and, we may add, dropping her little "h" in her excitement. "I can
put up with the loss of an 'h,' but not for a wilderness of aspirates
would I have lost this healthy, cheery chapter," says

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

TO A RAILWAY FOOT-WARMER.

At first I loved thee--thou wast warm,--
The porter called thee "'ot," nay, "bilin.'"
I tipped him as thy welcome form
He carried, with a grateful smile, in.

Alas! thou art a faithless friend,
Thy warmth was but dissimulation;
Thy tepid glow is at an end,
And I am nowhere near my station!

I shiver, cold in feet and hands,
It is a legal form of slaughter,
They don't warm(!) trains in other lands
With half a pint of tepid water.

I spurn thy coldness with a kick,
And pile on rugs as my protectors.
I'd send--to warm them--to Old Nick,
Thy parsimonious Directors!