"EVENING STAR" SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT OF ENTERTAINING READING.

AUCKLAND, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 7, 1876

[Price.- ONE PENNY.

No. 49.]

REJECTED ADDRESS.

I gazed upon the Theatre ; Beneath the August sky ; As my old hoss did whisk his tail, To brush away a fly. Said I, ' Trade's dull, and so I'll try, To win the tempting prize ; So on the seat of my express,' To spin a rhyme, I tries. I thought about my native place, Close by the dreamy Trent; Where mother dubbed me naughty boy,' Oa mischief ever bent.' Near Nottingham, sweet poets sang ; Neath lilaeß' purple sprays :; And twinedjsome very pretty thoughts, With very pretty lays. Say's I, ' 9 ere goes with quill in'hand, While in a proper plight ; To make a great success, as did My countryman, Kirke White.*

Then rise, O glorious Theatre ; And wake, ye sons of art; And strut your hour upon the stage And act your mimic part.

All hail to Thornton's happy scenes ; Success to Johnny Hall; And Searle, dear poet, pray, will you Forgive my humble scrawl ? Doran, hurrah, may trade increse And drive us from our stand, Till not an Auckland man shall scorn To squeeze an honest hand.

Adjudicators, jadge my rhymes, I think you'll like them well; Although they may not win the priz^ Nor sound like Wilford Bell. Henry.—

A WISH.

I wish I were the little flower I, placed within your breast; For I could please then every hour, The heart I love the best. I'd nestle in such sweetness there, That, when my bright leaves died, Yon'd think me still more pure and fair, Than any flower beside. I wish I were the star of night That shineth on my home ; Upon my vigil of delight No cloud should every come : And when you knew my faithful ray Watched fondly o'er your rest, You'd leave the flaunting lights of day, And love your star the bast! I wish I were the ring of gold I placed upon thy hand ; lor ever in the grave thou'lt hold That little shinning band. And though thy form shall waste in eartb, The gold will still survive ; So, love alone of mortal birth, Brightly on high will live. I wißh I were the meanest thing That dwelleth near to thee ; A faded flower, a star, a ring, So thou would'st smile on me I Oh, not to mortals here below Such perfect bliss is given ; Bat I will be thine own, I know, When we shall meet in heaven !'

Reason in Birds.

Do you think a bird understands what is said to it, or can tell a drunken mat from a sober one? There is at least one I know can to all appearance do so; it is a jackdaw, which has formed a most wonderful attachment to a cat. The house cat and the daw sit on the hearth together. The daw will allow no one to touch the cat ; it runs round it, pecking at your hand, and chatter ing all the time, and when it has driven you away, sits with a look of the greatest affection close to puss, tries to take its tongue in its beak, aa if to kiss it, and when out of sight should anyone call out —' Jack, here is a man going to touch the cat/ it will come full flight from some corner or other, and take its stand as its protector. Its owner being a carter, comes home at times three sheets in the wind, and is, when in this state, rather frolicsome and loudspoken, his armchair beirig close to where puss and Jack sit on the hearth. Whenever he enters the house in this condition the daw chatters something into the ear of the cat; the two immediately rise up and walk off to the room which is open for them, jump on a chair, and there spend the night together. Now, from these facts I conclude that the bird knoAVS when its master is sober or otherwise, and can tell the cat to avoid dangerous company.

( A noted physician of this city recently joined a 'spiritulist' circle, for the purpose of getting some communications from un known regions. On receiving the usual, signals, he inquired who it was that was addressing him ? 'One of your patients whom you killed,' was the reply. The physician did not pursue the investigation any further.

Bargaining for a Wife.

CONRY O'BYRNE AND PETER LINKSEY'S

MATCH. In the west of Ireland the feelings of a young woman are seldom consulted in matters matrimonial. Her father being the best judge ot what is for his daughter's advantage, opposition on her part is of very rare occurence, except where she has taken the precaution of providing herself before. When a match is made and a bargain concluded, if the girl declines to accept the husband selected, she quickly loses caste, the young men considering that a disobedient daughter must of necessity make an uncomfortable wife.

