His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone
That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone,
Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed
His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed,

His windmill, raised the passing breeze to win,
His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin ;
Or, if his father lives upon the shore,

You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor,"
Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers stanch
And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.

Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven,
Ere long he'll solve you any problem given;
Make any jim-crack, musical or mute,
A plough, a couch, an organ or a flute;
Make you a locomotive or a clock,
Cut a canal, or build a floating dock,

Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block ;
Make anything, in short, for sea or shore,
From a child's rattle, to a seventy-four;-
Make it, said I?

Ay, when he undertakes it,

He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it.

And when the thing is made, whether it be

To move on earth, in air, or on the sea;
Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide,
Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide;
Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,
Whether it be a piston or a spring,
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,
The thing designed shall surely come to pass;
For, when his hand 's upon it, you may know
That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.

J. Pierpont

CCCLXVIII.

HOTSPUR'S ACCOUNT OF A FOP.

MY

Y liege, I did deny no prisoners.

But, I remember, when the fight was done,

When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped,
Showed like a stubble land at harvest-home.
He was perfumed like a milliner;

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb, he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon,

He

gave his nose, and took 't away again;

And still he smiled and talked ;

And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He called them-untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He questioned me; among the rest, demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pestered with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience,

Answered neglectingly, I know not what;

He should, or he should not; for he made me mad,

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman,

Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!)

And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth

Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;

And that it was a great pity, so it was,
This villainous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.

This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answered indirectly, as I said; .
And, I beseech you, let not this report
Come current for an accusation
Betwixt my love and your high majesty.

Shakspeare.

CCCLXIX.

HOW TO HAVE WHAT WE LIKE.

HARD by a poet's attic lived a chemist,

Or alchemist, who had a mighty

Faith in the elixir vitæ ;

And, though unflattered by the dimmest Glimpse of success, kept credulously groping And grubbing in his dark vocation;

Stupidly hoping

To find the art of changing metals,

And so coin guineas, from his pots and kettles, By mystery of transmutation.

Our starving poet took occasion

To seek this conjurer's abode ;

Not with encomiastic ode,

Of laudatory dedication,

But with an offer to impart,

For twenty pounds, the secret art
Which should procure, without the pain
Of metals, chemistry, and fire,
What he so long had sought in vain,
And gratify his heart's desire.

The money paid, our bard was hurried
To the philosopher's sanctorum,
Who, as it were sublimed and flurried
Out of his chemical decorum,

Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his
Crucibles, retort, and furnace,

And cried, as he secured the door,

And carefully put to the shutter,

"Now, now, the secret, I implore! For heaven's sake, speak, discover, utter!"

With grave and solemn air the poet

Cried: "List! O, list, for thus I show it:

Let this plain truth those ingrates strike,

Who still, though blessed, new blessings crave; THAT WE MAY ALL HAVE WHAT WE LIKE,

SIMPLY BY LIKING WHAT WE HAVE!"

"Hark ye," said he, "'tis an odd story this,
About the crows!" "I don't know what it is,"
Replied his friend. "No? I'm surprised at that
Where I came from 't is the common chat;
But you
shall hear an odd affair indeed!
And that it happened, they are all agreed.
Not to detain you from a thing so strange,
A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change,
This week, in short, as all the alley knows,
Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows."
"Impossible!"-"Nay, but it's really true;
I had it from good hands, and so may you."
"From whose, I pray?" So having named the man,
Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran.

"Sir, did you tell?" — relating the affair
"Yes, sir, I did; and if it's worth you care,
Ask Mr. Such-a-one; he told it me;

But, by-the-by, 't was two black crows, not three."
Resolved to trace so wondrous an event,

Whip to the third, the virtuoso went.

"Sir,"

and so forth-"Why, yes; the thing is fact,

Though in regard to number not exact;

It was not two black crows; 't was only one;
The truth of that you may depend upon,

The gentleman himself told me the case."

may

I find him?"

"Why, in such a place."

"Where
Away he goes, and having found him out -
"Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt."

Then to his last informant he referred,

And begged to know if true what he had heard.

“Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?” "Not I!""Bless me! how people propagate a lie!

Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one, And here I find at last all comes to none !

Did you say nothing of a crow at all?"

"Crow crow perhaps I might, now I recall

The matter over."

"And pray, sir, what was 't?"

"Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last,

I did throw up, and told my neighbor so,
Something that was as black, sir, as a crow."

CCCLXXI.

HELPS TO READ.

Byrom.

A

CERTAIN artist

I've forgot his name

Had got, for making spectacles, a fame,

Or, "helps to read," as, when they first were sold,
Was writ upon his glaring sign in gold;

And, for all uses to be had from glass,
His were allowed by readers to surpass.
There came a man into his shop one day.
"Are you the spectacle contriver, pray?"
"Yes sir," said he, "I can in that affair
Contrive to please you, if you want a pair."
"Can you? pray do, then." So at first he chose
To place a youngish pair upon his nose;

And, book produced, to see how they would fit,
Asked how he liked them. "Like 'em! - not a bit."

"Then, sir, I fancy, if you please to try,

These in hand will better suit your eye?

my

"No, but they don't.".

“Well, come, sir, if you please,

Here is another sort; we 'll e'en try these;

Still somewhat more they magnify the letter,

Now, sir?"

"Why, now, I'm not a bit the better."

"No! here, take these which magnify still more,

How do they fit”?

"Like all the rest before!"