A man came by at night with moons to sell; "Moons old and new," he cried; I hurried when I heard him call for me; He set his basket on the wall for me That I might see inside And watch the little moons curl up and hide. Each one he touched rang softly like a bell; He pointed out to me Great harvest moons with russet light in them, Pale moons to gleam where snows grow white in them, Red moons for victory, And steadfast moons for men in ships at sea. The man who came with many moons to sell Opened his basket wide; Showed me the filmy crescent moons in it, And the piled discs (like silver spoons) in it That push and pull the tide, And small sweet honey-moons to give a bride. "This moon," he said, "you will remember well; Its price is wealth untold;" Took a camp-moon he vowed he stole for me And softly wrapped to keep it whole for me. I heaped his feet with gold; He changed, and said the moon might not be sold. Then I was angry that with moons to sell He thought he had the right To keep that one. Those who were lent to us Had written the brief notes they sent to us When it shone out at night. I caught it to my heart and held it tight. * * * * * "Twenty Students Require clean, respectable Board-Residence; would not object to Share Bed."--_Provincial Paper._ They should have lived in the days of Og, the King of Basan; his bedstead _was_ a bedstead. * * * * * "Calcutta. During the past few weeks several parties of Afghan merchants and traders have settled up their affairs and come into India. In order to avoid being questioned by British poets in the Khyber, they have entered this country by way of the Sissobi pass."--_Indian Paper._ Some of our poets are notoriously curious, and we are hardly surprised to learn that the Afghans could not "abide their question." * * * * * [Illustration: A COCK-AND-BULL STORY.] * * * * * THE LANGUAGE DIFFICULTY. "The jolly part about an island where there are no towns and no railways," said Willoughby, "is that you have thrills of excitement as to where you will sleep next night or eat your next meal. Now when we land at Lochrie Bay to-morrow it will be nearly lunch-time; but shall we get lunch?" "I can answer that," replied MacFadden, whose grandfather was a Scotsman, and who was once in Edinburgh for a week; "the map shows it is only five miles to Waterfoot, and there's sure to be an hotel there. Those little Scots inns are all right." "Yes," chimed in Sylvia, "and very likely there'll be nothing to eat when we get there. I am thinking of you three men, of course," she added hastily; "we girls don't want much."