careless in domestic matters-for it builds no nest of any account-it sits and sings through the deepening twilight on into the moonlight; and if you creep sufficiently near, you will see that it positively beats time with its little foot upon the log, and hear, between the strains, a click like that of a clock just as it strikes the hour.

A rare Music Box is the Whippoorwill, manufactured, tuned, and wound by the same fingers that keyed the spheres to their sublime harmonies.

“LITTLE JEMMY.”

AND there's "JEMMY," a little top-knotted, greencoated Canary of some five months, that sits in his cage, crumbles his cracker, notches his fresh lettuce, cracks his Canary seed, makes his toilet, and ogles the Yellow Birds that ride around his prison on the swells of the air.

A while ago, Jemmy was slightly depressed, and "for cause," as will be seen. Relying too much on the twist in the conjugal tie, Lucy-she's one of "Our Folks," but the Census Takers have her "description" -suffered Jemmy's wife, NELLY, to fly out to a Lilac Tree in front of the house, supposing, of course, she would fly back on wings of love; but the swaying

boughs, the free air, and, I sadly fear, the blandishments of some unprincipled Lothario of a Goldfinch, were too much for poor Nelly's virtue, and she never returned to her allegiance; so Jemmy has kept Bachelor's Hall ever since.

Nelly was a lady;" at least, so we all thought; but, the other day, she made her appearance in a Peach Tree, right in sight of her lord and masterdecidedly the worst thing I know of her-accompanied by a suspicious-looking fellow in buff waistcoat and "inexpressibles." We didn't-"Our Folks " much approve of the twitterings and chirpings between them; but Jemmy is a good deal of a philosopher; so he turned about upon his perch as nonchalant as a Regent Street fashionable. There was a little swelling in his throat. Was it a rising sigh? Nothing of the sort; for he warbled a ditty-not of the strongest, we confess, but then musical, resigned, Jemmy-like-the burden of which was, as nearly as I could make it out, something like this: "Not a— whistle-for Nelly, Nell, Nelly, give I; not a-warble-a twitter-a quaver-care I. This crotchetble—a of Nelly's a-minim—to me!" The very day that Nelly deserted Jemmy's perch and pickings, a driving storm swept over the country, and there was a sound

of great lamentation for Nelly; but, alas! she was left to a worse fate. There is no telling what Coquettes, or Canaries, or any of us may come to, if left to ourselves.

P. AN EVERLASTING PEA.

AN EVER-LAST-ING PEA-the last of "Our Folks" to-day-a sweet thing to look at, but with no more breath than an Oyster, has been growing neglected beside the door for a long time. Several impudent Burdocks and saucy Pigweeds had grown over it and around it; and there it was without a frame, a staff, or even a thread to help itself with, and climb out of the way, up into the air, and be beautiful, and be admired.

There it was, struggling alone, and running all over the ground, and getting no where, when, one day, a bolder branch, that had gone out some where for succor, discovered the Lightning Conductor. There was a way up and out, indeed; and why shouldn't a PEA as well as a PEOPLE run on a Rail? And here was an aërial Railway, ready and in "running order," for the creeper and climber. So it encircled the cold iron, and swung itself up; and whither it might have gone, and what it might have done, is more than

any body knows; but a frame-such as it was-was built, and the truant tethered with a string. One thing it did was this: laid a blushing leaf close to the cold, dark iron. And what for? Why, claiming relationship, of a truth. Iron tinted that leaf to "the color of virtue." Iron makes those Roses glow in their new frames beside the path. Indeed, one could almost write poetry without inspiration, only give him plenty of iron:

The jarring of the iron wheels along the iron rails ;
The anvils with their iron din beneath, the iron flails;
The panting of the iron forge; the twang of iron wire;
The music of an iron age; of iron and of fire;
The netting of the iron nerve that's thrilling through the
world;

The iron bayonet to the bolt by glittering tempests hurled;
The thunder of the iron loom; the shuttle's plunging steel;
The weaving of the zones of earth-five ribbons round a

reel;

The couplet of the iron song, of which TWO BARS are sung, That makes as dear as "household words" the Anglo-Saxon

tongue;

The clanking of the iron Press, the echo of the Age,
While waking Thought, with iron tread, leaves foot-prints

on the page;

All sinews are of iron now; all breathings are of fire;

And engines with their iron hearts can toil and never tire;

The winds are lulled, but iron craft are panting round the

globe;

And iron needles ravel out old Ocean's seamless robe.

In calm Pacific's golden

but, 'tis a hard theme; and, printers permitting, I'll "mind my P's and Q's" again. There was something of almost classic beauty in the sight: a green, luxuriant vine encircling a rude bayonet, fixed by the fingers of Philosophy, against the lightnings of Heaven; the rusty route of the thunder-bolt wreathed in the beauty of Summer; a token of amity extended upon the "present arms" of Science to the tempest ; an offering from the warm bosom of a June earth to the genii of the cloudy caverns of the air.

Does some body ask you what you think of "OUR FOLKS?" Pray, don't mind me; but utter it boldly, like a Jeffreys.

Jewelry.

NATURE was out in her Jewelry this morning, or, as some body's little Charley, or Molly, or Johnny would say, in her "Dewelry," and that's just the word wanted-glittering with the young rain that waits its wings.

By the way, that Nimrod in science who went hunting the DEw, and made a fame that shall last forever: Wasn't it a pretty idea when, placing the