TO MY JANITOR.

Who never knocks upon the door;

Who scatters ashes on the floor;

Who calls me Jack, and tries to joke;

Who takes my best perique to smoke;

Who wears his hat about the room;

Who never thinks of brush or broom;

Who tells me that I lie too late;

Who never deigns to shake the grate;

Who thinks himself a gentleman;

Who gives me "taffy" when he can;

Who through my trunk and pockets pries,

And all my inmost secrets spies;

Who condescends to black my boots

Just when His Majesty it suits, -

My servant 't is, you think, no doubt,

Or else my old and trusty scout -

Oh no! it is my janitor!

The result of these verses was a visit from my janitor on the following afternoon. He sat down, resting his feet on the table, complimented me on my "aptitude for versification" (those were the words he used), and began to tell me of his former period of prosperity. I reserve an account of this interview for some future day, and proceed to my third valentine, written in sympathetic ink, and directed