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"I didn't say it was good, I reckon." "Sir!" said Fiery faces, "Sir-r! upon your oath-mind, upon your oath, you say that Blinkins is a rogue, villain, and a thief!"

soft, and being relieved of my heavy | putting the question to keep his eyes boots, I put off with double quick time, and seeing the creek about half a mile off, I ventured to look over my shoulder to see what kind of a chance there was to hold up and load. The red skin was coming jogging along pretty well blowed out, about five hundred yards in the rear. Thinks I, here goes to load any how. So at it I went-in went the powder, and putting on my patch, down went the ball about half-way, and off snapped my ramrod!"

"Thunder and lightning!" shouted the old woodsman, who was worked up to the top-notch in the "member's" story.

"Good gracious! wasn't I in a pickle! There was the red whelp within two hundred yards of me, pacing along and loading up his rifle as he came! I jerked out the broken ramrod, dashed it away and started on, priming up as I cantered off, determined to turn and give the red skin a blast any how, as soon as I reached the creek.

"I was now within a hundred yards of the creek, could see the smoke from the settlement chimneys; a few more jumps and I was by the creek. The Indian was close upon me-he gave a whoop, and I raised my rifle; on he came, knowing that I had broken my ramrod and my load not down; another whoop! whoop! and he was within fifty yards of me! I pulled trigger and-"

"You say so," was Pip's reply.
"Haven't you said so."

"Why, you've said it," said Pipkins, "what's the use of my repeating it ?"

'Sir-r!" thundered Fiery faces, the Demosthenean thunderer of Thumbtown, "Sir-r! I charge you, upon your sworn oath, do you or do you not say-Blinkins stole things?" "No, sir, was the cautious reply of Pipkins. "I never said Blinkins stole things, but I do say-he's got a way of finding things that nobody lost!"

"Sir-r," said Fiery faces, "you can retire," and the court adjourned.

NOT CLASSICAL.

I KNEW an old lady in Liverpool once who kept an alehouse, not for profit, for she had plenty of money, but in order to enjoy the conversation of a select few. For a bar there was her little front parlour, and, but for a beer-engine in one corner, and a row of bottles and glasses on a shelf, you might have imagined the room to be a boudoir. A stranger, say, would enter, and call for a gill o' ale And killed him?" chuckled Riley. in a tone which, somehow, displeased the "No, sir! I missed fire!" old lady. Yill!" she would thunder, "And the red skin-" shouted the old "Thee gits na' yill heer! Thee's nit claswoodsman in a phrenzy of excitement-sical. Ise nowt but classical foak here. Git

66 Fired and killed me!"

The screams and shouts that followed this finale brought landlord Noble, servants and hostlers, running up stairs to see if the house was on fire!

oot wi' thee!" If you were classical the gill of ale was brought to you by one of her pretty daughters, and the old lady did not much care whether you paid for it or not. Indeed, there was one specially ragged and unclean person a frequenter of the little ale-house in Button Street, who went, if I remember right, by the name of "Lily-white Muffins," who was incurably drunken and dissipated, but who was a famous Latin and Greek scholar, had been a fellow of a college at Oxford, and whose conversation was still charming. "Lily-white Muffins," the old lady would cry, "thee's gude for nowt; but thee's classical. Sally, gi' t'auld wretch a gill o' yill." And many a gill of Welsh ale did that deboshed scholar consume at the old lady's expense.

GEO. AUGUSTA SALA.

THE GOOSE.

I KNEW an old wife lean and poor, Her rags scarce held together; There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather.

He held a goose upon his arm,

He utter'd rhyme and reason,

"Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season."

She caught the white goose by the leg,
A goose-'twas no great matter.
The goose let fall a golden egg

With cackle and with clatter.

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf,
And ran to tell her neighbours;
And bless'd herself, and cursed herself,
And rested from her labours.

And feeding high and living soft, Grew plump and able-bodied; Until the grave churchwarden doff'd, The parson smirk'd and nodded.

So sitting, served by man and maid,
She felt her heart grow prouder:

But, ah! the more the white goose laid
It clack'd and cackled louder.

