How sweet thou art!--yet bitter, too And sparkling, like satiric fun; But how much better thee to brew, Than a conundrum or a pun, It is, in every point of view, Must be allow'd by every one. Refresh my heart and cool my throat, Light, airy child of malt and hops! That dost not stuff, engross, and bloat The skin, the sides, the chin, the chops, And burst the buttons off the coat, Like stout and porter--fattening slops! "CHILDREN MUST BE PAID FOR." PUNCH. Sweet is the sound of infant voice; Young innocence is full of charms: There's not a pleasure half so choice, As tossing up a child in arms. Babyhood is a blessed state, Felicity expressly made for; But still, on earth it is our fate, That even "Children must be paid for." If in an omnibus we ride, It is a beauteous sight to see, When full the vehicle inside, Age taking childhood on its knee. But in the dog-days' scorching heat, When a slight breath of air is pray'd for, Half suffocated in our seat, We feel that "Children must be paid for." There is about the sports of youth A charm that reaches every heart, Marbles or tops are games of truth, The bat plays no deceiver's part. But if we hear a sudden crash, No explanation need be stay'd for, We know there's something gone to smash; We feel that "Children must be paid for." How exquisite the infant's grace, When, clambering upon the knee, The cherub, smiling, takes his place Upon his mother's lap at tea; Perchance the beverage flows o'er, And leaves a stain there is no aid for, On carpet, dress, or chair--Once more We feel that "Children must be paid for." Presiding at the festive board, With many faces laughing round, Dull melancholy is ignored While mirth and jollity abound: We see our table amply spread With knives and forks a dozen laid for, Then pause to think--"How are they fed?" Yes, "Children must indeed be paid for!" [Illustration: William Cullen Bryant] THE MUSQUITO. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Fair insect! that, with thread-like legs spread out, And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing, Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about, In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing, And tell how little our large veins should bleed, Would we but yield them to thy bitter need. Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse, Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint, Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse, For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint: Even the old beggar, while he asks for food, Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could. I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, Has not the honor of so proud a birth-- Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green, The offspring of the gods, though born on earth; For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she, The ocean-nymph that nursed thy infancy.