Yes—bless the man who first invented sleep (I really can’t avoid the iteration); But blast the man with curses loud and deep, Whate’er the rascal’s name, or age, or station, Who first invented, and went round advising, That artificial cut-off—Early Rising! “Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed,” Observes some solemn sentimental owl. Maxims like these are very cheaply said; But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, Pray, just inquire about his rise and fall, And whether larks have any beds at all! “The time for honest folks to be abed” Is in the morning, if I reason right; And he who cannot keep his precious head Upon his pillow till it’s fairly light, And so enjoy his forty morning winks, Is up to knavery; or else—he drinks. Thomson, who sung about the “Seasons,” said It was a glorious thing to _rise_ in season; But then he said it—lying—in his bed, At ten o’clock A.M.—the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is, His preaching wasn’t sanctioned by his practice. ’Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake,— Awake to duty, and awake to truth,— But when, alas! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood or asleep! ’Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile For the soft visions of the gentle night; And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, To live as only in the angels’ sight, In sleep’s sweet realm so cosily shut in, Where, at the worst, we only _dream_ of sin. So, let us sleep, and give the Maker praise,— I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried, “Served him right! it’s not at all surprising; The worm was punished, sir, for early rising.” _John G. Saxe._ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _HOW SANTA CLAUS CAME TO SIMPSON’S BAR._ IT had been raining in the valley of Sacramento. The North Fork had overflowed its banks and Rattlesnake Creek was impassable. The few boulders that had marked the summer ford at Simpson’s Crossing were obliterated by a vast sheet of water stretching to the foothills. The up stage was stopped at Granger’s; the last mail had been abandoned in the _tules_, the rider swimming for his life. “An area,” remarked the _Sierra Avalanche_ with pensive local pride, “as large as the State of Massachusetts is now under water.”