Still more exceptional is any objection on the part of the young man to the wife selected for him by his father, as he feels quite satislied that experience enables his parents to judge of tho temper and quali fications of the woman much better than he possibly could. Moreover, the father has the advantage of being able to exam ine her merits with a perfectly impartial and at the same time fairly critical eye. Interest and inclination alike lead him to make the best selection ; he does it only after an infinite amount of cogitation ; but when his choice is made it is unalter able ; and he will obstinately contend for his son's interest without a single thought of the young woman's inclination, taking it for granted that they will be in accor dance with her father's wishes. The mother has little to say in the matter on either side. She never goes matchmaking and is not in any way consulted, being only acquainted with the intentions of her husband for their son, when he has made up his mind. Marriage is a matter of business, and it is like any other bargain, made with the shrewd, calcu lating caution, which characterizes the Connaught man. Marriage gifts, such as pigs, poultry, a cow, etc., play an impor tant part in the arrangement; and the girl's father has been known to refuse to give her a single penny of fortune until the bride-groom's parents had conceded to her a famous hatching goose ! The following is a specimen of the way in which matrimo nial affairs are managed west of the Shannon :

'Get out my Sunday clothes, Judy,' said old Corny O' Byrne one evening when he returned home form his work. ' I'm goin' over to Pether Linksey's to-night.' %'Musha Corny, an'wh?t are ye goin' for ?' Judy „sked, as she unlocked a large deal chest, painted red, which stood near the fire-place, and carefully took out a blue freize tail-coat, with bright metal buttons, a pair of bright-colored knee breeches, ribbed worsted stocking, a pair of strong shoes, and a billycock hat, which with a red pocket handkerchief with a flowered border (.which he carried in his hat), and a stout blackthorn shiilclah, constituted Corny's Sunday suit. ' Sure I'm goin' to make \ match between our Dcrmoot an' Kate Linksey,' he said at last in reply to his wife's question. 'She's a purty colleen, an' the boy is mighty plased with her intirely.' 'So she is, Corny, a laukie little girl, an' sb.3'll have a snug fortune, maybe. Pether is a dacent, honest man !' ' Faith, Judy, an' he is that same, or it isn't Corny O'Byrne that would ' cut huifie or dale' with him or his ; an Dermoot tells me Katio likes him.' ' An' why shouldn't she, Corny ? There's not as purtier boy in the parish, nor a betther,' Judy said proudly. "Ihrue for ye, asthore ; give us out the ould stockin' an' we'll make a match of it this Shrovetide with the blessin' o' St. Patrick!' Ccrny replied. From the furthest corner of the chest Judy drew out carefully an old worsted stocking and handed it to her husband, who weighed it in his hand, and then, with a sly wink, buttoned it into 'One of his pockets. ' This'll do the business, Judy,' he said, as he left the house, with many Banaughth-Lafhs-God prosper or be with you—from his wife. Peter Linksey was a small farmer, living about a quarter of a mile from Corny's cabin. He had several sons and one daughter, Katie, avlio was considered the beauty of the village of Balleymoyne. Her eldest brother was about to be married and bring his wife home, and her father considered it would be very advisable to get Kate married and settled before the arrival of her sister-in-law, and Dermot O'Byrne, a fine, strapping young fellow, very steady and good natured—old Peter thought would make a very good husband for his girl especially as he was an only child—if no better suitor offered, When Corny O'Byrne reached Peter Linksey's cabin he put his head over the half-door, and said in Irish, ' God saye all here !' the customary form of greeting in that and many other parts of Ireland. •God save ye kindly, Corny,' Peter replied from the chimney-corner, ' come in and take a sate.' Corny entered with both his hands behind his back, and took a saat on a three-legged stool that Linksey had pushed in front of the fire for him.

' Fine weather for crops, Corny,' Peter said, poking up the fire with his shoe. ' An' Mary, throw on a couple o'dry turf, an' sweep up the hearth, will ye ?'

Mary did as her husband desired, and then going to a recess in the wall by the fire-place, took out from thence a new cl&y pipe and piece of tobacco—probably got at the last wake she had been at. ' Will ye light the pipe, Corny ?' she said, handing them to the old man, who took them with a nod and ' Thankee, kindly,' and filled slowly, kindling with a coal from the hearth, blew a few whiffs in grave, dignified silence, and then handed it to Peter, who, in equal silence, smoked it for a few minutes, and then handed it back to Corny and proceeded to light his own pipe. They both smoked steadily for a time, then Mrs. Linksey pulled a small table between them, produced from her chest a stone jar of potheen, and a couple of cracked glasses, which she set on the tabic with a noggin of cold water, and taking up her pail, proceeded to the barn to milk the cows.

