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Think of it, children—that tiny ship, tossed in the boiling

froth, Drifting about at the wild caprice of the elements' fitful

wrath ! H screw-propeller was useless now that the flickering

flame was out, And the invalids gazed from their snug bath chairs, till they

almost forgot the gout.

Help for the gallant vessel ! she is overborne by the blast! She is shipping water by spoonfuls now, I tell you she's

sinking fast ! “Hi !” cried one of her owners to a spaniel, liver and

black, “Good dog, into the water quick !”... But the park

keeper held it back !

Yes, spite of indignant pleadings from the eager excited

crowd, He quoted a pedant bye-law : “In the water no dogs

: allowed." Then shame on the regulations that would hinder an honest

dog From plunging in to assist a ship that is rolling a helpless


Stand by all ! for she'll ride it out—though she's left to do

it alone. She was drifting in, she was close at hand—when down she

went like a stone ! A few feet more and they had her safe—and now,

it was all too late, For the Puffin had foundered in sight of port, by a stroke But the other owner was standing by, and, tossing her

of ironical Fate !

tangled locks, Down she sat on the nearest seat-and took off her shoes

and socks! “One kiss, brother !” she murmured, “one clutch of your

strong right handAnd I'll paddle out to the Puffin, and bring her in safe to

land !"


What can a barefooted child do? More than the pampered

cur, With his chicken-fed carcase shrinking, afraid from the

bank to stir ! More than a baffled spaniel-aye, and more than the pug dog

pet, That wrinkles his ebony muzzle, and whines if his paws are

wet! “Come back!” the park-keeper shouted—but she merely

answered, “I won't !And into the water she waded—though the invalids whim

pered, "Don't!" Ah! but the Pond struck chilly, and the mud at the bottom

was thick; But in she paddled, and probed it with the point of a

borrowed stick! “Don't let go of me, darling !” “Keep hold of my fingers

tight, And I'll have it out in a minute or two

I haven't got up to it quite : A minute more, and the sunken ship we'll safe to the sur

face bring, Yes, and the sixpenny sailors, too, that we lashed to the

funnel with string !"

Up to the knees in the water, Ethel and brother Ralph Groped, till they found the Puffin and her sailors, soppy

-but safe! All the dear little sailors!... but—Children—I can't go on! For poor old wooden-faced Noah washow shall I tell you?


He must have fallen over, out of that heeling boat,
Away in the dim grey offing, to rise and to fall like a float,
Till the colour deserted his face and form, as it might at an

infant's suck, And he sank to his rest in his sailor's tomb—the maw of a

hungry duck!

You are weeping ? I cannot wonder. Mine is a pathetic

style. Weep for him, children, freely. . . . But, when you have

finished, smile With joy for his shipmates, rescued as though by a Pros

pero's wand, And the Puffin, snatched from the slimy depths of the Round but treacherous Pond !

F. Anstey.

To Henrietta, on Her Departure for Calais

THEN little people go abroad, wherever they may roam,

They will not just be treated as they used to be at


So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France.

Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it's my belief, They'll dress you in their foreign style as à-la-mode as beef, With a little row of bee-hives, as a border to your frock, And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock.


But first they'll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack,
And tie it, with a tape, by way of bustle on your back;
And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a

riddle, For anyhow you'll never have your middle in the middle.

Your little English sandals for a while will hold together, But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the

leather ; For they'll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a

hobble !) In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble !

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You'll have to learn a chou is quite another sort of thing
To that you put your foot in ; that a belle is not to ring;
That a corne is not the knubble that brings trouble to your

Nor peut-être a potato, as some Irish folks suppose.

But pray, at meals, remember this, the French are so polite, No matter what you eat and drink "whatever is, is right !” So when you're told at dinner-time that some delicious stew Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer,

" Tant mi-eux! Thomas Hood.


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