“‘Egad! you’re right, brother; that was a droll affair:’ and then, addressing himself to me, he continued, ‘You remember your Uncle Terence? A funny dog he was, and in his young days the very devil for lovemaking and fighting. Look here,’ said the speaker, pointing to a small circular perforation in his side, which had been neatly patched. ‘This mark, which I shall carry with me to my grave, I received in an affair between your uncle and Captain Donovan of the North Cork Militia. The captain one day asserted in the public library at Ballybreesthawn, that a certain Miss Biddy O’Brannigan had hair red as a carrot. This calumny was not long in reaching the ears of your Uncle Terence, who prided himself on being the champion of the sex in general, and of Miss Biddy O’Brannigan in particular. Accordingly he took the earliest opportunity of demanding from the captain an apology, and a confession that the lady’s locks were a beautiful auburn. The militia hero, who was too courageous to desert his colours, maintained they were red. The result was a meeting on the daisies at four o’clock in the morning, when the captain’s ball grazed your uncle’s leg, and in return he received a compliment from Terence, in the hip, that spoiled his dancing for life. “‘I will not insult your penetration by telling you what I perceive you are already aware of, that Terence Duffy was the professed admirer of Miss Biddy. The affair with Captain Donovan raised him materially in her estimation, and it was whispered that the hand and fortune of the heiress were destined for her successful champion. There’s an old saying, though, that the best dog don’t always catch the hare, as Terence found to his cost. He had a rival candidate for the affections of Miss Biddy; but such a rival—however I will not anticipate.’” SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL, NO. 3. I am thine in my gladness, I’m thine in thy tears; My love it can change not With absence or years. Were a dungeon thy dwelling, My home it should be, For its gloom would be sunshine If I were with thee. But the light has no beauty Of thee, love bereft: I am thine, and thine only! Thine!—over the left! Over the left! As the wild Arab hails, On his desolate way, The palm-tree which tells Where the cool fountains play, So thy presence is ever The herald of bliss, For there’s love in thy smile, And there’s joy in thy kiss. Thou hast won me—then wear me! Of thee, love, bereft, I should fade like a flower, Yes!—over the left! Over the left! A gentleman in Mobile has a watch that goes so fast, he is obliged to calculate a week back to know the time of day. A new bass singer has lately appeared at New Orleans, who sings so remarkably deep, it takes nine Kentucky lawyers to understand a single bar! A NATURAL DEDUCTION Why S—e is long-lived at once appears— The ass was always famed for length of ears.