broken victuals. But on sitting down and counting heads Master C. had a second time absconded during the last bustle; and, as his mother could not touch a morsel for anxiety, Mr. Carnaby was obliged to set out fasting to look for him, and had soon the satisfaction of finding him sitting hat-less crying in a wet ditch, and scraping a suit of brown off a suit of blue with an old oyster shell. His father, in the first transport of anger and hunger, gave him what boys call "a regular larruping," then a good rubbing down with a bunch of fern, and then brought him back to the cold collation, with the comfortable threat that he should go without his dinner. As soon as the culprit could explain for sobbing, he told them that "he had gone for a little walk, like, and saw the most capital donkey with a saddle and bridle feeding wild about the forest as if he belonged to nobody, and he just got on him like, like they used to do at Margate; and then the donkey set off full tear, and never stopped till he came to a tent of gipsies in the middle of the wood; and they all set upon him, and swore at him like any thing for running away with their donkey; and then all of a sudden he lost his hat and his handkerchief, and his money out of his pockets like conjuring; then they told him to run for his life, and so he did, and as for the mud it was all along of jumping over a hedge that had no other side to it." This intelligence threw Mrs. Carnaby into an agony of horror, which could only be pacified by their immediately packing up and removing, eatables and all, to a less lonesome place by the side of the road, an operation that was performed by their all pulling and pushing at the cart, as the horse had taken French leave of absence.

It was now Miss Carnaby's turn to be discomfited: her retiring disposition made her wince under the idea of dining in public; for being marketday at Romford, they were overlooked by plenty of farmers and pig-butchers: consequently, after a very miffy dialogue with her mother, the young lady took herself off, as she was desired, with "her romantical notions," to a place of more solitude, and Mr. Hodges, as in gallantry bound, postponed his dinner till his tea to keep her company. In the mean time, Betsey, who had been sent up to the Green

Man for the porter, returned with the empty tankard, and a terrified tale of being "cotch'd hold on by a ruffin in the wood, that had drunk up all the beer to all their very good healths." The first impulse of

Mr. Carnaby was to jump up to do justice on the vagabond, but Mrs. C- — had the presence of mind to catch hold of his coat-flaps so abruptly, that before he could well feel his legs, he found himself sitting in a large plum pie, which the children had just set their hearts upon; of course it did not mend his temper to hear the shout from a dozen ragged boys who were looking on; and in the crisis of his vexation, he vented such a fervent devil's blessing on gipsy parties, and all that proposed them, that Mrs. Carnaby was obliged to take it up, and to tell him sharply, what in reality was true enough, that "if people did have gipsy parties, it didn't follow that their stupid husbands was to sit down on plum pies." Heaven knows to what size and shape this little quarrel might have ripened, but for the appearance of Miss Carnaby, who, with a terrified exclamation sat herself down, and after a vain attempt to recover, went off into a strong fit of what her mother called "kicking hysterics." The cause was soon explained by the appearance of Mr. Hodges, with one eye poached black, and a dog-bite in the calf of his leg, because " he had only stood looking on at two men setting wires for rabbits, thinking to himself if he watched them well he could learn how to do it." Fortunately, Miss Carnaby came to just in time to concur with her father and Mr. Hodges in the opinion, that the best thing they could all do was to pack up and go home, but which was stoutly combated by Mrs. Carnaby, who insisted that she was resolved to take tea in a wood for once in her life, and she was seconded by the children and Master C, who said they hadn't had any pleasure yet. It was an unanswerable argument; sticks were collected, a fire was made, the kettle boiled, the tea-things were set in order, the bread and butter was cut, and pleasure began to smile on the gipsy party so placidly that Mr. Hodges was encouraged to begin playing "In my Cottage near a Wood," on the key bugle, but was obliged to break off in the middle, on finding that it acted as a bugle call to a corps of observation, who came and stood round to see "Rural Felicity." Mrs. Carnaby, however, was happy; but "there is many a slip between the tea-cup and the lip." She was in the triumphant fact of pouring the hot water on her best souchong, in her best china tea-pot, when a very well-charged gun went off just on the other side of the park palings, and Mrs. Carnaby had not been born like her Grace, old Sarah of Marlborough, "before nerves came in fashion." The tea-kettle dropped from her hand upon the tea-pot, which it dashed to atoms, and then lay on its side, hot watering the daisies and the dandelions that had the luck to grow near it. “Misfortunes never come single," and the gun, therefore, acted like a double one in its inflictions; for no sooner did Boxer recognise its sound than he jumped up, and with an alarming howl dashed through the rest of the tea service, as if he had absorbed another ounce of number six: a fresh shout from the bystanders welcomed this new disaster, and with the true spirit of" biting a bitten cur," they began to heap embarrassments on the disconcerted gipsyers. They kept pitching sticks into the fire till it grew a bonfire, and made cockshies of the remaining

crockery; some audacious boys even helped themselves to bread and butter, as if on the principle that the open air ought to keep open house. As there were too many assailants to chastise, the only remedy was to pack up and take to the road as fast as they could, with a horse which they found with two broken knees, the consequence of his being too curious in the construction of a gravel-pit. "You may say what you like," said Mr. Carnaby, in his summing up, "but for my part I inust say of gipsying, that it's impossible to take to it without being regularly done brown.'"

