In England we do not require to brew this "intoxicative" with "no malt" for ourselves. Every public-house sells it. * * * * * SIRENS AND THEIR SUCCESSORS. [A writer in an evening paper has been discussing the book that might be written on Sirens' Songs.] What were the songs the Sirens sang Three thousand years ago or more, When their silvery voices rose and rang Over the ocean's wine-dark floor, And brought a strange perturbing pang To the heart of the wisest man of yore? Music and words have passed away, But a modern rhymer is free to guess What lent such wizardry to their lay, What gave it glamour and tenderness, And lured the hardy seaman astray From the paths of duty and toil and stress. They sang of the Zephyr's scented breeze, Of amber eve and star-strewn night, Of the moan of doves, the murmur of bees, Of water trickling from the height, And all that ministers to our ease And puts dull carking care to flight. They sang of banquets in gorgeous halls, Of raiment tinct with saffron dyes; Of ivory towers and crystal walls And beauty in many a wondrous guise, And all that fascinates and enthralls The saint and the sinner, the fool and the wise. Wily Ulysses at heart was sound-- At least he was quite a family man; He faced the fatal music, but found An antidote to the risks he ran, For he sealed the ears of his crew, and bound Himself to the mast ere the song began. But the Siren who sang and slew is now The fable outworn of an age remote, And the women to whom to-day we bow Have long abjured her sinister note; She heals, she helps, she follows the plough, And her song has fairly earned her the vote. * * * * * WHAT THE KINGFISHER KNEW. The wind ruffled the grey water of the stream under the old stone bridge. "Ssshhh, ssshhh," whispered the young willows, "what will become of us? what will they make of us? Ssshhh, ssshhh." But no one replied, chiefly because no one knew, excepting the kingfisher, and he was away on a fishing expedition. Then one day the woodcutters came and the sound of their axes rang out over the meadows by the quiet stream. A great many of the older willows were laid low that day, and the young trees bent and whispered among themselves, "Ssshhh, ssshhh, what will become of them? what will they make of them? Ssshhh, ssshhh." This time the kingfisher answered them, for he was just back from a fishing expedition. "They will make them into cricket-bats," he said; "that is what willow-trees are used for." And he sat and preened his gay little body in the sun.