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Ve have de littel joke on his lose de sole; den I pull off my shoe and dere is my stocking--mon ami, my countreman, he pull off his shoe, and dere is only his foot, he have no stocking at all—but he vas very jonteel man for all dat !
Vell, ve get into my room, mon apartment, mon chambre a bit; dere I strike de light, make de fire, lay de cloth, and get my dinner from de cupboard. I pull out de large piece of bread, de neck of de mouton dat vas boiled yesterday, and de great dish of soup maigre, dat I make hot; and I say, now mon ami, my countreman, ve vill have de dinner; but before I commence I say de grace. Parbleu! my friend he commence, and no say
at all-but he vas very jonteel man for all dat!
I got up for de cloth to put under my chin, ven I came back to help myself, der is nothing left! mon ami, my countreman, he have swallowed it all up—but he vas very jonteel man for all dat!
Vell, ve have de littel joke, and I laugh a littel on de wrong side of my mouth, about my friend eat all de meat and leave me de bone, and I go to do vid de crust of de bread, but dere is no bread at all; mon ami, my countreman he eat all de bread while I eat de soup_but he vas very jonteel man for all dat!
At last it come time to go to bed—and I say mon ami, my countreman, ve vill aller coucher, put our heads in de nightcap: vell, I pull off my coat, dere is my vaistcoat-mon ami, my countreman pull off his coat, and dere is no vaistcoat at all—but he was very jonteel man for all dat !
Vell, ven I got up next morning, I say, I vill put on my vaisteoat and my coat. Parbleu, dey is no dere ; no more is my hat and my stocking, nor my shoe, nor my anything; but dere is de chapeau, vid de hole in de top, de pantaloon out of de knee, de shoe dat have no sole, and de greasy, rusty, ragged habit of mon ami, my countreman. Vell, I
he has dress himself in all my tings by mistake; he have no money, no credit, no logement, his hair grow out de top of his hat, his knee valk out of his pantaloon, his toe
look out of his pump, his sole come out of his shoe; he eat my suppare vile I turn my head, and no leave me none- - he have no vaistcoat–he get up vhile I sleep and run away vid all my clothes, it is all bad, ma foi—but he is very jonteel man for all dat!
THE DILATORY SCHOLAR.—MRS. GILMAN.
Oh! where is my hat? it is taken away,
And my shoestrings are all in a knot!
Though I've hunted in every spot.
My slate and pencil nowhere can be found,
Though I placed them as safe as could be ;
And hop about just like a flea.
Do, Rachael, just look for my Atlas, up stairs;
My Virgil is somewhere there, too;
And, brother, just fasten my shoe.
And, mother, beg father to write an excuse ;
But stop—he will only say “ No,"
While everything bothers me so.
My satchel is heavy and ready to fall;
This old pop-gun is breaking my map;
There's no playing for such a poor chap!
The town-clock will strike in a minute, I fear ;
Then away to the foot I must sink :-
And my Algebra covered with ink!
I wish I'd not lingered at breakfast the last,
Though the toast and the butter were fine : I think that our Edward must eat very fast,
To be off when I haven't done mine.
Now, Edward and Henry protest they won't wait,
And beat on the door with their sticks ; I suppose they will say I was dressing too late :
To-morrow I'll be up at six.
THE MAGPIE, OR BAD COMPANY.-ANON.
LET others, with poetic fire,
In Fleet-street dwelt, in days of yore,
In basket-prison hung on high,
Oh, how he nicks us !" Tom More cries,
“ Tom More !" the mimic bird replies ;
This dissipated life of course, Soon brought poor Tom from bad to worse; Nor prayers nor promises prevail, To keep hint from a dreary jail.
And between each heartfelt sigh, Tom oft exclaims - Bad company !" Poor Mag, who shares his master's fate, Exclaims from out his wicker grate, “Bad company! Bad company !" Then views poor Tom with curious eye,And cheers his master's wretched hours By this display of mimic powers ; The imprisoned bird, though much caressed, Is still by anxious cares oppressed ; In silence mourns its cruel fate, And oft explores his prison gate.
Observe through life you 'll always find A fellow-feeling makes us kind; So Tom resolves immediately To give poor Mag his liberty; Then opes his cage, and, with a sigh, Takes one fond look, and lets him fly.
Now Mag, once more with freedom blest,
The gardener now, with busy cares,
A curious net he does prepare,
The watchful gardener now stands by
The vengeful clown, now filled with ire,
Now, in revenge for plundered seed,
Mag, who with man was used to herd,
The astonished gardener lifts his eyes;
around the room