As evinced (on the ex pede Herculean plan,

Which from merely a footstep presumes the whole man)

By our Savans disturbing those very large bones, Which have turned (for the rhyme's sake, perhaps) into stones,

And have chosen to wait a

Long while hid in strata,

While old Time has been dining on empires and thrones.

Old bones and dry bones,
Leg-bones and thigh-bones,

Bones of the vertebræ, bones of the tail,-
Very like, only more so, the bones of a whale;
Bones that were very long, bones that were very

short

(They have never as yet found a real fossil merrythought;

Perchance because mastodons, burly and big,
Considered all funny-bones quite infra dig.)

Skulls have they found in strange places imbedded,

When persuaded to add, by the good Father Her

man,

That most classical tongue to his own native German.
And no doubt he was right in
Point of fact, for a knight in

Those days was supposed to like nothing but fight. ing;

And one who had learned any language that is hard Would have stood a good chance of being burned for a wizard.

Education being then never pushed to the verge ye Now see it, was chiefly confined to the clergy.

'Twas a southerly wind and a cloudy sky,
For aught that I know to the contrary;
If it wasn't, it ought to have been properly,
As it's certain Sir Eppo, his feather bed scorning,
Thought that something proclaimed it a fine hunt-
ing morning;

So pronouncing his benison
O'er a cold haunch of venison,

headed;

And other queer things,-which 'tis not my intention,

Lest I weary your patience, at present to mention,
As I think I can prove, without further apology,
What I said to be true, sans appeal to geology,
That there lived in the good old days gone by
Things unknown to our modern philosophy,
And a giant was then no more out of the way
Than a dwarf is now in the present day.

Sir Eppo of Epstein was young, brave, and fair;
Dark were the curls of his clustering hair,
Dark the moustache that o'ershadowed his lip,
And his glance was as keen as the sword at his
hip;

Though the enemy's charge was like lightning's fierce shock,

His seat was as firm as the wave-beaten rock;
And woe to the foeman, whom pride or mischance
Opposed to the stroke of his conquering lance.
He carved at the board, and he danced in the hall,
And the ladies admired him, each one and all.
In a word, I should say, he appears to have been
As nice a young "ritter" as ever was seen.

He could not read nor write,
He could not spell his name,
Towards being a clerk, Sir Eppo, his (†) mark,
Was as near as he ever came.

He had felt no vexation
From multiplication;
Never puzzled was he
By the rule of three;
The practice he'd had
Did not drive him mad,
Because it all lay

Quite a different way.

The Ass's Bridge, that Bridge of Sighs.
Had (lucky dog!) ne'er met his eyes.

And set out on the Taurus to chase the wild deer.

And his bolts flew fast and free;
Sir Eppo he rode through the good greenwood,

He knocked over a hare, and he passed the lair
(The tenant was out) of a grisly bear;
He started a wolf, and he got a snap shot
At a bounding roe, but he touched it not,
Which caused him to mutter a naughty word
In German, which luckily nobody heard,
For he said it right viciously;

And he struck his steed with his armèd heel,
As though horse-flesh were tougher than iron or
steel,

Or any thing else that's unable to feel.

What is the sound that meets his ear?
Is it the plaint of some wounded deer?
Is it the wild-fowl's mournful cry,
Or the scream of yon eagle soaring high?
Or is it only the southern breeze

As it sighs through the boughs of the dark pine trees?

No, Sir Eppo, be sure 'tis not any of these:
And hark, again!

It comes more plain

'Tis a woman's voice in grief or pain.

Like an arrow from the string,
Like a stone that leaves the sling,

Like a railroad-train with a queen inside,
With directors to poke and directors to guide,
Like the rush upon deck when a vessel is sinking,
Like (I vow I'm hard up for a simile) winking!

In less time than by name you Jack Robinson can call,

Sir Eppo dashed forward o'er hedge, ditch, and lollow,

In a steeple-chase style I'd be sorry to follow,

1

And found a young lady chained up by the ankle-
Yes, chained up in a cool and business-like way,
As if she'd been only the little dog Tray;
While, the more to secure any knight-errant's pity,
She was really and truly excessively pretty.

Here was a terrible state of things!
Down from his saddle Sir Eppo springs,

As lightly as if he were furnished with wings,
While every plate in his armor rings.

The words that he uttered were short and few,
But pretty much to the purpose too,

As sternly he asked, with lowering brow,
"Who's been and done it, and where is he now ?"

'Twere long to tell

Each word that fell

From the coral lips of that demoiselle;
However, as far as I'm able to see,
The pith of the matter appeared to be
That a horrible giant, twelve feet high,
Having gazed on her charms with a covetous eye,
Had stormed their castle, murdered papa,
Behaved very rudely to poor dear mamma,
Walked off with the family jewels and plate,
And the tin and herself at a terrible rate;
Then by way of conclusion
To all this confusion,
Tied her up like a dog

To a nasty great log,

To induce her (the brute) to become Mrs. Gog; That 'twas not the least use for Sir Eppo to try To chop off his head, or to poke out his eye, As he'd early in life done a bit of Achilles (Which, far better than taking an "Old Parr's lifepill" is),

Had been dipped in the Styx, or some equally old

stream,

And might now face unharmed a battalion of Coldstream.

But she'd thought of a scheme
Which did certainly seem

Very likely to pay-no mere vision or dream :-
It appears that the giant each day took a nap
For an hour (the wretch!) with his head in her lap:
Oh, she hated it so! but then what could she do?
Here she paused, and Sir Eppo remarked, "Very
true;"

And that during this time one might pinch, punch, or shake him,

Or do just what one pleased, but that nothing could wake him,

While each horse and each man in the emperor's pay
Would not be sufficient to move him away,
Without magical aid, from the spot where he lay.
In an old oak chest, in an up-stairs room
Of poor papa's castle, was kept an heir-loom,
An enchanted net, made of iron links,
Which was brought from Palestine, she thinks,
By her great grandpapa, who had been a Crusader;
If she had but got that, she was sure it would aid
her.

The sun went down,
The bright stars burned,
The morning came,
And the knight returned;
The net he spread

O'er the giant's bed,

While Eglantine, and Hare-bell blue,

691

And some nice green moss on the spot he threw; Lest perchance the monster alarm should take, And not choose to sleep from being too wide awake. Hark to that sound!

From heel to head, and from head to heel,
They wrap their prey in that net of steel,
And they croché the edges together with care,
As you finish a purse for a fancy-fair,
Till the last knot is tied by the diligent pair.
At length they have ended their business laborious,
And Eppo shouts "Bagged him, by all that is glo-
rious!"

แ

Always let your jokes be well-timed. Any time will do for a good joke, but no time will do for a bad one. Any place will fit, provided the joke itself be fitting, but it never fits if a joke be out of its place. No man can order a joke as he would his coat, at Stultz's, or his boots at Hoby's. Jokes are not only often out of order, but we have known jokers ordered out; in short, any man who attempts to joke out of order, should either be provided with a strait waistcoat, or be kicked out of society. In concocting jokes as in making

but the quality of the dish is entirely dependent on the skill of the artiste. As gold becomes refined by passing through the ordeal of fire, so truth is the purer for being tested by the furnace of fun; for jokes are, to facts, what melting pots are to metal. The utterer of a good joke is a useful member of society, but the maker of a bad one is a more despicable character than the veriest coiner by profession.

"A joke from a gentleman is an act of charity; an uncharitable joke is an ungentlemanly act. The retort courteous is the touchstone of good feeling; the reply churlish the proof of cold-headed stupidity."