* That's a purty colleen of yours, Pether,' Corney said, after a long silence. 'Thrue for ye, an' a good, sinsible little girl into the bargain ; it's happy's the man that'll get her,' Peter replied, after due consideration.

'That's what I said myself, an' I come over to see if we can't make a match between my Dermoot an' herself,' O'Byrne said after an other interval. ' He's a likely boy,' pursued Peter reflectively. * Ye may well say that, Pether, an' he'll make a good husband, no doubt, for he's a good son. What do you say to it ?' Corncy asked, leaning forward on his stool.

• I'm phased—' ' God save all here !' said a harsh, grating voice, and a head appeared in the doorway ; 'Good evening to ye, Pether!' * Good evening, kindly/ Peter returned. ' Come in and take a sate, Tom-'

The new comer entered and took a stool and, casting a questioning glance at Corny O'Byrne, proceeded to light his pipe and smoked for some minutes. He was a stout harsh-featured man, Avith a loud voice. He Avas not much of a favorite in the village, and especially disliked by Corny O' Byrne—who never lost an opportunity of annoying Tom Dillon.' He was a comfortable farmer, and one of his sons had been ' making up' to Katie Linksey sometime before. After a silence, during which time the three old men smoked energetically, Dillon cleared his throat two or three times, and then said abruptly ' Pether, I want to make a match between your little girl and my Martin; haveyo anything to say again it ?' ' Sorra one Avord, Tom; only me neigh bor Corny O'Byrne and meself were speak ing o' the thing when ye come in !' Peter replied with a shrewd glance at them both.

•First come, first served, Pether,' Corny said, shaking the ashes from his pipe, and knocking the bowl against his thurab-nail; ' mind that!' * To be sure, to be sure,' Peter replied; and then there was another pause. ' An, we may as well clinch the bar gain at onct,' Corny continued. ' To bo sure, to be sure,' Peter again assented, smoking steadily. • Ye have nothin' agin my Martin, have ye, Pether Linksey ?' Tom Dillon said, laying down his pipe. ' Agin him? No ; he's a nice, dacent boy, and I have a great regard for him,' Peter answered.

' An' he has a great regard for your little girl, an' sorra a day's good will he do till he's married,' ejaculated Tom, bringing his fist down on the table. 'He set his mind on it, an' I'll back him out. 'Turf an' tundther! Tom Dillon, didn't Pether Linksey tell you I came match-making for my Dermoot ?' ' Tundther an' turf I Corny Byrne, don't 1 tell you I came to do the same thing for my Martin ? an' I suppose a Dillon may^ ask a Linksey in marriage any day—an' he can afford it, too !' Tom added, slapping his pocket. ' An' let me tell ye, an' O'Byrne can put down ponnd for pound with a Linksey any day ; or, for that matthcr, with a Dillon,' Corny said, with a scornful glance at Tom, who was in his working clothes—' Pether,' he continued,' ye know what I came for; what fortune are ye goin' to give Katie ?' Peter took out his pipe, emptied it, proceeded to fill it leisurely, poked the fire, relit the pipe, settled himself back in his corner, and said slowly, 'Fortune, Corny ! Katie is a fortune herself. > I'm a poor man, an'the times is bad, an' be yont a new gown, a couple of fleeces of wool an' a hank or so of yarn, I can't give her any fortune !' Corny looked astonished, and pushed back his stool, as much as to say that furher negotiations were useless, when Tom Dillon, said : ' Never mind, Pether; there's them as'll be willin' to take her without any fortune, an' can afford it, too !'

' Thrue for ye, Tom Dillon, an' one o' them is Dermont O'Byrne. We're not depending on a few bare pounds—not but it's well to have something put by for the childer,' he added, cautiously.

'To be sure, Corny, to be sure,' Peter assented.

' Well, Pether, is it to be me or Corny ? Is a Dillon to beput behind the door for an O'Byrne ? Isn't my Martin as likely a boy as there is in the barony ? He'll take your colleen without a brass penny, an' do well for her. What do you say to that ?' Tom asked, slapping the table.

