And an arm sure was made to encircle a
waist;
Fuix! your lips are so like a bunch o’ ripe ber
rie
I’m thinkin’, alanna. of thryin’ a tashte.
Arrali thin, Kitty,
It’s you that loon pretty,
S’ated so sweet at your ould spinnin’-wbeel;
tVinsome and wincin'.
The while you keep spinnia’
My fate with your nate little ankle and heel.
Tundhor and turf! it’s a shame beyond sin
nin’
To sit so provokingly silent, asthore;
It’s high time for colleens to Tare off their
spinnia’
Whin the moon and their houchals peep In
at the door;
Bo come to your Barney, my darlin’ so win
some, —
Ah! Kitty, you’re breakin’ my heart with
your smile,—
Whisht! aisy, aroon, let your grandmother
spin some.
I’ve somethin’ to whisper you out at the
stile.
Arrah thin, Kitty,
It’s >ou that look pretty,
S’ated so sweet at yourould spinnlu’-wheel;
V> insome and winnin'.
The while you keep spinnin’
My fate with your nate little ankle and heeL
—Patrick J. Coleman, in the Century.
HER HUSBAND’S NIECE.
“George, when did you get this let
ter?' 1 asked Mattie Henderson, as she
glanced into her husband’s face.
“On Wednesday,” he said, with some
hesitation.
“And this is Friday,” rebukiugly re
plied liis wife. “You carried it about
in your pocket for at least two days.
It is from your niece, Fanny Atwood.
She left New York yesterday and will
be here on the 8 o’clock train this
morning, and it is 7:30 now. This is a
nice state of affairs, isn’t it?”
“It was careless of me, Mattie,” the
young farmer regretfully admitted.
