A bush of wild marsh-marigold,
That shines in hollows gray,
He cut, and smiling to his love,
He shoo-ed more flies away.
He clasped his neck with crooked hands;
In the hot sun in lonely lands,
For several days he steady stands.
The wrinkled fly beneath him crawls,
He watches by the castle walls--
Like thunder then his bush it falls.
(_To be Continued._)
* * * * *
~ASTRONOMICAL CONVERSATIONS.~
[BY A FATHER AND DAUGHTER RESIDING ON THE PLANET VENUS.]
No. IV.
_D._ Oh, Pa, if we only had a Moon! What is life without one?
_F._ Well, my child, we've w'iggled along, so far. It is true, our
Telluric friends may be said to have the advantage of us; but then,
there's no lunacy here! Everything is on the square on this planet!
_D._ I don't care; I want a Moon, square or no square! There's no excuse
for being sentimental here. Who is ever imaginative, right after supper?
And yet Twilight is all the time we have.
_F._ But still, HELENE, I think our young folks are not really deficient
in sentiment. What they would be, with six or seven moons, like those of
SATURN or URANUS, is frightful to think of! Heavens! what poetry would
spring up, like asparagus, in the genial spring-time! We should see
Raptures, I warrant you! And oh, the frensies, the homicidal energies,
the child-roastings! Yes, Moonshine would make it livelier here, no
doubt.
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