■ Bedad, then, Tom, I'm in^a fix intirely. Here's Corny, a dacent old man, with a fine, steady gossoon of a son —he's first; an' here's yourself, an honest man an' a good neighbor—sorra betther —an' sure Martin is the pride of the parish on a Sunday I I'm bothered intirely ; an' what can I say but settle it betune ye ? Whichever of ye can do the best for her take her, take her, in the name of St. Pathrick!' aud Peter resumed his pipe and sunk back into his corner.

The two old men eyed one another silently for a few minutes; then Dillon pulled a little bag from his pocket, opened it deliberately and took out another, from which he drew forth a third, made of purple stuff, fastened with a piece of red braid. Very slowly, his eyes still fixed on Corny, he pulled out a sovereign, and laid it on the table. ' Show Pether Linksey what ye mane ,to do, Corny O'Bryne,' he said.

Corny smiled scornfully, produced his old stocking, and taking from thence a five pound note, put it beside him, and nodded his head defiantly. Tom drew forth four more sovereigns, clinked them one after another on the table, and nodded his head. Old Peter smoked away in his corner without uttering a word. Corny waited for a moment, and then said, ' Is that all ye're going to do, Misther Dillon ?'

Tom threw down another sovereign— Corny followed his example, till they had each laid £'20 upon the table. ' Is that' all ye're going to do, Misther Dillon?' Corny repeated. 'In ready money, it is, Misther O'Bryne.' ' Then I bate ye at that!' Corny cried, throwing down another pound. 'I bate him in cash, Pether ; do ye mind that ?'

Peter nodded and smo-od away. ' I'll take the girl in an' share the best wo have with her, an' give Martin two acres of land, an, a couple of bonives,' (little pigs,) announced Tom Dillon. 'Dermoot'll have my land when I'm gone' every rood,' cried Corny. ' I'll give a heifer in ! Twenty pounds, share of a house, two acres of land, an' a heifer ; what do you say, Pether ?' Tom cried. ' Not bad for a colleen without a penny!' - • Thrue for. you, Tom,' Peter assented. * What'll you do, Corny ?' ' Twenty-one pound—down the day they're married, a house, an' a home, a feather bod, an' the finest mule in the parash—that's what I'll do !' ' But the land —Tom is giving two acres,' Peter observed. ' Think of that, Corny.'

'Derniott'll havejthe land|afther me, an' enough to eat off it till I'm gone. I have no one but him. Tom Dillon has three more to provide for.' ' An' plenty to do it with ; an' I'll make it throe acres, Pether, of the best upland in Ballymoyne,' Tom replied. * It's very fair, an' I'm obleged to ye Tom,' Peter said slowly. ' I'll make it twenty-five down, an' throw in a heifer,' Corny cried. 4 It's very dacent, Corny, an' I'm ob leged to ye,' Peter observed in the same tone.

' I'll throw in a calf!' exclaimed Dillon. ' twenty pound, three acres o' land, a bonive, :a heifer, an' a calf. Now, Pether —done or not ?'

' I think ye spoke of two bonives, Tom ?' Peter said quietly ' No, no; only one, that's all I can spare ; an' I think it's not bad, Pether.' ' Beddad, Tom, I think ye said a couple of bonives,' Peter said again. 'Nabocklish [never mind,] Peter. I'll throw in a clutch [a whole broodj o' ducks—take it or lose it! Twenty-five pounds down the day they're married, a house an' home, a feather bed, a fine mule, a heifer, an' a clutch o' ducks !' said Corny, putting his money back into his stocking. 'Faix, an' a clutch o'ducks isn't bad,' observed Peter. ' They're better than a calf to them that hasn't a cow to feed it; an' Corny's is the best house, an' Katie'U have it all to herself. When your Matt an' James marry, it'll be mighty narrow for you all!' f 'James is going to America, Pether, said Tom.

• Well, that makes a diffef. But isn't there anything else yer inclined to offer ? Dermoot is the best match at this minute !' observed Peter.

