# The Wild Goose/Number 3

A Collection of Ocean Waifs.
Queen Cliodhna and the Flower of Erin. A Tale of our Pagan Ancestors. By Mushra.
Chapter 3.—The Barrachan Girl.
The disappearance of Cormac Art and his fair partner at first caused no surprise, as it was thought, in the hurry and confusion which the whirlwind occasioned, that they had retired unnoticed to avoid the stifling dust which blew all round; but when after some time they were no where to be seen, the people began to look surprised, and many a strange conjecture as to what had become of them was whispered about. A diligent search was soon instituted to discover the missing pair, but in vain; although the young men dived int every nook and cranny, cave and dill, until late into the night, their efforts were unavailing, for no trace of their leader could they anywhere find. Another party sought him at his father’s castle, but it was still the same. Greta was the agony and grief of Art More, his father, when some days had passed by, and still no tidings were heard of his missing son. At length he bethought him as a ancient Druid, who lived on the side of mangerton, and who was noted thro’ the Green Isle his wisdom and sanctity. The heart broken father repaired to his sage in the mountain to ask his advice, and to see if he could give him any account of his missing son. The druid, after hearing his story and his description of the young girl with whom he danced, said he must have been enchanted by the spells of Queen Cliodhna, and that she must have taken him away to her rocky palace. He also said, that, if she could keep him for fourteen clear days from the hour of taking him away, no power on earth could release him from her toils. "There is not in Ireland," said he, "any such enchanter who can free him from her witchery except the Old hag of Ulster, who lives on the shores of Lough Swilly. I would, therefore, advise you to repair with all possible speed to her, and that she consents to come with you, all may yet be well, provided you arrive in time; otherwise your efforts are fruitless, and you will never again see your son." Old Art More was bewildered by what he heard; eight days were already past, and he had but six left to journey to the far end of Donegal and back again, in case he could induce the old hag to come with him. Now, that distance in these days of engineering and railroad skill would be of no significance, but in the brave old days of our ancestors it was far different. However, he resolutely determined to do all that could be done under the circumstances. Hastily proceeding home, he chose a few valuable presents to propitiate the good graces of the old Hag, and, saddling his fleetest steed, he set off for Ulster. On thro’ the rich alluvial lands of Limerick, down by the lordly Shannon, far away over the fertile plains of Roscommon, over ​the steep hills and rocky dills of Sligo and Donegal, sped the traveller, when on the morning of Friday, he entered the Cabin of the Old Hag, having then until but Tuesday evening to come back and get his son from the spells of the enchantress. When he entered, he saw no one except a little girl, about ten years old, sitting by the half-burned turf embers, roasting barrachans, (Barrachans are half-roasted potatoes and a particular relish with some Irish boys and girls.) The little girl was roasting her barrachans when the old man entered. he asked was the old woman. She did not know. When would she be home? Of that he was also uncertain—"She may not be for three days—she may not be for a fortnight." Had she any idea where she was to be found? No, her grandmother, as she called her, was not in the habit of telling her of her movements. Art More was stupefied by this information, and gave vent to his feelings by load bursts of lamentation. The little girl enquired the cause of his grief, and why the absence of her Grandmother occasioned him such disappointment. He, without answering her, was turning away to leave the cabin. When she more earnestly desired to know what was his business with her grandmother,—Without in the least expecting an assistance from her, he told her the cause of his journey. She listened attentively to his story, and at its conclusion, asked him a few questions about his son,—as how old was he, what was his appearance, was he the celebrated hurler of Munster; and being very satisfied on these particulars, said, if the old man would engage to give her his son in marriage when she came of age, she would go with him and endeavour to break the witchery of Queen Cliodhna;—but first she must eat her barrachans—
(to be continued.)
A 4th of July in America.
