The dinner hour had come at last, The evening sun was sinking fast; I sat me down in sorry mood, And darkly look'd upon the food. Dyspepsia! My happy comrades' bright eyes beam'd, And o'er the steaming _potage_ gleam'd; Alas! not mine to find relief In whitebait's flavour bright and brief. Dyspepsia! "Try not the duck," my conscience said; 'Twill lie upon your chest like lead; Delusion all, that bird so fair; The sage and onions are a snare. Dyspepsia! "Oh, taste!" our hostess cried, and press'd A portion of a chicken's breast; I view'd the fowl with longing eye, Then answer'd sadly, with a sigh, Dyspepsia! I mark'd with fix'd and stony glare A brace of pheasants and a hare; A tear stood in my bilious eye, When helping friends to pigeon-pie. Dyspepsia! "Beware the celery, if you please; Beware the awful Stilton cheese." This was the doctor's last good-night; I answered feebly, turning white, "Dyspepsia!" The scarcely-tasted dinner done, Old Port and walnuts next came on; I kept my mouth all closely shut; But how I long'd for just one nut! Dyspepsia! Some nuts I had, at early day, (Morn was just breaking cold and grey), I, starting up, with loud ha! ha! Felt falling, like a falling star. Dyspepsia! _The Mocking Bird_, by Frederick Field (John Van Voorst, London, 1868.) THE FATE OF THE WINTER RIDER. (_By a young lady aged fourteen_). The shades of night were falling fast, As through a lonely village passed A youth, who rode 'mid snow and ice A two-wheeled thing of strange device-- A Bicycle. His brow was sad, his eye below Flashed like his bicycle's steel glow, While like a silver clarion rung A bell, which on the handle hung-- Of the Bicycle. In cosy sheds he saw the light Of bicycles well cleaned and bright; Along the road deep ruts had grown, And from his lips escaped a moan-- "My Bicycle!" "Try not that road," the old man said, "'Tis full of holes, you'll break your head; The farm pond, too, is deep and wide;" But loud the bicyclist replied, "Rot! Bicycle!" "Beware the oak-tree's withered arm, Beware the holes, they'll do you harm!" This was the peasant's last good-night; A voice replied, "Don't fear, all right-- Vive Bicycles!" At break of day, as in a brook A passenger did chance to look, He started back, what saw he there? His voice cried through the startled air, "A Bicycle!"