(July 2, 1890.)

Open the workhouse doors to-day To the men who fought in that fearful fray; Weary and worn and scant of breath Are the men who rode through the valley of Death; But, clad in the pauper’s garb of shame, They are getting the meed of their deathless fame.

These are the heroes our poet sang When over the world their story rang; These are the heroes, gnarled and bent, With the tale of whose deeds the skies were rent; These are the soldiers whose fame’s writ large On the glorious page of that deathless charge.

Open the workhouse doors to-day To the penniless heroes old and gray; In each wrinkled face is a soldier’s pride, They have won the guerdon so long denied, And we honour their deed with--what do you think?-- A benefit at a skating rink!

A Child’s Idea.

Lightly holding her mother’s hand, A little girl tripped o’er her father’s land; Squire of all the acres he, As far as the little one’s eyes could see, And his wife and his daughter, his “Baby May,” Were “seeing the folks” this Christmas Day.

Six years old was the baby girl, And her brain was all in a dreamy whirl With the puddings and pies and the Christmas-trees And the bells and carols, and, if you please, The night before had St. Nicholas been With the loveliest dolly that ever was seen.

“How good of the saint, mamma, to leave Such beautiful things upon Christmas Eve!” She had cried, as against her baby breast She hushed her dear little doll to rest. And then the wonders of Christmas Day Had almost taken her breath away.

And now through the village she gaily trips, As the greeting comes from a score of lips: “A Merry Christmas and bright New Year!” And the air is heavy with Christmas cheer-- Goose and pudding and beef galore-- And the fires glow bright through each open door There’s a happy smile upon ev’ry face, The village is quite a fairy place; And in every cottage at which they call The green and holly are on the wall; And all the family gathered there Are seated around the Christmas fare.

“How happy they are!” says Baby May, As she looks at the feast and the feasters gay; And then there comes to her childish mind A scene or two of a different kind-- Of weeping women and frowning men, And nobody seems so happy then!

She had grasped the fact in her childish way That the poor had “troubles” and “rents” to pay-- That children ailed, and that some men’s wives Were “nearly worried out of their lives.” She had heard the gossip, as children do, And to-day it came back to her mind anew.

She thought of the village of then and now, And there came a cloud on her baby brow; She knew there was sorrow where now was mirth, And she whispered, “Mamma, when He made the earth, What a pity it was God did not say, ‘Let it be always Christmas Day’!”

Sanitation at Sea.

I have sailed o’er the ocean to spots far away, I’ve also done “Margate and back” in the day; I have spent the long nights upon deck in a storm, And stood by the funnel to keep myself warm; And when I’ve been poorly as poorly can be, I have sighed for some slight “sanitation at sea.”

I have been in the cabin where sufferers lay In an atmosphere fitted a nigger to slay, I have slept in a bunk where the air was so foul That I woke in the morn with an agonized howl, And I’ve staggered upstairs crying, “Oh, dearie me! Why will they ignore ‘sanitation at sea’?”

By the smell of the engine, the dirt on the deck, By the stairs you descend at the risk of your neck, By the cabin whose odour is stuffy and stale, By the dirty old tub which is known as “the Mail,” By the horrors from which scarce a vessel is free, We’d welcome the least “sanitation at sea.”

Guignol.

I pay two sous and take my chair Among the little girls and boys; The nurses turn their heads and stare, For puppet-shows are children’s joys. And yet, though Time has hit me hard, And life I’m given to revile, From every joy I’m not debarred, For Guignol still can make me smile.

Dear Guignol of my golden youth! How oft in these Elysian fields I’ve listened to his words of truth, And watched the baton that he wields! And still in autumn’s pleasant glow A happy hour away I while, And with the babies “see the show,” For Guignol still can make me smile!

The English Summer.

On Monday the weather was fine and bright, Three fine days and a thunderstorm! On Tuesday the floods had reached their height, And a hurricane blew on Wednesday night, And the land was a swamp and a dismal sight-- Three fine days and a thunderstorm!

On Thursday the dogs all panting lay, Three fine days and a thunderstorm! And sunstroke settled two boys at play. On Friday the winter had come to stay-- Three fine days and a thunderstorm!

On Saturday snow was a good foot high, Three fine days and a thunderstorm! On Sunday there fell from the jet-black sky A deluge that covered the mountains high; And to-day in a tropical sun we fry-- Three fine days and a thunderstorm!

A Perfect Paradise.