water downstairs, and nothing but the roof left us to perch upon.

How we ever recovered our belongings I don't know. All I remember is,
being taken to the station in an old green wherry, and coming back to
town seventeen in a second-class carriage. My last view of the wreck
embraced KITTY, propped up against the railing of the roof, and making
tea on a table, which looked more like tipping over than standing
straight. KITTY'S husband was muttering to himself as he handed round
the cups; and, as I moved off through the crush of boats, I fancied
I caught the word "JONAH." Of course I may have been mistaken, as my
name is not that, but

THE ODD GIRL OUT.

* * * * *

ODE TO MONEY.

(_BY A POPTIMIST._)

Hair that is golden grows olden,
Hopes that are golden decay;
Suns that are bright, and embolden
The tourist to go on his way,
Leaving his gingham tight folden,
Turn to a drizzling grey.
But gold of the Mint is all-golden,
Safe in the strictest assay.

Cynics may rail against money,