A WHITE-PINE BALLAD. RECENTLY with Samuel Johnson this occasion I improved, Whereby certain gents of affluence I hear were greatly moved; But not all of Johnson's folly, although multiplied by nine, Could compare with Milton Perkins, late an owner in White Pine. Johnson's folly-to be candid-was a wild desire to treat Every able male white citizen he met upon the street; And there being several thousand-but this subject why pursue? 'Tis with Perkins, and not Johnson, that to-day we have to do. No not wild promiscuous treating, not the winecup's ruby flow, But the female of his species brought the noble Perkins low. 'Twas a wild poetic fervor, and excess of senti ment, That left the noble Perkins in a week without a cent. "Milton Perkins," said the Siren, "not thy wealth do I admire, But the intellect that flashes from those eyes of opal fire; And methinks the name thou bearest surely cannot be misplaced, And, embrace me, Mister Perkins!" Milton Perkins her embraced. But I grieve to state, that even then, as she was wiping dry The tear of sensibility in Milton Perkins' eye, She prigged his diamond bosom-pin, and that her wipe of lace Did seem to have of chloroform a most suspicious trace. Enough that Milton Perkins later in the night was found With his head in an ash-barrel, and his feet upon the ground; And he murmured "Seraphina," and he kissed his hand and smiled On a party who went through him, like an unresisting child. MORAL. Now one word to Pogonippers, ere this subject I resign, In this tale of Milton Perkins,-late an owner in White Pine, You shall see that wealth and women are deceitful, just the same; And the tear of sensibility has salted many a claim. WHAT THE WOLF REALLY SAID TO LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD. WONDERING maiden, so puzzled and fair, Cheeks that are rosy, and eyes that are blue. Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms |