you believe it, I was fool enough to accept; and again a salt-fish dinner was set before me, because I was so ill as not to enjoy my favorite repast the last time I was there!

How I groaned in spirit! neither my friend's cheerfulness nor his vivacity could elevate me. I was about to say, in reply to a commiserating remark, that my mind was preoccupied by very serious business matters; but I thought of Mrs. Opie, and was silent. I tried to smile, but I have no doubt the result was a grimace.

I escaped as soon as possible, and hoped, as I left the house, that I had taken my farewell of salt-fish dinners forever; but "the end was not yet." This was about two years ago; and, since then, I have been inveigled into the acceptance of no less than seventeen invitations to salt-fish dinners, of which I have now the general reputation of being passionately fond!

I am sure, if such a thing were possible, I should have acquired a taste for them long ago; but, on the contrary, my dislike of them increases in a geometrical ratio. I have been several times on the point of feigning dyspepsia, as an excuse for declining all invitations; but the thought of Mrs. Opie has prevented me.

I have prayed that I might have a slight touch of it, just enough to affirm by; but my digestive powers continue as strong as those of an ostrich or an anaconda. I begin to think that fate itself is against me. Without doubt I am "doomed for a certain time to walk the earth," during which I shall be compelled to accept invitations to cod-fish dinners!

They will be the death of me, at length, however; I shall be found gone for good, some pleasant night; the "crowner's quest," will sit on my corpus, and the verdict will be, "Died of a white lie, and a suffusion of salt-fish

THE SPRITES AT THE WINDMILL.

HA! ha! here we are, and the moon has not set,
And the mossy old windmill is standing here yet.

The harvest is gathered, the summer has gone,
And again we rejoice in the scent of the corn.
Up all, to the wings now! blow high or blow low,
Round on the old windmill once more we will

go;

And while the bright moon, which now lends us her beams, Is looking alone on the rocks and the streams,

And gently the dews of the midnight distil,

We will have one more ride on the wings of the mill.

Stretch out, then, stretch out to the end of each wing,
And send them all round with a good hearty swing;
Up and down-up and down-send them merrily
round,

Bear them down on that side from the sky to the ground.
Now up! send them up! on this side let them fly,
With a bound from the ground till they point to the sky,
Now they crack! never mind, they are used to the strain;
Up with them once more now down with them again!

We love the clear breeze o'er the pine-covered hill,
As it sings through the wings of the sturdy old mill;
There it comes! now spring out to the end of each rail,
And let each arm bend like a mast in a gale;
Round with them, round with them, the wind is too slow,
Bear down all together, halloo! there, halloo!
Fill the hoppers below, heap them up till they choke,
And then let the old stones fly round till they smoke;
Round, round, send them round with a merry good will,
Ha! ha! we are back to the rattling old mill

And Ephraim, the miller, the drowsy old head,
Who lies now at midnight asleep in his bed,
Should he wake, would suppose

That because the wind blows,

And for no other reason, around the mill goes.
When at sunrise he comes, and our work he has found,
How little he'll know how his grist has been ground;
Then round, send it round, for our work must be done
Ere old Father Ephraim appears with the sun.

Ha ha! a fresh breeze now comes over the hill,
Each sail feels its breath; now they stiffen and fill !
Now, now all is straining above and below,
And round the quick circle we merrily go;

Round, round, and now hark to the musical tones
That come quivering out from the whirling old stones.

Halloo there! rouse all! ere the night watch is past,
One more merry round let us have, and the last.
To the ends of each arm; and now pour in the corn,
The daylight is coming, and we must be gone.
Round with them! ha! ha! how like willows they spring,
And the sails go down skimming, like birds on the wing!
Rise all with them cheerily, then down let them come,
And now hear the stones, how they rumble and hum
As they rapidly swing!

In its fire-circled ring,

Each seems like a glad living creature to sing!
Hark, hark, to their song, how it gushes and swells,
With sounds like the low, distant humming of bells!
Once more, all together, now up from below!
There's light in the east, we must go, we must go!

Up! through the blue ether! up, up, and away!
And now the old mill

May go on if it will,

Or fold up its wings for a while, and be still.

MEDITATIONS OF PAUL POTIPHAR.

WELL, my new house is finished, and so am I. I do hope Mrs. Potiphar is satisfied. Every body agrees that it is 'palatial." The daily papers have had columns of descriptions, and I am, evidently, according to their authority, "munificent,"" tasteful," "enterprising," and "patriotic."

Amen; but what business have I with " palatial" residences? What more can I want than a spacious, comfortable house? Because I made fifty thousand last year in Timbuctoo bonds, must I convert it all into a house? Why does a man build a house? To live in, I suppose — to

have a home.

But is a fine house a home? I mean is a 66 palatial" residence, with Mrs. Potiphar at the head of it, the home, the 66 sweet home that we have heard so much of the home of which we all dream more or less, and for which we all ardently hope, as we grow older?

A house, I take it, is a retreat to which a man hurries from business, where he is compensated, by the tender regards of his wife and the playfulness of his children, for the rough rubs with men. I know it is a silly view of the case, but I am getting old, and cannot help it.

Mrs. Potiphar is perfectly right when she says, "You men are intolerable. After attending to your own affairs all day, and being free from the fuss of housekeeping, you expect to come home, shuffle on your slippers, read the evening paper, and snooze in the rocking chair, while we wait upon you, sew, darn stockings, and talk to

you.

"When you come home tired, sometimes you look glum, and fret if dinner is not ready the instant you are ready for it; and then you sit mum, and eat it, find fault with the children, and show yourselves the ugly things you are. Am I never to have any fun, I should like to know? Am

I never to go to the opera? never to go to a ball? never to have a party at home?

"Men are tyrants, Mr. Potiphar. They are ogres, perfect ogres, who entice us poor girls into their castles, and then eat up our happiness, and scold us while they eat."

Well, I suppose it is so; I suppose I am an ogre; I sup. pose I did entice Polly into my castle; but she did not find it large enough, and so I had to build another. I suppose she does wait upon me, sew, darn stockings, and talk to me; I suppose she does, but somehow or other I am not aware of it.

I know it is unkind in me, when I have been hard at work all day, trying to make money in order to furnish her and the family with every thing that they want, to expect her to let me stay at home and be quiet.,

I know I ought to go to balls, to operas, three times a week; and besides, I know I ought to dress up and go to Mrs. Puff's levee; and I ought to go into Croesus's house. These are "social duties;" and when I have performed these "social duties," how mean it is, how "it looks," not to build a larger house for Mrs. Puff and others to come and perform their "social duties "in!

I give it up there is no doubt of it; Mrs. Potiphar is quite right; she does right to ask, " Have we no social duties to perform?" One day Polly says to me, "Mr. Potiphar, we are getting down town.” "What do you mean, my dear? "Why, every body is building above us, and there are actually shops in the next street. Singel, the pastry-cook, has hired Mr. Cræsus' old house."

"I know it; old Croesus told me so some time ago. 'Why, Potiphar,' said he, ‘I really hoped when I built that house I should have staid there. It is all nonsense, this building new houses, and beginning life again; but my wife said it was all right, every body else did so, and as I did not want to argue the matter with her, I assented.' So .hat is the way Mr. Crœsus came to have a new house, Mrs.