Bright chandeliers the room adorn, Each thing's arranged with care, And gayest smiles and silks are worn This night to catch the Heir. With a heigho! Letty! Hark forward, you forward Miss Betty To-night we hunt the He-e-e-i-r— To-night we hunt the Heir! Poor Heir! you feel our sport a bore, We read it in your face; If you'll propose to one—no more, You'll find us give you chase. With a sigh from Letty! Or forward, too forward Miss Betty! No more we'll hunt the He-e-e-i-r— No more we'll hunt the Heir! THE LANGUAGE OF VEGETABLES. We do not think there is in the whole history of letters anything more beautiful than the two following specimens. Any one acquainted with the vegetable vocabulary cannot fail to be touched deeply by them. The first was addressed to Sigismond by his devoted wife Toot-sichfootsich, when he was imprisoned by Kalbskopf II. in the impregnable fortress of Dummerkerl, in the Spitzbübe mountains, in Moldavia. The originals, and the monuments of Sigismond's wonderful escape, are still preserved, with the greatest reverence, by the proud descendants of his wife's noble family. Admirers of conjugal affection have been known to journey to the Spitzbübe Mountains purposely to look at them. The first letter was scratched with a pin on a large cabbage leaf, and sent into the castle wrapped round a pound of butter:— "Beloved Greens!—Dry thy Onions. There is Cabbage in the horizon. Suppress thy Spinage, there's a darling Bean. Support thy Haricots with Beetroot, and never let young Radish leave thy dear Asparagus. May Pickled Gherkins watch over thee, and Early Peas strew Mashed Potatoes, with Blessed Chickweed, over thy suffering Turniptop! Where is thy boastod Sourkrout? Have a little Brocoli, my own sweet Bean; and put thy Chickweed in Parsley. There is Tomata yet for both of us, so pray hide thy Cauliflower for a few short Sprouts, and Capers must soon be ours! Confide in Mangel-würzel. I enclose thee a hundred Greens from the bottom of my Green Stuff, and remain, my fondest Beetroot, "THY OWN DEAR MARROWFAT." The answer, though in a humbler strain, was not less eloquent. It was rolled up in little crumbs of bread, which were made into the shape of pills, and thrown out of the prisoner's window:— "My sweetest Marrowfat!—My Asparagus is well nigh bursting. My Salad is overflowing, and I cannot rest at night from too much Mustard seed. Send me, an thou hopest hereafter for Asparagus, a Scarlet-Runner, and a small Cow Cabbage. Trust in Sage, and throw thyself fondly on Watercress. "THY UNFORTUNATE GREENS." [Illustration]