' I'm done !' said Tom. Then suddenly starting up he cried, ' Wait a minute !' and ran out of the house, returning in a quarter of an hour, staggering under a

' great sack of seed potatoes. • There* Corny O'Byrne, put that in your pipe an' moke it!' he cried exultingly. Corny, at first sight of the sack, started to his feet, and put on his hat. ' Wait A minute, Pether,' he cried, ' I'll not be long' —and running all the way home was soon there.

' Get me a sack, Judy—the meal sack —an' be quick, asthore !'he cried, excitedly, 'Arra be aisy, Corny, shure and tna male is in it.'

' Betther an' betther,' cried Corny, going into the room which served as a dairy; and without vouchsafing another word to the astonished Judy, he shouldered the sack and trotted off with it as fast as h© could.

Completely out of breath, he reached Peter's, bathed in perspiration; but on entering he unluckily tripped over the doorstep and fell with, the sack full length into the kitchen. The string round the neck of the bag gave way, and covered with the meal, he groaned and stammered breathlessly: ' Th-there, Pe-pether Link s-ey ! Wh-while the praties was gr-grow ing, the meal would keep them alive !W« what d'ye say, Pe-pether ?' ' Begorra, Corny, I say what I often said before, that yer a daceut man—an' yer boy is welcome to Kate Linksey.' ' What do you mean, Pether ?' cried Tom Dillon.

' What I say, Tom; nor a more nor less. The childer might die o' the faregabthtj (a fainting brought on by hunger or over fatigue without proper sustenance) while the praties was growin'. Dermoot O'Byrne can best provide my little girl with comforts, an' he's welcome to her.'

At that moment a merry laugh caused the three old men to look round, and Corny tried to scramble to his feet. In the doorway stood Kate Linksey, her hands pressed to her sides, and tears of mirth coursing down her face. ' I'm s,orry for you, Corny,' she said, advanc ing ; ' but I could not help laughing, yon looked so quare,' and she burst into a freah peal. 'Be quiet, Katie, an* come here,' said Peter, beckoning his daughter to his side, ' I was match-making for ye, an' the bar gain is closed betune me an' Corny for you^an' Dermoot O'Bryne!' ' Ye don't mane it, father !' said Katie, with a comical glance at Corny and Tom Dillon. ' Sure enough, I do, me colleen ; have ye anything to say agin it ?' replied Peter, knocking the ashes from his pipe. ' Musha, not a word at all, father dear; only—only ' ' Only what, Katie ?' ' Only I was married last Tuesday to Jack Mangan, tho painter T she replied with a loud, musical laugh, which brought her husband to the doer. •What!' shrieked Tom Dillon. ' What!' echoed Corny. ' Oh, Pether Linksey, Pether Linksey, yer after humbugging us,' cried Tom, reproachfully. • Ay, humbugging ns !' echoed Corny mournfully ; and Peter, who was a sly old humorist, put his head against the wall and laughed heartily at their astonish ment. The two embassadors silently took their respective sacks, and slowly departed, each thinking himself injured, and in their mutual discomfiture forgetting their animosity. As for old Peter, he was too well pleased to have his daughtor well married and off his hands, without even the 'new gown,' or the priest's dues —■ though he could afford to give her a good fortune —as good fortunes go into that part of the country. When next Corny went match making, he took care to find out beforehand if the young woman was ' willing,' and as for Tom Dillon, he rowed it served him right to bo humbugged, as he only wanted to bother his neighbor Corny O'Bryne (with whom he was ever after good friends), and he declared in future his ' boys' might match-make for themselves.

All the Same.—'Patrick, where's the whiskey I gave you just now to clean the windows with?'—' Och, master, I just drank it; and I thought if I breathed on the'glass it would be all the same.' To Shortand Writers.—Beware of tak ing notes! A man has just been trans ported for ten years for this offence. A Polite Duke.—At the last sickness of the Duke of Onnond, it happened that at the moment death began to make his last diciseve approach, on the stronghold of life, the veteran soldier was in the company of a German baron, distinguished also, among all his nation, for scrupulous ob servance of all the amenites of social life. The duke had himself carried to an arm chair, and, turning to the baron^ said, ' Pardonme, dearsir, if I make sooiefewun pleasant grimaces in your presence, but my docter has just inforraed me I am about to enter into the agonies of death.* To this the baron politely replied, 'Pray my lord duke, do not inconvenience your self on my account.' And so the duke died,