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there;
It stirr'd the old wife's mettle;
She shifted in her elbow-chair,
And hurl'd the pan and kettle.

"A quinsy choke thy cursed note!" Then wax'd her anger stronger. "Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer."

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat;
Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer.
The goose flew this way and flew that,
And fill'd the house with clamour.

As head and heels upon the floor They flounder'd all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather:

He took the goose upon his arm,
He utter'd words of scorning;
"So keep you cold, or keep you warm,
It is a stormy morning."

The wild wind rang from park and plain,
And round the attics rumbled,
Till all the tables danced again,

And half the chimneys tumbled.

The glass blew in, the fire blew out,
The blast was hard and harder.
Her cap blew off, her gown blew up,
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder:

And while on all sides breaking loose Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, "The Devil take the goose, And God forget the stranger!"

ALFRED TENNYSON.

JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD.

[The following well-known and thoroughly characteristic verses originally appeared in Gammer Gurton's Needle, an old English comedy, which was long supposed to be the earliest written in the language, but which now ranks as the second in point of age. It was written about 1561 by John Still, afterwards Bishop of Bath and Wells.]

I cannot eat but little meat;
My stomach is not good;

But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I nothing am a-cold,

I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.

Back and side go bare, go bare;

Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

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Now let them drink till they nod and wink | So with love at our hearts-ecstatic boon!
Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to.

And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls
Or have them lustily troul'd,

God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old.
Back and side, etc.

CHIGGS.

To see me here with my glass and my jug, And my fire, and my cat, and my meerschaum, too,

You'd think that I ought to be jolly and snug, And so I am, thank you—the same to you.

Yet, somehow, sitting cosily here,

I think of the sunny summertide hours, When the what-do-you-call-'em warbles clear, And the breezes blow-likewise the flowers.

For the summer I love with a love as bright
As a poet feels for his Chloe or Nancy,
And musing dreamily here to-night,
I try to hurry it on in fancy.

I am lying, we'll say, in the nook I love, Screen'd from the sunlight's scorching glow,

Watching the big clouds up above,

And blowing a lazy cloud below;

Blowing a cloud from my meerschaum black, And thinking or not, as I feel inclined, With a light alpaca coat on my back,

And nothing particular on my mind; Dreaming, may be, of fame or strife,

Of hopes that kindle, of loves that blessSome people might call it wasting life, But it's very pleasant, nevertheless. And pleasanter still, when, after a while, I hear a low footfall i' the grass;

And lo! with a fluttering blush and a smile,
She comes to meet me, my own wee lass.

My love of the blue eyes, tender and soft,
And yellow hair, in the sun that glisten'd,
With a smile that's the same I've seen so soft,
And a new pork-pie and a feather that
isn't.

Cara mia, love is sweet,

Love and beauty, summer and youth, And true is the love that I lay at your feetYou may laugh, my dear, but you know it's the truth.

And now and then a word and a smile, We dream thro' the summer afternoon In the Owen-Meredith-Bulwer style.

And then when the "Good-night" kiss o' the

sun

Has touch'd her cheek to a daintier red, And twilight is soberly stealing on,

And yokels are toddling home to bed;

Arm-in-arm on our homeward walk,

Thro' the country lanes and the corn-fields dear,

We wile the way with such tender talk
As maidens and young men love to hear.

Heigho! this is all very nice, you know,
Yet somehow no maiden nor summer is
nigh,

And the only corn is the corn on my toe,
And that'll want cutting by-and-by.

As for thinking my dream 'll come true, why that

Would be one of the most absurd o' rigs; For I'm rather bald, and uncommonly fat, And my name isn't Norval, but only Chiggs.

GEO. ARNOLD.

SIGNS OF RAIN.

[DR. JENNER, the celebrated discoverer of vaccination (1749-1823), wrote the following lines as an excuse for not accepting the invitation of a friend to join him in an excursion.]

