul. II. Thus Joy, in my singular vision, Sat sobbing and gnashing his teeth; While Gentleness scoff'd in derision, And Hope pick'd the buds from his wreath. Despair, her tight bodice unlacing, With laughter seem'd ready to die; And Hate, her companions embracing, Won each with a smile or a sigh. III. There Peace bellow'd louder and louder, For Freedom, sent off to the hulks; Fear sat on a barrel of powder, And Pleasure stood by in the sulks. Here Dignity shoots like a rocket Past Grace, who is rolling in fat; There Probity's picking a pocket, Here Pity sits skinning a cat. IV. Then Temperance reeling off, quite full, Charged Friendship with drugging her draught; _She_ vowed it was Love that was spiteful, While Charity, blaming _all_, laugh'd; When Rage, with the blandest expression, And Vengeance, low-voiced like a child, Cried, "Mercy, forgive the transgression!" But Mercy look'd horribly wild. V. Old Wisdom was worshipping Fashion, And Jollity dozing in gloom; While Meekness was foaming with passion, And Misery danced round the room. Sweet Envy tripp'd off to her garret, Bright Malice smiled worthy of trust, Gay Want was enjoying his claret, And Luxury gnaw'd a dry crust. VI.