Come, come, I say, old fellow, stop your chant; I can not write a sentence-no one can't!

So just pack up your trumps,
And stir your stumps

Says he,-"I SHAN'T !"

Down went the sash

As if devoted to "eternal smash," (Another illustration

Of acted imprecation,)

While close at hand, uncomfortably near,
The independent voice, so loud and strong,
And clanging like a gong,
Roared out again the everlasting song,
"I have a silent sorrow here!"

The thing was hard to stand!

The music master could not stand it-
But rushing forth with fiddlestick in hand,
As savage as a bandit,

Made up directly to the tattered man,
And thus in broken sentences began-

"Com-com-I say!

You go away!

Into two parts my head you split-
My fiddle can not hear himself one bit,
When I do play-

You have no business in a place so still!
Can you not come another day?"
Says he,- 'I WILL."

66

"No-no-you scream and bawl!

You must come not at all!

You have no rights, by rights, to beg-
You have not one off leg-

You ought to work-You have not some complaint,

You are not cripple in your back or bones

Your voice is strong enough to break some stones”— Says he," IT AINT!"

66 I say you ought to labor! You in a young case,

You have not sixty years upon your face,
To come and beg your neighbor!
And discompose his music with a noise,
More worse than twenty boys-
Look what a street it is for quiet!
No cart to make a riot,

No coach, no horses, no postillion,
If you will sing, I say, it is not just
To sing so loud." Says he," I MUST!
I'M SINGING FOR THE MILLION !"

LESSON CXXXI.

DEATH IN THE KITCHEN.

A Parody is a composition in which the words or sentiments of an author are imitated, but in such a manner as to turn them into burlesque. The following Parody is also full of Puns, which have been previously explained, and some of which are indicated by italic type. Corporal Trim is a character in Sterne's Tristram Shandy, a sort of sentimental novel, containing the extract of which the following is a Parody. The author of the following witty lines is THOMAS HOOD.

Trim, thou art right!-T is sure that I,
And all who hear thee, are to die.

The stoutest lad and wench
Must lose their places at the will
Of death, and go at last to fill
The sexton's gloomy trench.

The dreary grave!-O when I think
How close ye stand upon its brink,

My inward spirit groans!

My eyes are filled with dismal dreams
Of coffins, and this kitchen seems
A charnel full of bones!

Yes, jovial butler, thou must fail,
As sinks the froth on thine own ale;
Thy days will soon be done!
Alas! the common hours that strike,
Are knells; for life keeps wasting, like
A cask upon the run.

Ay, hapless scullion! 'tis thy case;
Life travels at a scouring pace,
Far swifter than thy hand.

The fast decaying frame of man
Is but a kettle or a pan,

Time wears away

with-sand!

Thou need'st not, mistress cook! be told, The meat to-morrow will be cold

That now is fresh and hot! E'en thus our flesh will, by and by, Be cold as stone !—Cook, thou must die! "There's death within the pot."

Susannah, too, my lady's maid,
Thy pretty person once must aid
To swell the buried swarm!

The "

glass of fashion" thou wilt hold No more, but grovel in the mould, That's not the "mould of form!"

Yes, Jonathan, that drives the coach, He too well feels the fiend's approach— The grave will pluck him down :

He must in dust and ashes lie,
And wear the churchyard livery,
Grass green, turned up with brown.

How frail is our uncertain breath!
The laundress seems full hale, but Death
Shall her "last linen” bring,
The groom will die, like all his kind;
And e'en the stable boy will find
This life no stable thing.

Nay, see the household dog-e'en that
The earth shall take―The very cat
Will share the common fall;
Although she hold (the proverb saith)
A ninefold life, one single death
Suffices for them all!

Cook, butler, Susan, Jonathan,
The girl that scours the pot and pan,
And those that tend the steeds-

All, all shall have another sort

Of service after this-in short

The one the

parson reads!

LESSON CXXXII.

THE CAUSE OF THUNDER.-EDITOR.

Men often overrate their importance in the universe, and why should not Frogs, who are a "feeble folk," do the same. The following is a free imitation of a Fable by DORAT. Fefore the pupil finds fault with the king's arithmetic, he must be sure that frogs reckon as much like men as the Fable seems to make them speak and act.

Hoarse thunders in the upper sphere
Tremendous brayed-in fierce career,
At every angle, lightnings flashed,
Cloud against cloud in fury dashed,

And all heaven's windows, opened wide,
Poured on the earth so huge a tide,
It seemed as if the day of doom,
The end of all things sure had come.
This awful din, as well it might,
So filled the race of frogs with fright,
That all the tenants of a puddle
Around their king in phalanx huddle,
Imploring him to tell them why
The powers above so wrathy were,

And what on earth could ever stir
Them thus to mingle sea and sky.
The king first hemmed to clear his note,
(As men do with a frog in the throat,)
"Sinners!" he cried, in humble tone,
""Tis we, 'tis wicked frogs alone
These awful thunderbolts bring down,-
For, I remember well my dad

Once said, that when great Jove gets mad,
As sure as ten times five are forty,
Some frog has done the thing that's naughty.