"What matters to you and to me, boys, That one whom we treasured when young, With a ticket, "Two dollars! look here!" boys, In a poulterer's window was hung! "Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys, No longer we've reason to fear; Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys, Let's trust to the chance of the year! "Then mourn not for friends that are eaten, A drum-stick for care and regret! Enough that, the future to sweeten, Our lives are not forfeited yet! "Then hobble and gobble, we'll sing, boys, No longer we've reason to fear; Who knows what a twelvemonth will bring, boys, Let's trust to the chance of the year!" * * * * * Somewhat curious, if true, is an anecdote which is declared to be authentic, and which we find among the _disjecta membra_ of our _ollapodrida_: Lieutenant Montgomery had seen much military service. The wars, however, were over; and he had nothing in the world to do but to lounge about, as best he could, on his half-pay. One day he was "taking his ease in his inn," when he observed a stranger, who was evidently a foreigner, gazing intently at him. The lieutenant appeared not to notice him, but shifted his position. After a short time the stranger shifted _his_ position also, and still stared with unblemished, unabated gaze. This was too much for Montgomery. He rose, and approaching his scrutinizing intruder, said: "Do you _know_ me, sir?" "I think I do," answered the foreigner. (He was a Frenchman.) "Have we ever met before?" continued Montgomery. "I will not swear for it; but if we have--and I am almost _sure_ we have," said the stranger, "you have a sabre-cut, a deep one, on your right wrist." "I have," said Montgomery, turning back his sleeve, and displaying a very broad and ugly scar. "I didn't get this for nothing, for the brave fellow who made me a present of it I repaid with a gash across the skull!" The Frenchman bent down his head, parted his hair with his hands, and said: "You did: you may look at the receipt." The next moment they were in each other's arms. Now this story _seems_ a little problematical; and yet it is vouched for on what ought to be considered reliable authority. In short, it is _true_ in every respect. * * * * * Some ambitious juvenile once sung, with an aspiration "peculiar to our institutions," "I wish I was the President Of these United States, I never would do nothing But swing on all the gates." He little knew the miseries, the ennui, the mental dyspepsia, which afflicts the wretch who has nothing to do. One of these unhappy mortals it is, who says, in the bitterness of his spirit: