there, sounding it for hidden deposits of the
weed. That done, after deep consideration, he
says to his orderly, "There is nothing!"

The orderly ponders awhile, and then, like
Echo, responds, "There is nothing!"

"No; there is nothing!" rejoins the fogy
chief. "Allez! Go!"

The saying "Allez" in a pompous tone seems
to be the principal duty which if he did not
fulfil what would be the good of not
suppressing his place? Poor old solemnity, adieu!
or rather, au revoir! Doubtless when smoking
your pipe of seized tobacco and sipping your
smallest of beer at home, you are very different
from the employé who has to say "Allez" in
front of his wigwam.

AT HOME IN STATEN ISLAND

[For the proper understanding of the following
verses, written by a home-sick Englishman while
resident in Staten Island, near New York, it may
be necessary to state that in North America there
are neither daisies, nor primroses, nor skylarks, nor
nightingales, nor any bird with a musical note except
the mocking bird, which is not often heard north
of Maryland. The "dogwood" and the "catalpa,"
of which mention is made, are flowering trees of
great beauty in the vernal landscape.]

             My true love clasped me by the hand,
                And from our garden alley,
             Looked o'er the landscape seamed with sea,
                And rich with hill and valley.
             And said, "We've found a pleasant place
                As fair as thine and my land,
             A calm abode, a flowery home
                 In sunny Staten Island.

             "Behind us lies the teeming town
                  With lust of gold grown frantic;
              Before us glitters o'er the bay,
                  The peaceable Atlantic.
              We hear the murmur of the sea—
                    A monotone of sadness,
              But not a whisper of the crowd,
                   Or echo of its madness.

             "See how the dogwood sheds its bloom
                  Through all the greenwood mazes,
              As white as the untrodden snow
                   That hides in shady places.
              See how the fair catalpa spreads
                    Its azure flowers in masses,
               Bell-shaped, as if to woo the wind
                    To ring them as it passes.

              "See stretching o'er the green hill side,
                   The haunt of cooing turtle,
               The clambering vine, the branching elm,
                    The maple and the myrtle,
               The undergrowth of flowers and fern
                     In many-tinted lustre,
               And parasites that climb or creep,
                     And droop, and twist, and cluster.

              "Behold the gorgeous butterflies
                   That in the sunshine glitter,
              The bluebird, oriole, and wren
                   That dart and float and twitter:
               And humming birds that peer like bees
                    In stamen and in pistil,
               And, over all, the bright blue sky
                    Translucent as a crystal.

              "The air is balmy, not too warm,
                    And all the landscape sunny
              Seems, like the Hebrew Paradise.
                    To flow with milk and honey.
              Here let us rest, a little while—
                     Not rich enough to buy land,
              And pass a summer well content
                     In bowery Staten Island."

              "A little while," I made reply
                   "A little while—one summer:
              For, pleasant though the land may be
                   To any fresh new comer,
              I miss the primrose in the dell,
                   The blue-bell in the wild wood,
              And daisy glinting through the grass,
                   The comrade of my childhood.

              "I miss the ivy on the wall,
                   The grey church in the meadow,
               The fragrant hawthorn in the lanes,
                    And all the beechen shadow.
                And more than all that proves to me
                     It never can be my land,
                 I miss the music of the groves
                     In leafy Staten Island.

                "There's not a bird in glen or shaw
                     That has a note worth hearing;
                 Unvocal all as barn-door fowls,
                      Or land-rails in the clearing.
                 Give me the skylark far aloft
                       To heaven up-singing, soaring;
                 Or nightingale, at close of day,
                        Lamenting but adoring!

                 "Give me the throstle on the bough,
                        The blackbird and the linnet,
                  Or any bird that sings a song
                        As if its heart were in it.
                  And not your birds of gaudier plume,
                        That you can see a mile hence,
                  And only need, to be admired,
                        The priceless charm of silence.

                  "There's drone, I grant, of wasps and bees,
                         And sanguinary hornets,
                   That blow their trumps as loud and shrill
                         As regimental cornets.
                    And all night long the bull-frogs croak
                         With melancholy crooning,
                    Like large bass-viols out of gear,
                         And tortured in the tuning.

                     "And then those nimble poisonous fiends,
                         The insatiable mosquitoes
                     That come in armies noon and night,
                          To plague, if not to eat us.
                     The devil well deserves his name,*
                          That sent them to the dry land;
                      Let us away across the sea,
                           Far, far from Staten Island!"
                     *Beelzebub, the lord of the flies

                     "Ah, well!" my true love said and smiled,
                            "There's shade to every glory;
                      There's no true paradise on earth
                             Except in song or story.