In the year of grace 1856, while still a mere boy, I became a resident of Boston,—the Capital of the old Puritan State of Massachusetts, and, in the fond estimation of its citizens, the Chiefest City in the United States, and consequently in the world. In their pride, Boston is termed by its inhabitants the "Athens of America," and by the rest of their countrymen, in their love of burlesque nomenclature, the "Hub of the Universe" and the "City of Nations;" the latter word signifying, in the Yankee vocabulary, articles of trade. The 4th of July (the anniversary of the declaration of American independence) was approaching; and impatiently I waited the tardy coming of this world-celebrated gala-day of the great American republic,—"the great and glorious Fourth," anticipating, from all I had heard respecting it, a rare treat. In order that I should be up early on the morning of Independence day, and not cheat my boyish eagerness of a moment’s sport, I retired to bed very early the evening before; and though my brain was worked up to fever heat at the thought of the morrow, Someone almost instantly asserted his sway, and I became oblivious of past, present and future. Suddenly I was aroused from sleep. Peals of thunder, as it were, rent the air. Forgetful of the occasion, the terrible thought flashed through my brain that the awful Day of Judgement had arrived. Another instant, the truth dawned upon my my mind; it was the birth-day of a nation,—the day of all others that forcibly reminds Americans of the time when their fathers, despite the immense odds they had to contend with, nobly dared to have the proudest sovereignty of the world, and, battling for their rights, compel it to acknowledge their independence; thus, by their exertions, raising them to the prominence they now hold amongst the nations of the earth. From the loud and rapid reports, I conceived that the military were called out, and, placed in every street and lane, were ushering in the glorious day with tremendous feux-de-joie. Venturing, at last, to get out of bed, I tremulously approached the window and looked cautiously out. The bells were chiming a joyous peal, and every now and the then the sky was illuminated by a sheet of flame. Evidently no military were engaged in firing as I had supposed; but in every direction, torpedoes, Roman candles, etc, were let off with deafening noise by demonstrative, sleepless citizens. As it was not long after midnight, and feeling sure that the fun wouldn’t be exhausted before day, I again sought my couch, and once more fell asleep—rising between to prepare for the day’s enjoyment. About six O’clock I sauntered forth; heaven was smiling on the day’s proceedings and the intense heat of the sun. Sole occupant of the clear blue sky, was tempered by a refreshing breeze. Attracted by the sound of marching ​music, I proceeded up Summer Street, and encountered a motley procession, headed by a neatly uniformed brass band. who discoursed exquisite airs alternately with this discordant, ear-torturing performance of the ragged members of a tin pan and thistle band. Appeared the procession of the "Ancient and Honourable Order of Antiques and Horribles." Uproarious cheers and hoots of laughter greeted the body as it filed up the street. My astonished eyes were opened to their fullest extent at the fantastic and wildly different costumes of the grotesque procession. Here were Hamlet, and Don Caesar de Borzan, aria in aria, masked, and kissing sensuous bouquets of the ladies; here Punch and Judy, in a carriage, affectionately embracing and then sparring scientifically to each other with connubial earnestness; here a sham female with exaggerated hoops and a very small apology for a bonnet, affecting most ridiculous coquettish airs; Don Quixote—not a bad specimen of the genus Yankee, riding on a very sorry Rosimante indeed, abreast with the Rev. Mr. Snowball, a colored clergyman with very large blue spectacles and proportionate shirt collar, and Sancho, dressed as a clown, clinging to the tail of Rosimante; And Lomis Napoleon taking snuff with Brother Jonathan, the latter comporting himself with more dignity than his imperial majesty. The characters throughout were inimitable. Besides, sprinkled here and there, clowns and harlequins gesticulated and twisted themselves into all sorts of shapes; mock beans exhibited their Terpsichorean powers; monkeys, jabbers etc. Not the least in conspicuous display was an allegorical representation on a ear of the devil inciting Tyranny, crowned and dressed as a monarch, to acts of cruelty towards a group of cowering wretches in chains, whilst the angel of Liberty was be degrees releasing them from slavery, and the tyrant eventually becomes the prey of the Arch-Fiend. Having feasted myself to my hearts content, I returned to breakfast, and, after doing justice to that meal, I set about arranging my stock of fireworks to be in readiness for a cousin of mine whom I had persuaded to spend the day with me. Pending his arrival, I amused myself with looking out the window and watching the boys in the street, in all the enthusiasm of Young America, discharging pistols, piles of India crackers, etc. On the outside ledge of the parlor-window below, I spied a heap common fire-crackers. A brilliant idea occurred to me which was forthwith put into practice. Attaching a piece of lighted fuse to a string, I lowered it among the incendiary materials, and the consequence was not only that they went off with spirit-stirring reports, but, flying about us in all directions, burnt holes in the Brussels Carpet, and set fire to the window-curtains. Opportunely entering the room in the