Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XXIII.—April, 1852.—Vol. IV.

"Well, and you are a week one," replied the other; who instantly jumped upon the back of a horse-laugh, and rode victoriously over his prostrate conqueror.

We know not the author of the following lines, nor how, or at what time, they came to find a place in the "Drawer;" but there is no reader who will not pronounce them very touching and beautiful:

I am not old – I can not be old,
Though three-score years and ten
Have wasted away like a tale that is told,
The lives of other men

I am not old – though friends and foes
Alike have gone to their graves;
And left me alone to my joys or my woes,
As a rock in the midst of the waves

I am not old – I can not be old,
Though tottering, wrinkled, and gray;
Though my eyes are dim, and my marrow is cold,
Call me not old to-day!

For early memories round me throng,
Of times, and manners, and men;
As I look behind on my journey so long,
Of three-score miles and ten.

I look behind and am once more young,
Buoyant, and brave, and bold;
And my heart can sing, as of yore it sung,
Before they called me old.

I do not see her – the old wife there —
Shriveled, and haggard, and gray;
But I look on her blooming, soft, and fair,
As she was on her wedding-day.

I do not see you, daughters and sons,
In the likeness of women and men;
But I kiss you now as I kissed you once
My fond little children then.

And as my own grandson rides on my knee,
Or plays with his hoop or kite,
I can well recollect I was merry as he,
The bright-eyed little wight!

'Tis not long since – it can not be long,
My years so soon were spent,
Since I was a boy, both straight and strong.
But now I am feeble and bent.

A dream, a dream – it is all a dream!
A strange, sad dream, good sooth;
For old as I am, and old as I seem,
My heart is full of youth.

Eye hath not seen, tongue hath not told,
And ear hath not heard it sung,
How buoyant and bold, tho' it seem to grow old,
Is the heart forever young!

Forever young – though life's old age,
Hath every nerve unstrung;
The heart, the heart is a heritage,
That keeps the old man young!

That is a good story told of an empty coxcomb, who, after having engrossed the attention of the company for some time with himself and his petty ailments, observed to the celebrated caustic Dr. Parr, that he could never go out without catching cold in his head.

"No wonder," said the doctor, rather pettishly; "you always go out without any thing in it!"

We have heard somewhere of another of the same stamp, who imagined himself to be a poet, and who said to "Nat. Lee," whose insane verse was much in vogue at the time:

"It is not easy to write like a madman, as you do."

"No," was the reply; "but it is very easy to write like a fool, as you do!"

There was some "method" in the "madness" that dictated that cutting rejoinder, at any rate.

"I was once a sea-faring man," said an old New York ship-master one day, to a friend in "The Swamp," "and my first voyage was to the East Indies. To keep me from mischief, the mate used to set me picking oakum, or ripping up an old sail for 'parceling,' as it was called. While engaged one day at this last employment, it occurred to me that a small piece of the sail would answer an admirable purpose in mending my duck over-trowsers, as they were beginning to be rather tender in certain places, owing, perhaps, to my sitting down so much. I soon appropriated a small piece, but was detected by the mate while 'stowing it away.'

"He took it from me, and while he was lecturing me, the captain, a noble fellow, with a human heart in his bosom, came on deck, when the whole matter was laid before him.

"'A – ,' said he, 'always ask for what you want; if it is denied to you, then steal it, if you think proper.'

"I remembered his advice; and in a short time afterward had another piece of canvas snugly 'stowed away.' I carried it forward, and gave it to my 'chummy,' an old 'salt,' who had the charge of my wardrobe (which consisted of six pairs of duck-trowsers, the same number of red-flannel shirts, a Scotch woolen cap, and a fine-tooth comb), and performed my mending.

"The next day I went on deck with a clean pair of trowsers on, neatly patched. As I was going forward the captain hailed me:

"'You took that piece of canvas, sir!'

"'Yes, captain,' I replied, 'I did. You yourself told me to ask, and if I was refused, to do the other thing. I was refused, and did do the 'other thing.'

"'Well,' rejoined the captain, 'I have no great objection to your having the canvas, but let me tell you that you will never make a sailor if you carry your flying-jib over the stern!'

"My 'chummy,' sewing from the inside, had 'seated' my trowsers with a piece of canvas marked 'F. Jib!"'

There used to be quite popular, many years ago, a species of letter-writing in poetry, in accomplishing which much ingenuity was tasked and much labor expended. The ensuing lines are a good example of this kind of composition by comic writers who have not sufficiently advanced in joking to get "out of their letters." The lines were addressed to Miss Emma Vee, who had a pet jay, of which she was very fond:

"Your jay is fond, which well I know,
He does S A to prove;
And he can talk, I grant, but O!
He can not talk of love.