How goes the Money?--Nay, Don't everybody know the way? It goes for bonnets, coats and capes, Silks, satins, muslins, velvets, crapes, Shawls, ribbons, furs, and furbelows,-- And that's the way the Money goes! How goes the Money?--Sure, I wish the ways were something fewer; It goes for wages, taxes, debts; It goes for presents, goes for bets, For paint, _pommade_, and _eau de rose_,-- And that's the way the Money goes! How goes the Money?--Now, I've scarce begun to mention how; It goes for laces, feathers, rings, Toys, dolls--and other baby-things, Whips, whistles, candies, bells and bows,-- And that's the way the Money goes! How goes the Money?--Come, I know it doesn't go for rum; It goes for schools and sabbath chimes, It goes for charity--sometimes; For missions, and such things as those,-- And that's the way the Money goes! How goes the Money?--There! I'm out of patience, I declare; It goes for plays, and diamond pins, For public alms, and private sins, For hollow shams, and silly shows,-- And that's the way the Money goes! A CAVALIER'S VALENTINE (1644) BY CLINTON SCOLLARD The sky was like a mountain mere, The lilac buds were brown, What time a war-worn cavalier Rode into Taunton-town. He sighed and shook his head forlorn; "A sorry lot is mine," He said, "who have this merry morn Pale Want for Valentine." His eyes, like heather-bells at dawn, Were blue and brave and bold; Against his cheeks, now wan and drawn, His love-locks tossed their gold. And as he rode, beyond a wall With ivy overrun, His glance upon a maid did fall, A-sewing in the sun. As sweet was she as wilding thyme, A boon, a bliss, a grace: It made the heart blood beat in rhyme To look upon her face. He bowed him low in courtesy, To her deep marvelling; "Fair Mistress Puritan," said he, "It is forward spring." As when the sea-shell flush of morn Throws night in rose eclipse, So sunshine smiles, that instant born, Brought brightness to her lips; Her voice was modest, yet, forsooth, It had a roguish ring; "_You_, sir, of all should know that truth-- It _is_ a forward spring!" A GREAT CELEBRATOR BY BILL NYE Being at large in Virginia, along in the latter part of last season, I visited Monticello, the former home of Thomas Jefferson, also his grave. Monticello is about an hour's ride from Charlottesville, by diligence. One rides over a road constructed of rip-raps and broken stone. It is called a macadamized road, and twenty miles of it will make the pelvis of a long-waisted man chafe against his ears. I have decided that the site for my grave shall be at the end of a trunk line somewhere, and I will endow a droska to carry passengers to and from said grave.