moment, the servant-maid, by extinguishing the fire, prevented it doing more mischief. Nobody being able to trace the cause of the accident, I of course, escaped blame, not being even suspected. Joined by my cousin, he and I sallied forth about town. The din was such as to fill our youthful hearts with unbounded delight, being incessant and deafening beyond description. On Washington Street, we witnessed the marching past of troops of soldiers,—horse, footman, artillery,—the governor and state officials, the corporation and other civic officers, the different bodies of the city militia in their rich uniforms, and the noble and gallant firemen in their redshirts, dragging their favorite engines, which were gayly decked out in ribbons and flowers. The houses in the line of marchers were hansomely decorated with appropriate flags, floral festoons, and banners, worked with designs and mottoes significant of the occasion. Stretched across Washington Street (the principal thoroughfare of the City) from Old South Church was a banneret bearing the announcement of that sacred edifice—the sanctuary of the Most High—during the occupation of Boston by the British troops in the Revolutionary war, was used as a stable by the royal chagoons. Pushing on through the crown, we made our way to the common,—the pride and glory of Bostonians,—a small park, forty-four acres in area, and boasting a pond, the breadth of which might be cleared by a vigorous hop, step and leap. On Sundays and the evenings of all other days, the Common, with its contiguous streets is the favorite promenade of the citizens, and on public festivals is the center of attractions. Its chief ornaments are the "Liberty Tree"—a large and very aged elm—and the "Smoker’s Circle," whose precinct is nearly always occupied by lounges. The Common is the bequest of an Irishman to the Corporation of the City of Boston for ever. To admit that one never heard of the existence of Boston Common, would, in the eyes of the natives, betray a gross ignorance of history and geography. the Common was swarming with both sexes and all ages, and with all the exuberance of infantile glee, manhood and even tottering age united with their juvenile companions in forwarding the general hilarity by contributing their share towards increasing the noise. Now, however cam a slight lull; the monster concert was about to commence. Eight brass bands, placed at some distance apart, opened with the national air of "Hail Columbia": a park of artillery—(illegible text) battery, which afterwards played such a prominent part in that unhappy war between the North and South—keeping time to the notes of the drum with the most exact precision. Besides operatic and other selections, the national anthems of the principal nations of the globe were performed, wit the exception of that of England it being, to my no small surprise and delight, substituted by "St. Patrick’s Day."
Kappa.
(To be continued.)
Latest News.
By Atlantic Line.
Abyssinia, via Trinidad, Nov 18.—
It is reported that the Emperor Theodore is willing to hear on the terms of a peace. The British Commander in chief, with his army, has gone to Ax-um.
Notice.
"Mother Carey’s chickens," in their pursuit of grub, have scratched the outer covering of the Atlantic Telegraph cable.—Insulation destroyed. John Dorey has been engaged to repair it.
Answers to Correspondents.
We regretfully acknowledge the practical answer received to our advertisement last week.
Snip.—We don’t understand your essay on dress, how can a man wear straps, with a pair of knee breeches.?
Toby.—There ought not to be many rates in a ship provided with Catheads and many rat(illegible text).
Enquirer wants to know what a "Kink" is. We fear our legs will very soon prove an illustration if we have to squat so much at our editorial duties.
Rory.—His bad policy to strike even when pay is low. Be advised Roar i.e.—Call the Police.
Curious wants to know why the upper deck is so constantly flooded. How can it be otherwise with swells (from aft) continuously dashing along it.
A Rum one. wishes to be informed if he can get potheen in Fremantle. We think not, as she-beings (Shebeens) are scarce there. You are a Rum One.
Hans.—The "Flying Dutchman" is a native of Rotterdam.
"They’ll come again when south winds blow."
SATURDAY, NOV. 25,rd 1867.
Forethought.
Nothing conduces more to a man’s success in life, and, consequently, to distinguish him amongst his fellows, than forethought. It is the adjunct of a reasoning mind; and as reason distinguishes man from the lower animals, so it distinguishes him amongst his fellow men, and fits him to adorn and benefit society. A man may be possessed of genius, bravery, energy, and a host of other estimable qualities; but with all these he will never become successful if he has not also forethought. It is pre-eminently necessary to the political economist, the Great Captain, the Statesman; and its quite as necessary to men in the more humble spheres of life, to whom it will prove a giant of strength in all, even their everyday undertakings. Nothing tends more to produce a healthy tone of mind, than forethought when joined with reliance on one’s self. A man possessed of these qualities, has within himself an abiding ​strength that overcomes all difficulties or bends them subservient to him. It is his wisdom—It is the Opposite to that trusting to others, or to chance;—to that kismet which is the refuge of the weak man—ever ending in his ruin. Its exercise saves from unlooked for disappointments, and from rushing head long, at first sight, into things that in themselves, may seen even good, without first well weighing the after effects.
