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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.
Little Boy Blue, so the story goes,

One morning while reading fell fast asleep,
When he should have been, as every one knows,

Watching the cows and sheep.
All of you children remember what

Came of the nap on that summer morn;
How the sheep got into the meadow-lot,

The cows got into the corn.
Neglecting a duty is wrong, of course,

But I've always felt, if we could but know,
That the matter was made a great deal worse

Than it should have been; and so
I find, in my sifting, that there was one

More to blame than Little Boy Blue.
I'm anxious to have full justice done,

And so I know are you.
The one to blame I have found to be,

I'm sorry to say it, Little Bo-Peep;

you will remember, perhaps, that she
Had trouble about her sheep.
Well, Little Bo-Peep came tripping along,

The sheep she tended were running at large;
Little Boy Blue sat singing a song,

Faithfully minding his charge.
Said Little Bo-Peep, “ It's a burning shame

That you should sit here from week to week;
Just leave your work, and we'll play a game

Oh ! well, of hide and seek.”
It was dull work, and he liked to play

Better, I'm sure, than to eat or sleep;


He liked the bloom of the summer day;

He liked-he liked Bo-Peep.
And so, with many a laugh and shout,

They hid from each other—now here, now there;
And whether the cows were in or out

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,
With never a thought for cows or sheep-

Alas ! alas ! the day.
And long and patiently waited he

For the blithesome call from her rosy lip.
He waited in vain-quite like, you see,

The boy on the burning ship.
She let down the bars, did Miss Bo-Peep-

Such trifles as bars she held in scorn-
And into the meadows went the sheep,

And the cows went into the corn.
By and by, when they found Boy Blue

In the merest doze, he took the blame.
It was very fine, I think, don't you,

Not to mention Bo-Peep's name?
Thus it has happened that all these years

He has borne the blame she ought to share.
Since I know the truth of it, it appears

To me to be only fair
To tell the story froin shore to shore,

From sea to sea, and from sun to sun,
Because, as I think I said before,

I like to see justice done.
And whatever you've read or seen or heard,

Believe me, children, I tell the true
And only genuine (take my word)

Story of Little Boy Blue.

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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

upright post;

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thing else

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 ask.

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

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