When one that hath a horse on sale Shall bring his merit to the proof, Without a lie for every nail That holds the iron on the hoof,-- When in the usual place for rips Our gloves are stitched with special care, And guarded well the whalebone tips Where first umbrellas need repair,-- When Cuba's weeds have quite forgot The power of suction to resist, And claret-bottles harbor not Such dimples as would hold your fist,-- When publishers no longer steal, And pay for what they stole before,-- When the first locomotive's wheel Rolls through the Hoosac tunnel's bore;-- _Till_ then let Cumming blaze away, And Miller's saints blow up the globe; But when you see that blessed day, _Then_ order your ascension robe! IT PAYS TO BE HAPPY[5] BY TOM MASSON She is so gay, so very gay, And not by fits and starts, But ever, through each livelong day She's sunshine to all hearts. A tonic is her merry laugh! So wondrous is her power That listening grief would stop and chaff With her from hour to hour. Disease before that cheery smile Grows dim, begins to fade. A Christian scientist, meanwhile, Is this delightful maid. And who would not throw off dull care And be like unto her, When happiness brings, as her share, One hundred dollars per ----? [Footnote 5: Lippincott's Magazine.] THE MOSQUITO BY 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, fall 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 listen 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. Beneath the rushes was they cradle swung, And when at length thy gauzy wings grew strong, Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung, Rose in the sky and bore thee soft along; The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way, And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.