As a people, it is said that the Irish are deficient in the great quality—that we are people of more heart than head. Such is the hackneyed charge continually brought against us, spite of many bright examples of which we can point of Irishmen whose careers are the best contradiction of this libel. The limits of our journal will not permit us to enter in detail into a disproval of the charge; but what is(illegible text) whole sheets of such matter, each and every one amongst us, as Irishmen, whose proud privilege it is to represent our people amongst strangers, can, by our exercise of this forethought in the future affairs of our life, more eloquently prove that, both individually and as a people, we are not inferior to any nation, in this or any other great quality.
From our present prison life will radiate our futures. If we take with us forethought, it will assume our success, however widely we may disperse; and let us ever remember that our individual success in life will conduce to the greatness of our nation and our race.
"What are the wild Waves saying."
Let us avaw for a season from the monotonous routine of very day life, and roam o’er the glorious fields of imagination. Let us bury for a moment the trouble and trials of the present, and as the mind wanders far away in unchecked freedom, we will listen to and unravel the mystic words that are being spoken around us by the impressive forces of nature. Mighty tones are they, indeed; and we will find that they tell of mighty things. Every breeze that sweeps over the ocean’s breast is fraught with hidden meaning, and every wave that breaks along our vessels side, will speak to us words of strength and import. Let us watch them as they heave and roll around us—listen to them as they whisper to each other in the soft low tones of their Curling Crests—see what a depth of quiet strength lies buried in the heaving swells as they rise and fall and roll along. Now loud, bold, and powerful as the roar of lions is the voice of the mighty ocean, as its billowy mountains sweep past,—now soft and low as the murmuring of lovers are the whisperings of its foam-tipped waves. The are speaking to us all,—and though hearts, and feelings, and positions may be widely diversified, still there is a voice in the waves for everyone, and, whether thundering along resistless grandeur, or murmuring in gently flowing ripples, those voices are speaking to us of wisdom, and hoe and holy things. "Be strong, be strong," they say to the weak; "Be strong and heed not the powers of fortune. Storms and tempests last not forever. The waves of adversity will in time calm down, and the ocean of life will be purer, happier and better for their violent commotion." Be cheerful," they say to the drooping one; bear your (illegible text) with a light heart and a smiling face," and the light spray dashes up from the wave into the sunshine with a merry joyous sparkle. Be wise, be wise," they say to the unwary; "Silent and wise," and the whispering curl dies away from the wave, the surface of the deep is unbroken, and it slowly heaves in deep and solemn silence. "Be humble," they say to the proud one, "Be lowly in thy ​heart—be merciful in thy power," and it bears safely along the slender ship and the helpless raft, whilst men bless the mighty ocean for the comforts and joys it brings them. "Toil on, toil on," they cry to the student; dive deep, for the richest pearls are farthest down;" and the ocean opens a yawning gulf, and, far below, shows its priceless stores of treasure, "Hop on, hope ever," they say to the weary one, and far on the horizon appears an island of beauty and rest, to cheer the drooping wayfarer, "Be patient and heed my works. Impeded and condemned, I beat against the towering rock for ages; atom by atom I wear away its strength, and the day comes when my waves are rolling above it, and their white crests are whispering softly as they rise and fall over the spot where once it stood and defied my strength." "Be true, be true," they say to all, "Love not a falsehood for its sweetness. My waves are salt and rough, but they bear not deceit within their depths, and they roll unchanged for ever and ever."
Such is the voices of the deep—such are the lessons they teach. Far away, round our dear old island home, they are rising and falling and rolling along as they are here around us. They are solemnly unswerving(illegible text) their quaint and(illegible text), word to the loved ones there, who are thinking and preying for the wanderers. They are bearing their memories away to the scenes of the far past, or painting bright pictures of the visionary future; but though they beat with them a gentle sadness, they will strengthen and refresh us with courage for the present and hope for the future, if we hearten to their voices, and rightly interpret their meanings.
During the past week, we sighted several Portuguese men-of war. Our "devil" signalled them to ascertain longitude, but from his imperfect knowledge of their language (and indeed we may also add, of his own) he failed to read their reply.
Mary.
