Sayin’ this he drew a wallet from the inner of his vest, And gave the tramp a daddy, which it was his level best; Other people havin’ heard him soon to charity inclined— One giver soon makes twenty if you only get their wind. The first who gave the dollar led the other one about, And at every contribution he a-raised a joyful shout, Exclaimin’ how ’twas noble to relieviate distress, And remarkin’ that our duty is our present happiness. Thirty dollars altogether were collected by the tramp, When he bid ’em all good evenin’ and went out into the damp, And was followed briefly after by the one who made the speech, And who showed by good example how to practise as to preach. Which soon around the corner the couple quickly met, And the tramp produced the specie for to liquidate his debt; And the man who did the preachin’ took his twenty of the sum, Which you see that out of thirty left a tenner for the bum. And the couple passed the summer at Bar Harbour with the rest, Greatly changed in their appearance and most elegantly dressed. Any fowl with change of feathers may a brilliant bird become: Oh, how hard is life for many! oh, how sweet it is for some! MULTUM IN PARVO “Great thoughts are oft expressed in fewest words,” And I remember how long years ago, When a great lady in her diary Of a short visit to the Scottish land, Recorded of a sorrowful event, “To-day poor little Vicky, by mischance, Sat on a wasps’ nest.” All the newspapers Declared it was a perfect masterpiece Of excellent conciseness. Yet I think It was outdone by a Red Indian— One of the Quoddy tribe—who did the same; Since he, like “little Vicky,” also sat Upon a seat as hot; and when he rose, Briefly exclaimed in his vernacular:— “_H’lam-kikqu’!_” and being asked what this Might mean, responded in the English tongue: “_Heap hell!_” O reader! if the soul of wit Be brevity, this Indian was there. THE ORGANIST OF BERGAMO “For blowing is not playing on the flute, To do that well you must put fingers to’t.” GERMAN PROVERB. This is a Merry Tale of Bergamo. It chanced in Fifteen Hundred Twenty-Eight [As I do find the fact recorded in A pleasing book of Sixteen Thirty-Six Entitled _Scelta di Facetie_— A little yellow, quaint, italic tome, Which looks as if it were behind the age, And would have been black letter if it could] That in fair Venice raged a pestilence Whereof in time full many people died, And among these a trusty servitor Who blew the bellows for the organist All in the great Cathedral of Saint Mark, Whose billowy pavement truly seems to roll In time and measure with the music sweet, So perfect were the harmonies of Art Which men imagined in the olden time.