Hear the fluter with his flute―― Silver flute! Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot! How it demi-semi quavers On the maddened air of night! And defieth all endeavours To escape the sound or sight Of the flute, flute, flute, With its tootle, tootle, toot―― With reiterated tooteling of exasperating toots, The long protracted tootelings of agonising toots, Of the flute, flute, flute, flute, Flute, flute, flute, And the wheezings and the spittings of its toots. Should he get that other flute―― Golden flute―― Oh, what a deeper anguish will its presence institoot! How his eyes to heaven he’ll raise, As he plays, All the days! How he’ll stop us on our ways With its praise! And the people――oh, the people, That don’t live up in the steeple, But inhabit Christian parlours Where he visiteth and plays―― Where he plays, plays, plays―― In the cruellest of ways, And thinks we ought to listen, And expects us to be mute, Who would rather have the earache Than the music of his flute, Of his flute, flute, flute, And the tootings of his toot, Of the toots wherewith he tooteleth its agonising toot, Of the flute, flewt, fluit, floot, Phlute, phlewt, phlewght, And the tootle, tootle, tooting of its toot. _American Paper._ ――――:o:―――― THE OFFICE BOY’S MOTHER IN AMERICA. “Bells, bells, bells, bells, bells!” How their clashing, and their clanging, all thought of peace dispels! Oh, well might EDGAR ALLAN POE――or any other poet, born in American clime―― Adopt the bells, the ceaseless bells, as subject for his rhyme. From early morn, till dewy eve, their clamour resounds loud and long, The railway train as it puffs and clatters through the streets, proclaims its passage with “ding, dong! ding, dong!” The matutinal milkman tinkle tinkles on his way, And the vegetable vendor tintinabulates “ting-a-ring! ting-a-ring!” ――enough to drive one mad, as a body may say. The steamboat bell resounds, as if summoning the nation to its doom, And from chapel, church, and schoolhouse――at all hours――echoes forth the solemn “boom, boom, boom!” And at any time――day or night――just as it were――to fill up the blank, The fire-engine rushes through the streets, with its quick, sharp, metallic, warning voice, “Clank――clank――clank――clank!” It ain’t till you’ve lived in an American city that you learn how it was they came to dub The oh-no-we-never-mention-him with the name of _Bells_-ebub! * * * * * _Judy_, January 14, 1885.