I see thee Mary now before me As I saw thee long ago, Dreams of youth, are rushing o’er me With resistless rapid flow
Time and worldly cares have found me Each has left its mask behind Still those day dreams hover round me— Saddening treasures of the mind.
Far from childhood’s home I wander, Sorrows come and disappear; Still when on the past I ponder Thou art present, Mary, dear.
Scenes of boyhood—scenes of gladness— Parents’ love and friendship’s ties, Bearing mingled joy and sadness, Now ’neath memories wand arise.
Crush them not, their spills will render, Truer, kinder, every heart; Crush not feeling pure and tender,— Scenes of youth, Oh! ne’er depart.
E’en though sad, yet still I’ll cherish All those dreams as time flies on; Base ’twould be to let them perish Now that all their joys are gone.
May they still my memory fetter, Still their spells around me cast; Teach me to grow wiser, better— ’Till life’s dream itself is past
-J.B. O’Reilly.
To ——
’Tis sweet to ride on our fleetwinged ship, As bird she skims away, Before the wind, all her sails adrip, With the rainbow tinted spray.
And sweet it is in the calm to rest; To gaze on the depth of blue; To feel the swell of its heaving breast; And to watch each varying hue
That deepens, and fades, and faints away;— As the sun to his azure bed Sinks slowly, scenting with magic ray Both ocean and sky to wed.
Around him is spread a mystical veil, Of varying colors blent, Turning his golden beams more pale, As they dart through each gauzy rent.
But sweeter beloved, to think of thee, Thou soul of my sweetest hours; The memory brightness Sun, Sky, and Sea: ——Less bright than the love of ours.
Binn Eider.
Two Days at Killarney.
We arrived at Ross, when a light boat, with a crow and bugler, were to meet us. After passing over the small bridge That connects Ross island to the mainland, immediately in front appeared Ross Castle,—an old ruin, still containing traces of its former beauty and splendour, towering majestically over wood and lake, and giving a princely air to the surrounding scenery. Its round watch-towers, on either side, with ramparts between,—the main structure standing on a higher eminence behind, clothed with ivy from base to summit, as if to shield it in its old age from the rude blasts of the winter’s wind,—the rusty canon peering over the parapets, and commanding the entrance,—must have once formed a formidable defence against besieges; but the shattered turrets above tell their own tale of the destroying hand of the conqueror. we ascend a circular stone stairs to and arched passage in front which commands a magnificent view of the lower lake in all its beauty; its islands mantled in rich green, and forming a beautiful contrast with the silvery waters in which they lay enbosomed. Just beneath lay Ross island, extending nearly half-way across the lake, with its picturesque mound and valleys, some robed in soft moss of a light yellow shade, and others covered with shrubs and trees if different tints of green, all forming a beautiful harmony of colors. After gazing on the little paradise with rapt admiration, and glancing over the scenes in the distance, which promised a similar treat, we retraced our steps by the old stairs to the quay, near the base of the castle, where the boat was in waiting for us. After making the necessary arrangements, our boat glided gently over the smooth waters, the bugler playing "The Last Rose of Summer"; its soft notes dying away in the distance, and again sent back in a subdued and softened tone, as if by some fairy mimic. The music was so ingeniously executed in short bars of three or four notes, with an interval of the same time—that the magic performer in the distance had perfect silence to repeat each bar without interruption, and to illustrate the beauties of this charming air. This I thought was the exquisite reality of what I frequently heard described, and which I often longed to hear; but I was told by the bugler that, in another part of the lake Echo (whom he called "Paddy Blake") might be heard with much finer effect. We continued our course by the shores of Ross Island—sometimes passing under the old yew and arbutus trees, which overhang the water’s edge,—and on, crossing a little bay whose rocky and irregular outline tempted us to a closer inspection, but looked intricate for our boat to explore. We crossed the lake and passed by Twomy’s mountains on the other side, which stretched out to the west as far as the eye could reach, thickly wooded at its base and gradually thinning to its summit, passed by Glenna, under Bricken Bridge, and entered the Middle Lake with (illegible text) demesne skirting it all round; Mangerton and Torc mountains forming the background and rearing their lofty summits to the clouds. Mountains and wood seemed to encompass it giving one the impression that no other lake was farther on; but passing by Div(illegible text) Island, we soon came to a rustic bridge which we passed and lay in front of the Old Weir Bridge. Here the boat had to be pulled through, as the current ran too rapidly for rowing; and ’ere long a new scene opened to our view. This is called the long range; it connects the middle of the Upper Lake, and runs about two miles long, winding round rock and island, with mountains on either side, rising in parts almost out of sight, and thickly wooded. the Eagle’s rock lies about half way up the Long Range; rising perpendicularly from the water’s edge and standing out from the mountain’s side. At the end of this pass lies the Upper Lake, surrounded with barren mountains of a purple color, and different in appearance fro all the rest. In fact, every object the eye could rest on, from Ross’s Quay to the termination of the Upper Lake,—which is from ten to twelve miles,—present new beauties too numerous to describe—every island and mountain having its own peculiar crags and peaks,—shrubs and trees, and beautiful ferns, which would need a chapter of description of themselves alone.
