And his pneumogastrics tell him Quietude is always best When his little cerebellum Needs recuperative rest. Baby must have relaxation, Let the world go wrong or right- Sleep, my darling, leave Creation To its chances for the night. James Jeffrey Roche. IRISH ASTRONOMY O'Ryan was a man of might Whin Ireland was a nation, But poachin' was his heart's delight And constant occupation. He had an ould militia gun, And sartin sure his aim was; He gave the keepers many a run, And wouldn't mind the game laws St. Pathrick wanst was passin' by O'Ryan's little houldin', And, as the saint felt wake and dhry He thought he'd enther bould in. "O'Ryan," says the saint, "avick! To praich at Thurles I'm goin'; So let me have a rasher quick, And a dhrop of Innishowen." "No rasher will I cook for you While betther is to spare, sir, But here's a jug of mountain dew, And there's a rattlin' hare, sir." St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet, And says he, "Good luck attind you, And whin you're in your windin' sheet, It's up to heaven I'll sind you." O'Ryan gave his pipe a whiff- "Them tidin's is thransportin', But may I ax your saintship if There's any kind of sportin'?" St. Pathrick said, "A Lion's there, Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer"- "Bedad," says Mick, "the huntin's rare; St. Pathrick, I'm your man, sir." So, to conclude my song aright, For fear I'd tire your patience You'll see O'Ryan any night, Amid the constellations. And Venus follows in his track Till Mars grows jealous raally, But, faith, he fears the Irish knack Of handling the shillaly. Charles Graham Halpine. BESSIE BROWN, M.D. 'Twas April when she came to town; The birds had come, the bees were swarming. Her name, she said, was Doctor Brown: I saw at once that she was charming. She took a cottage tinted green, Where dewy roses loved to mingle; And on the door, next day, was seen A dainty little shingle. Her hair was like an amber wreath; Her hat was darker, to enhance it. The violet eyes that glowed beneath Were brighter than her keenest lancet. The beauties of her glove and gown The sweetest rhyme would fail to utter. Ere she had been a day in town The town was in a flutter. The gallants viewed her feet and hands, And swore they never saw such wee things; The gossips met in purring bands And tore her piecemeal o'er the tea things. The former drank the Doctor's health With clinking cups, the gay carousers; The latter watched her door by stealth, Just like so many mousers. But Doctor Bessie went her way Unmindful of the spiteful cronies, And drove her buggy every day Behind a dashing pair of ponies. Her flower-like face so bright she bore I hoped that time might never wilt her. The way she tripped across the floor Was better than a philter.