She went into a soirée, Where was many a spotter, And she read of Ostler Joe, ――Naughty Mrs. Potter. Ladies there “undressed by Worth,” Scowled at the simple cotter And his fickle wife, ha, ha! ――Wicked Mrs. Potter. They might go to see Odette, Or some play that’s hotter, But Ostler Joe they wouldn’t stand, ――Horrid Mrs. Potter _Boston Courier._ HUSTLER JIM. There warn’t nothin’ so blamed angelic Nor saintish-like about him; But, pard,――ef ever yer needed a friend―― Yer could “tie” to “Hustler Jim.” Perhaps, if ther ’casion required it―― He would “cuss” a bit, now and then; But a tenderer, kinder heart nor Jim’s Haint frequently found in men. There warn’t one parsimonious hair In that grizzled old mop o’his, There warn’t one deceitful line In his wizened and humbly phiz. His sympathies at a dog-fight Allers backed up the smallest pup, And his last chaw of plug terbacker With er stranger he’d “divey” up. Ef I wuz ter live fer er hundred years, I shell never fergit the night When he cleaned out “Plug” Kimberley’s bar room, A mile or so west of Fort White. Ef I wuz ter live fer er thousand years, I kin never fergit the fun The two of us had when we broke up Smith’s Place Jest this side of Poverty Run. If I wuz ter live fer er million years―― (Who was it remarked: “Git out.” Was it you? Bartender? all right――I’ll “skip”――Dont shove please, I’ll travel without!) * * * * * Out in the dark, damp, dreary night, They ruthlessly “hustled” him,―― Ere he had a chance his sad tale to recite, Concerning “Hustler Jim.” _Washington Hatchet_, 1886. ――――:o:―――― BILLY’S ROSE. (_Inserted by Mr. Sims’s permission._) Billy’s dead, and gone to glory, so is Billy’s sister Nell: There’s a tale I know about them, were I poet I would tell; Soft it comes, with perfume laden, like a breath of country air Wafted down the filthy alley, bringing fragrant odours there. In that vile and filthy alley, long ago, one winter’s day, Dying quick of want and fever, hapless, patient Billy lay, While beside him sat his sister, in the garret’s dismal gloom, Cheering with her gentle presence Billy’s pathway to the tomb. Many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child, Till his eyes lost half their anguish, and his worn, wan features smiled: Tales herself had heard hap-hazard, caught amid the Babel roar, Lisped about by tiny gossips playing round their mother’s door. Then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she told How beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold, Where, when all the pain was over――where, when all the tears were shed―― He would be a white-frocked angel, with a gold thing on his head.