I.N.
Correspondence.
[We cannot resist the pleasure of giving the following to our readers, even at the sacrifice of our other usual matter. We trust we may be often favored by our valued correspondent. We hope our readers will aid us to reply suitably in our next.]
Mr. Wild Goose,—
You "Wild Goose" folk talk very loud about things;—such things as your readers desire to hear, if not will, at least not noisily ventilated. You are a sociable bird, by the way of steadied habits,—your feather is beautiful. Come, let us have a flight together. Your wing is strong,—your vision is microscopic power.
Tell me, my water fowl, you who are next, if not equal to the snow-white swan in skies to scan the surface of the deep—who so cunningly drop an ear to listen to the nestling of the pearly dewdrop, disentangling itself from its fellows in the aqueous body, to lift itself aloft, for no other end than to be shivered with atoms on the point of a ray from the valiant sun,—you, who, with upturned eye, survey the firmament; so gracefully duck your head and, with due caution discover the tracks of the watery fragments, shaped out to a (illegible text) and attractive clouds, bound woolpack (illegible text) for the temperate zones.
Let me ask you, my wild flier, a few plain questions. You know the good-for-nothing capacity of Australian soil and atmosphere, to hold the vapours that envelope your slumbers, as well as the capability of an Australian Sun to draw away and dissipate, if it like, all fertilizing humidity, and to restore it again out of the store-houses of space. You have measured in your (illegible text) flights the best shores of the immense island—continent, whither our good ship is bound; and in one glance you have seen how it is belted round by an ocean of foam, whence by evaporation, ascends numerically more tons of water than we have traveled inches in this voyage.
Tell me, you who hear the whispers of the mighty deep, have you not heard of water famine when man and beast is distant parts are exposed to perish of drought?
Tell me, "Wild Goose," why is Australia so dry, and our own native island so humid?
Tell me, "Wild Goose," whereas abandoned to sun, and wind, and weather, evaporation from the smooth and mirrored surface,—wherein you admire your own beautiful proportions,—is so great—to what extent would it be increased if the operation of water were assisted by the ruffling and agitating, and why flapping off now—white wings to the breeze?
Tell me, Wild Goose, what you think of brown canvas, spread, having one (illegible text) (illegible text) dipping in the briny element, the other flaunting to the breeze,—but receiving every moment by capillary attraction, as much moistens it gives off—placed points to the wind, perpendicular, parallel, or oblique to the rays of the scorching sun?
Tell me, "Wild Goose," are you not able to drain marshes, and remove noxious lakes by a system of accelerated evaporation?
Tell me, Wild Goose, with outstretched wings, together would you guide, and where collect the golden-edged illumined clouds? Would you assemble them to do homage to the setting sun; and to what favored region would you conduct them to discharge their refreshing showers? Auser ichos(illegible text) "Garden towers.—The fruit onions."
Mr. "Wild Goose", I am much obliged for your aerial excursions. I am well steeped in vapour—drenched with brine and rain; when next I have the honor of accompanying you in a fly, I shall come provided with an oil cloth.
Delta.
"The man behind the mast" once reared a pet shark but had to part with it, its love of its natural prey—fish—having once induced it to eat the flukes off all the anchors.
"Sweet are the uses of Adversity", but is that any reason why we should have to take our gruel and tea without sugar?
Mat—— a love sick swan some time since taking a walk with his fiancee, being greatly concerned at the loss of billets-doux, asked his sweet-heart’s opinion as to the best means of recovering his lost treasure. When she replied, with great naivete, Mat-try-money. (Matrimony). He took the hint.
Wanted.
A few blacklead pencils that were originally made to write—not to sell.
Printed and published at the office, No 6. Mess, "Intermediate Cabin," for the Editors, Messrs. John Flood and J.B. O’Reilly.