THOSE Who much read advertisements and bills,
Must have seen puffs of Cockle's Pills,
Call'd Anti-bilious-

Which some Physicians sneer at, supercilious,
But which we are assured, if timely taken,
May save your liver and bacon;
Whether or not they really give one ease,
I, who have never tried,

Will not decide;

But no two things in union go like these

Viz.-Quacks and Pills-save Ducks and Pease.

Now Mrs. W. was getting sallow,

Her lilies not of the white kind, but yellow,
And friends portended was preparing for
A human Pâté Périgord ;

She was, indeed, so very far from well,
Her Son, in filial fear, procured a box
Of those said pellets to resist Bile's shocks,
And-tho' upon the ear it strangely knocks-
To save her by a Cockle from a shell!

But Mrs. W., just like Macbeth,
Who very vehemently bids us "throw
Bark to the Bow-wows," hated physic so,

It seem'd to share "the bitterness of Death :"
Rhubarb-Magnesia-Jalap, and the kind-
Senna-Steel-Assa-foetida, and Squills-
Powder or Draught—but least her throat inclined
To give a course to Boluses or Pills;
No-not to save her life, in lung or lobe,
For all her lights' or all her liver's sake,
Would her convulsive thorax undertake,
Only one little uncelestial globe!

'Tis not to wonder at, in such a case,
If she put by the pill-box in a place
For linen rather than for drugs intended-
Yet for the credit of the pills let's say
After they thus were stow'd away,
Some of the linen mended;

But Mrs. W. by disease's dint,

Kept getting still more yellow in her tint,
When lo! her second son, like elder brother,
Marking the hue on the parental gills,
Brought a new charge of Anti-tumeric Pills,
To bleach the jaundiced visage of his Mother-
Who took them-in her cupboard-like the other.

"Deeper and deeper, still," of course,
The fatal colour daily grew in force;
Till daughter W. newly come from Rome,
Acting the self-same filial, pillial, part,
To cure Mama, another dose brought home
Of Cockles ;-not the Cockles of her heart!

These going where the others went before,
Of course she had a very pretty store;

And then-some hue of health her cheek adorning,
The Medicine so good must be,

They brought her dose on dose, which she
Gave to the up-stairs cupboard, "night and morning."
Till wanting room at last, for other stocks,
Out of the window one fine day she pitch'd
The pillage of each box, and quite enrich'd
The feed of Mister Burrell's hens and cocks,
A little Barber of a by-gone day,
Over the way

Whose stock in trade, to keep the least of shops,
Was one great head of Kemble,- that is, John,
Staring in plaster, with a Brutus on,

And twenty little Bantam fowls-with crops.

Little Dame W. thought when through the sash She gave the physic wings,

To find the very things

So good for bile, so bad for chicken rash,
For thoughtless cock, and unreflecting pullet!
But while they gathered up the nauseous nubbles,
Each peck'd itself into a peck of troubles,

And brought the hand of Death upon its gullet.
They might as well have addled been, or ratted,
For long before the night-ah woe betide
The Pills! each suicidal Bantam died
Unfatted!

Think of poor Burrel's shock,

Of Nature's debt to see his hens all payers,
And laid in death as Everlasting Layers,
With Bantam's small Ex-Emperor, the Cock,
In ruffled plumage and funereal hackle,
Giving, undone by Cockle, a last Cackle!
To see as stiff as stone, his un’live stock,
It really was enough to move his block.
Down on the floor he dash'd, with horror big,
Mr. Bell's third wife's mother's coachman's wig;
And with a tragic stare like his own Kemble,
Burst out with natural emphasis enough,

And voice that grief made tremble,
Into that very speech of sad Macduff-
"What!—all my pretty chickens and their dam,
At one fell swoop!—

Just when I'd bought a coop

To see the poor lamented creatures cram !

After a little of this mood,

And brooding over the departed brood,
With razor he began to ope each craw,
Already turning black, as black as coals;
When lo! the undigested cause he saw—
"Pison'd by goles!"

To Mrs. W.'s luck a contradiction,
Her window still stood open to conviction;
And by short course of circumstantial labour,
He fix'd the guilt upon his adverse neighbour;-
Lord! how he rail'd at her: declaring now,
He'd bring an action ere next Term of Hilary,
Then, in another moment, swore a vow,
He'd make her do pill-penance in the pillory!
She, meanwhile distant from the dimmest dream
Of combating with guilt, yard-arm or arm-yard,