The hollow winds begin to blow,
The clouds look black, the glass is low,
The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep,
And spiders from their cobwebs peep.
Last night the sun went pale to bed,
The moon in halos hid her head;
The boding shepherd heaves a sigh,
For, see, a rainbow spans the sky.
The walls are damp, the ditches smell,
Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernell.
Hark! how the chairs and tables crack,
Old Betty's joints are on the rack;
Loud quacks the duck, the peacocks cry,
The distant hills are looking nigh.
How restless are the snorting swine,
The busy flies disturb the kine;
Low o'er the grass the swallow wings;
The cricket, too, how sharp he sings.
Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws,
Sits, wiping o'er his whisker'd jaws.
Through the clear stream the fishes rise,
And nimbly catch th' incautious flies;
The glowworms, numerous and bright,
Illumed the dewy dell last night;

At dusk the squalid toad was seen,
Hopping and crawling o'er the green;
The whirling wind the dust obeys,
And in the rapid eddy plays;

The frog has changed his yellow vest,
And in a russet coat is drest.

Though June, the air is cold and still;
The yellow blackbird's voice is shrill.
My dog, so alter'd in his taste,
Quits mutton bones, on grass to feast;
And see, yon rooks, how odd their flight,
They imitate the gliding kite,
And seem precipitate to fall—
As if they felt the piercing ball.
'Twill surely rain, I see with sorrow;
Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow.

THE BEGGAR'S SOLILOQUY. Now, this, to my notion, is pleasant cheer, To lie alone on a ragged heath,

Where your nose isn't sniffing for bones or beer,

But a peat-fire smells like a garden beneath.

The cottagers bustle about the door,

And the girl at the window ties her strings. She's a dish for a man who's a mind to be poor;

Lord! women are such expensive things.

We don't marry beggars, said she: why, no;

It seems that to make 'em is what you do;

And as I can cook, and scour, and sew,

I needn't pay half my victuals for you.
A man for himself should be able to scratch,
But tickling's a luxury :-love, indeed!
Love burns as long as a lucifer match,
Wedlock's the candle! Now, that's my
creed.

The church-bells sound water-like over the
wheat;

His smoke, at least, don't smell so sweet.
I'm not a low Radical, hating the laws,
Who'd the aristocracy rebuke.

I talk o' the Lord Mayor o' London because
I once was on intimate terms with his
cook.

I served him a turn, and got pensioned on
scraps,

And, Lord, sir! didn't I envy his place, And up the long path troop pair after Till Death knock'd him down with the softest pair.

The man's well brushed, and the woman looks

of taps,

And I knew what was meant by a tallowy face!

On the contrary, I'm a Conservative quite;
There's beggars in Scripture 'mongst Gen-
tiles and Jews:

It's nonsense trying to set things right,
For if people will give, why, who'll re-
fuse!

That stopping old custom wakes my spleen:

The poor and the rich both in giving agree: Your tight-fisted shopman's the Radical

mean:

There's nothing in common 'twixt him and

me.

He says I'm no use! but I won't reply,
You're lucky not being of use to him!
On week-days he's playing at Spider and Fly,
And on Sundays he sings about Cherubim !
Nailing shillings to counters is his chief work:
He nods now and then at the name on his
door:
But judge of us two at a bow and a smirk,
I think I'm his match: and I'm honest-
that's more.

No use! well, I mayn't be. You ring a pig's snout,

And then call the animal glutton! Now, he, Mr. Shopman, he's nought but a pipe and a spout

Who won't let the goods o' this world pass

free.

-"Take it," says she, it's all I've got:"
I remember a girl in London street:
She stood by a coffee-stall, nice and hot,
My belly was like a lamb that bleats.
Says I to myself, as her shilling I seized,

You haven't a character here, my dear But for making a rascal like me so pleased, I'll give you one, in a better sphere!

And that's where it is-she made me feel
I was a rascal: but people who scorn,
And tell a poor patch-breech he isn't genteel,
Why, they make him kick up-and he treads

on a corn.

It isn't liking, it's curst ill-luck,

Drives half of us into the begging-trade: If for taking to water you praise a duck, For taking to beer why a man upbraid?

The sermon's over: they're out of the porch,
And it's time for me to move a leg;
But in general people who come from church,
And have called themselves sinners, hate
chaps to beg.

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The Library of Wit and Humor, Prose and Poetry: Selected from the ..., Volume 3