“It’s honour, honour bright, Kathleen!” and as if to defend himself from another glance, he fixed his look steadfastly in front, while the renewed entreaties burst from all the three in chorus, with the same answer. “Come down, Thady, honey!--Thady, ye fool, come down!--Oh Thady, come down to me!” “It’s honour, mother!--It’s honour, brother!--Honour bright, my own Kathleen!” Although the poor fellow was a private, this appeal was so public, that I did not hesitate to go down and enquire into the particulars of the distress. It appeared that he had been home, on Furlough, to visit his family,--and having exceeded as he thought the term of his leave, he was going to rejoin his regiment, and to undergo the penalty of his neglect. I asked him when the Furlough expired. “The First of March, your honour--bad luck to it of all the black days in the world,--and here it is come sudden on me like a shot!” “The first of March!--why, my good fellow, you have a day to spare then,--the first of March will not be here till to-morrow. It is Leap Year, and February has twenty-nine days.” The soldier was thunderstruck.--“Twenty-nine days, is it--You’re sartin of that same!--Oh, Mother, Mother!--the Divil fly away wid yere ould Almanack--a base cratur of a book, to be deceaven one, afther living so long in the family of us!” His first impulse was to cut a caper on the roof of the coach, and throw up his cap, with a loud Hurrah!--His second was to throw himself into the arms of his Kathleen, and the third, was to wring my hand off in acknowledgment. “It’s a happy man I am, your Honour, for my word’s saved, and all by your Honour’s manes--Long life to your Honour for the same!--May ye live a long hundred--and lape-years every one of them!” [Illustration: SINGLE BLESSEDNESS.] NUMBER ONE. VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG LADY. It’s very hard!--and so it is, To live in such a row, And witness this that every Miss But me, has got a Beau. For Love goes calling up and down, But here he seems to shun; I’m sure he has been asked enough To call at Number One! I’m sick of all the double knocks That come to Number Four! At Number Three, I often see A Lover at the door: And one in blue, at Number Two, Calls daily like a dun,-- It’s very hard they come so near And not to Number One! Miss Bell I hear has got a dear Exactly to her mind, By sitting at the window pane Without a bit of blind; But I go in the balcony, Which she has never done, Yet arts that thrive at Number Five Don’t take at Number One! ’Tis hard with plenty in the street, And plenty passing by,-- There’s nice young men at Number Ten, But only rather shy; And Mrs. Smith across the way Has got a grown-up son, But la! he hardly seems to know There is a Number One!