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swell to make up what you call the bell.' A while she paused, my bright Louise, and ponder'd on the case; then, settling that he meant to tease, she slapp'd her father's face : “ You bad old man to sit and tell such gibberybosh about a bell !”
The True Story of Little Boy Blue.
One morning while reading fell fast asleep,
Watching the cows and sheep.
Came of the nap on that summer morn;
The cows got into the corn.
But I've always felt, if we could but know,
Than it should have been; and so
More to blame than Little Boy Blue.
And so I know are you.
I'm sorry to say it, Little Bo-Peep;
you will remember, perhaps, that she
The sheep she tended were running at large;
Faithfully minding his charge.
That you should sit here from week to week;
Oh ! well, of hide and seek.”
Better, I'm sure, than to eat or sleep;
He liked the bloom of the summer day;
He liked-he liked Bo-Peep.
They hid from each other—now here, now there;
Bo-Peep had never a care. “I will hide once more," said the little maid,
“ You shall not find me this time, I say, Shut your eyes up tight” (Boy Blue obeyed)—
“ Under this stack of hay." “Now, wait till I call,” said Miss Bo-Peep,
And over the meadows she slipped away,
Alas ! alas ! the day.
For the blithesome call from her rosy lip.
The boy on the burning ship.
Such trifles as bars she held in scorn-
And the cows went into the corn.
In the merest doze, he took the blame.
Not to mention Bo-Peep's name?
He has borne the blame she ought to share.
To me to be only fair
From sea to sea, and from sun to sun,
I like to see justice done.
Believe me, children, I tell the true
Story of Little Boy Blue.
Our Village. Our village, that's to say not Miss Mitford's village, but our
village of Bullock Smithy, Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two
elders, and a withy; And in the middle, there's a green of about not exceeding an
acre and a half ; It's cominon to all, and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies,
three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf ! Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of
common law lease, And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two
dead dogs, four drown'd kittens, and twelve geese. Of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for
bowling when the little village boys play at cricket; Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass is sure to
come and stand right before the wicket. There's fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops,
and pig-sties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds ; With plenty of public-houses—two Foxes, one Green Man,
three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads. The Green Man is reckon'd the best, as the only one that for
love or money can raise A postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses,
and a ramshackled “neat post-chaise.” There's one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may
be their ranks in life or their degrees, Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing-cold little Metho
dist chapel of Ease ; And close by the church-yard, there's a stone-mason's yard,
that when the time is seasonable Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims very
low and reasonable. There's a cage, comfortable enough ; I've been in it with Old
Jack Jeffrey and Tom Pike; For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or any
like. I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the
But the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of Cob's horse,
as is always there almost. There's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in
his way, Old Joe Bradley, Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes
horses very badly. There's a shop of all sorts, that sells every thing, kept by the
widow of Mr. Task ; But when you go there it's ten to one she's out of every thing
You'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about
the old sugary cask. There are six empty houses, and not so well papered inside as
out, For bill-stickers won't beware, but sticks notices of sales and
election placards all about. That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots
in the windows is seen ; A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a dead geranium,
and a tea-plant with five black leaves and one green. As for hollyoaks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and
jasmines, you may go and whistle ; But the Tailor's front gardens grow two cabbages, a dock, a
ha’porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle. There are three small orchards—Mr. Busby's the schoolmaster's
is the chiefWith two pear-trees that don't bear; one plum and an apple,
that every year is stripped by a thief. There's another small day-school, too, kept by the respectable
Mrs. Gaby; A select establishment, for six little boys and one big, and
four little girls and a baby. There's a rectory, with pointed gables and strange odd chim.
neys that never smokes, For the rector don't live on his living like other Christian
sort of folks ; ere's a barber's, once a-week well filled with rough black
bearded shock-headed churls, And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two
masculine ladies in false curls ;
There's a butcher's and a carpenter's and a plumber's and a
small green-grocer's, and a baker, But he won't bake on a Sunday, and there's a sexton that's a
coal-merchant besides, and an undertaker ; And a toy-shop, but not a whole one, for a village can't com
pare with the London shops ; One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout's balls,
and the other sells malt and hops. And Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy not to be a bit behind
her betters, Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a
cobbler, lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters. Now I've gone through all the village—ay, from end to end,
save and except one more house, But I haven't come to that—and I hope I never shall—and
that's the Village Poor-House !
The Owl Critic.
(Verse printed as Prose.) Who stuffed that white owl ?” No one spoke in the shop ! the barber was busy, and he couldn't stop ! the customers, waiting their turns, were all reading the Daily, the Herald, the Post, little heeding the young man who blurted out such a blunt question; not one raised a head or even made a suggestion; and the barber kept on shaving:—“Don't you see, Mister Brown,” cried the youth with a frown, “how wrong the whole thing is, how preposterous each wing is, how flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is—in short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis ! I make no apology, I've learned owleology, I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, and cannot be blinded to any deflections arising from unskilful fingers that fail to stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down, or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!” And the barber kept on shaving.--" I've studied Ow and other night fowls, and I tell you what I know to be true; an owl cannot roost with his limbs so unloosed. No owl in this world ever had his claws curled, ever had his legs slanted, ever had his bill canted, ever had his neck screwed