Thus reading on the longer They read, of course, their childish faith grew stronger In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons,- As the old man sat a feeding Beside his open street-and-parlor door, Proclaimed a drove of beasts was coming by the way. Long-horned, and short, of many a different breed. With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils, Or Firth of Forth; Looking half wild with joy to leave the North,- When, whether from a fly's malicious comment Only in some enthusiastic moment,— However, one brown monster, in a frisk, Giving his tale a perpendicular whisk, Kicked out a passage through the beastly rabble; Backed his beef-steaks against the wooden gable, Right o'er the page Just then was spelling some romantic fable. The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce, Could not peruse who could? two tales at once; At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft, But most unluckily enclosed a morsel And bolting off with speed, increased by pain, Just then, by fortune's whimsical decree, At last, conceive her, rising from the ground, And looking round Where rest was to be found, There was no house no villa there no nothing! No house! The change was quite amazing; Explained the horrid mystery; - and raising "Well! this is Fairy Work! I'll bet a farden. Little Prince Silverwings has ketched me up, And set me down in some one else's garden!" THE TURTLES. A FABLE. "The rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle."- BYRON. ONE day, it was before a civic dinner, Two London Aldermen, no matter which,- Yet not, as might be fancied from the token, To Pudding Lane, Pie Corner, or the Street Or, bound on voyages, secure a berth Jostled and jostling, through the mud, Down narrow streets and crooked lanes they dived, Past many a gusty avenue, through which Came yellow fog, and smell of pitch, From barge, and boat, and dusky wharf derived; With darker fumes, brought eddying by the draught, From loco-smoko-motive craft; Mingling with scents of butter, cheese, and gammons, Tea, coffee, sugar, pickles, rosin, wax, Hides, tallow, Russia-matting, hemp and flax, Each pungent spice, and aromatic gum, In short, all whiffs, and sniffs, and puffs, and snuffs, From metals, minerals, and dyewood stuffs, Fruits, victual, drink, solidities, or slops In flasks, casks, bales, trucks, wagons, taverns, shops Boats, lighters, cellars, wharfs, and warehouse-tops, That, as we walk upon the river's ridge, Assault the nose below the bridge. A walk, however, as tradition tells, He met with "such a sight of smells." But on, and on, and on, In spite of all unsavory shocks, Progress the stout Sir Peter and Sir John, And now they reach a place the Muse, unwilling, The famous Gate of Billing That does not lead to cooing And now they pass that house that is so ugly And proved too late to save his life, alas! That he was "off his head." At last before a lofty brick-built pile Sir Peter stopped, and with mysterious smile The wire-drawn genius of the ring, Obsequious bowed the man, and led the way A dirty tax, if they were taxed at all. Which often harbors vintages renowned, Or port, so olden, Bereft of body 't is no longer portly – But old or otherwise - to be veracious That cobwebbed cellar, damp, and dim, and spacious Held nothing crusty- but crustaceous. Prone on the chilly floor, Five splendid turtles such a five! Natives of some West Indian shore, Were flapping all alive, |