Not at all abashed, he said, “God knows futurity! How could I know that your son would arrive in safety? It was better that you should think him dead, than be led to expect to see him, and perhaps be disappointed.” Some persons who were sitting with him praised his wisdom, exclaiming, “Surely, our new fickee is a man of unusual judgment.” And for a while, he found that he had raised his reputation by this trick. Varieties. Admiral Duncan addressed his officers, who came on board of his ship for instructions, previous to the engagement with Admiral De Winter, in the following words: “Gentlemen, you see a severe winter approaching. I have only to advise you to keep up a good fire.” * * * * * “Come in,” as the spider said to the fly. “Come on,” as the man said to his boot. “You make me blush,” as the lobster cried out in the boiler. * * * * * “Do you think that these creatures have any feeling?” said an inquisitive consumer of oysters to a well known wit. “Feeling!” replied his friend; “to be sure they have. Did you never hear them crying about the streets?” * * * * * Two or three weeks ago, Theodore Hook dined with a Mr. Hatchett. “Ah, my friend,” said his host, depreciatingly, “I am sorry to say that you will not get to-day such a good dinner as our friend L. gave us.” “Certainly not,” replied Hook; “from a hatchet you can expect nothing but a chop.” THE BOY AND THE LARK. MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM; BY G. J. WEBB. [Illustration: Music] “Who taught you to sing, my pretty, sweet birds? Who tuned your melodious throats? You make all the woods and the vallies to ring, You bring the first news of the earliest spring, With your loud and your silvery notes. “Who painted your wings, my pretty, sweet birds, And taught you to soar in the air? You rise and you dart through the region of light, You look down on man from your loftiest height, And your hearts know no troublesome care. “And where are your fields, my beautiful birds? And where are your houses and barns? You sow not the ground, and you reap not the corn, You spring from your nests at the earliest morn, But you care not about the wide farms.” “’Tis _God_,” said a lark, that rose from the turf, “Who gives us the good we enjoy; He painted our wings, and he gave us our voice, He finds us our food, and he bids us rejoice;-- We’re his creatures, my beautiful boy.” MERRY’S MUSEUM. VOLUME II.--No. 2. The Siberian Sable-Hunter. CHAPTER II.