And after a pas seul,—or, if you will, a
Horn-pipe before the Basket-maker's villa,

Leapt o'er the tiny pale,—

Back'd his beef-steaks against the wooden gable, And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail

Right o'er the page,

Wherein the sage

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; And being huff'd

At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft,

Bang'd-to the door,

But most unluckily enclosed a morsel

Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel :

The monster gave a roar,

And bolting off with speed, increased by pain,

The little house became a coach once more,
And, like Macheath, "took to the road" again!

Just then, by fortune's whimsical decree,

The ancient woman stooping with her crupper

Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be,

Was getting up some household herbs for supper:
Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale,

And quaintly wondering if magic shifts
Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail,
To turn it to a coach,-what pretty gifts
Might come of cabbages, and curly kale;
Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail,
Nor turn'd, till home had turn'd a corner, quite
Gone out of sight!

At last, conceive her, rising from the ground,

Weary of sitting on her russet clothing;

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;

It made her senses stagger for a minute,
The riddle's explication seem'd to harden;
But soon her superannuated nous

Explained the horrid mystery ;-and raising

Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it,

On which she meant to sup,—

"Well! this is Fairy Work! I'll bet a farden, Little Prince Silverwings has ketch'd 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, Cordwainer, Girdler, Patten-maker, Skinner

But both were florid, corpulent, and rich, And both right fond of festive demolition, Set forth upon a secret expedition.

Yet not, as might be fancied from the token,
To Pudding Lane, Pie Corner, or the Street
Of Bread, or Grub, or anything to eat,

Or drink, as Milk, or Vintry, or Portsoken,
But eastward to that more aquatic quarter,

Where folks take water,

Or bound on voyages, secure a berth

For Antwerp or Ostend, Dundee or Perth,

Calais, Boulogne, or any Port on earth!

Jostled and jostling, through the mud,

Peculiar to the Town of Lud,

Down narrow streets and crooked lanes they div'd, Past many a gusty avenue, through which

Came yellow fog, and smell of pitch,

From barge, and boat, and dusky wharf deriv'd;

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,
Salt-cod, red-herrings, sprats, and kipper'd salmons,
Nuts, oranges, and lemons,

Each pungent spice, and aromatic gum,

Gas, pepper, soaplees, brandy, gin, and rum ;

Alamode-beef and greens-the London soil

Glue, coal, tobacco, turpentine, and oil,

Bark, asafoetida, squills, vitriol, hops,