Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging,

And the clanging,

How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling

And the wrangling

How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells

Of the bells

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells

Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright,

At the melancholy menace of their tone!

For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats

And who tolling, tolling, tolling,

In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human→→
They are Ghouls:

And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pean of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pean of the bells-
Of the bells;

Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells
Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-
Bells, bells, bells,

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

EDGAR A. POE.

POPULAR SCIENCE CATECHISM.

HAT is this?

WH

This, darling, is the opera.

My! but who are all these people?
The audience, my love.

But they seem to be bored to death.

They are, dear.

Then why do they come?

To be looked at.

Gracious! is that a pleasure?

Yes, precious.

Why, how?

Why, the privilege costs about ten dollars an hour.

Then only rich people can afford it?

Only the immensely rich, dear.

But I see there a young man who is not immensely rich. Yes.

How can he afford it, then?

Directly, he cannot; indirectly, he can.

How "indirectly"?

Why, he will eventually make his tailor foot the bill.
Those funny people on the stage-

Sh! dear-they are singing.
Singing what?

A duet.

Why do they duet?

Hush, darling!

Are they unwell?

Why, no, my precious.

Then why does that queer little gentleman with the short trowsers and the tin sword throw himself around as if he were suffering from green watermelon? Because he is a tenor.

Why is he called a tenor?

He charges tenor fifteen dollars a minute for his work

And the other the lady with vocal hysterics?

She is the prima donna.

Is she singing, too?

Oh, yes.

But neither of these people have any notes?

Yes, they have.

Where?

In their pockets.

Can they sing without these notes?

Yes, they can; but they won't.

Is not the poor manager a great philanthropist to bring all these people together and pay them so much?

Oh, yes.

We should thank the poor manager very heartily.

Of course.

We should be willing to pay him any sum he chooses to ask, shouldn't we?

Certainly, dear.

He is so disinterested.

Very, my love.

We should likewise be very grateful to that excited little gentleman with the ebony stick, who looks like he were flapping his wings and trying to crow?

Yes.

He often succeeds in quite drowning the prima donna in a torrent of fiddling.

Yes, dear-that is his business.

These people in the boxes seem to be very tired.

Very.

They are trying very hard not to listen.

Yes, sweet.

But I thought people went to the opera to hear the music?

That was in the dark ages, love.

What is music?

Music is a harmonious combination or succession of certain sharps, flats, and naturals.

What is a suarp?

A sharp, my dear, is a-well, do you remember that gentleman we passed in the lobby, with the butterfly smile and corpulent pocket-book?

Why, that was the manager!

Yes, my sweet.

Well?

He is a sharp.

And what are flats?

Look in the bagniores, and see the stockholders.
And a natural?

The young man you spoke of who spent his little all for a seat.

He is a natural what?

Idiot.

A

THE SERENADE.

YOUTH went out to serenade

The lady whom he loved the best,
And passed beneath the mansion's shade,
Where erst his charmer used to rest.

He warbled till the morning light
Came dancing o'er the hill-tops' rim,
But no fair maiden blessed his sight,
And all seemed dark and drear to him.

With heart aglow and eyes ablaze,
He drew much nearer than before,
When, to his horror and amaze,

He saw "To Let!" upon the door.