LITMIR.BIZ

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say," said Blake; "never sat behind him in a good temper, that I can remember."

      "I'll trot him five miles out and home in a dog-cart, on any road out of Oxford, against any horse you can bring, for a fiver."

      "Done!" said Blake.

      "But were you upset?" said Tom. "How did you get into the bank?"

      "Why, you see," said Drysdale, "Jessy, – that's the little blood-mare, my leader, – is very young, and as shy and skittish as the rest of her sex. We turned a corner sharp, and came right upon a gipsy encampment. Up she went into the air in a moment, and then turned right around and came head on at the cart. I gave her the double thong across her face to send her back again, and Satan, seizing the opportunity, rushed against the bank, dragging her with him, and snapping the shaft."

      "And so ended our day's fishing," said Blake. "And next moment out jumps that brute Jack, and pitches into the gipsy's dog, who had come up very naturally to have a look at what was going on. Down jumps Drysdale to see that his beast gets fair play, leaving me and the help to look after the wreck, and keep his precious wheeler from kicking the cart into little pieces."

      "Come, now," said Drysdale, "you must own we fell on our legs after all. Hadn't we a jolly afternoon? I'm thinking of turning tramp, Brown. We spent three or four hours in that camp, and Blake got spooney on a gipsy girl, and has written I don't know how many songs on them. Didn't you hear us singing them just now?"

      "But how did you get the cart mended?" said Tom.

      "Oh, the tinker patched up the shaft for us, – a cunning old beggar, the pere de famille of the encampment; up to every move on the board. He wanted to have a deal with me for Jessy. But 'pon my honor, we had a good time of it. There was the old tinker, mending the shaft, in his fur cap, with a black pipe, one inch long, sticking out of his mouth; and the old brown parchment of a mother, with her head in a red handkerchief, smoking a ditto pipe to the tinker's, who told our fortunes, and talked like a printed book. Then there was his wife, and the slip of a girl who bowled over Blake there, and half a dozen ragged brats; and a fellow on a tramp, not a gipsy – some runaway apprentice, I take it, but a jolly dog – with no luggage but an old fiddle on which he scraped away uncommonly well, and set Blake making rhymes as we sat in the tent. You never heard any of his songs. Here's one for each of us; we're going to get up the characters and sing them about the country; – now for a rehearsal; I'll be the tinker."

      "No, you must take the servant girl," said Blake.

      "Well, we'll toss up for characters when the time comes. You begin then; here's a song," and he handed one of the papers to Blake, who began singing —

      "Squat on a green plot,

      We scorn a bench or settle, oh.

      Plying or trying,

      A spice of every trade;

      Razors we grind,

      Ring a pig, or mend a kettle, oh;

      Come, what d'ye lack?

      Speak it out, my pretty maid.

      "I'll set your scissors, while

      My granny tells you plainly!

      Who stole your barley meal,

      Your butter or your heart;

      Tell if your husband will

      Be handsome or ungainly,

      Ride in a coach and four, or

      Rough it in a cart."

      "Enter Silly Sally; that's I, for the present you see," said Drysdale; and he began —

      "Oh, dear! what can the matter be?

      Dear, dear! what can the matter be?

      Oh, dear! what can the matter be?

      All in a pucker be I;

      I'm growing uneasy about Billy Martin,

      For love is a casualty desper't unsartin.

      Law! yonder's the gipsy as tells folk's fortin;

      I'm half in the mind for to try."

      "Then you must be the old gipsy woman, Mother Patrico; here's your part Brown."

      "But what's the tune?" said Tom.

      "Oh, you can't miss it; go ahead;" and so Tom, who was dropping into the humour of the thing, droned out from the MS. handed to him —

      "Chairs to mend,

      Old chairs to mend,

      Rush bottom'd cane bottom'd,

      Chairs to mend.

      Maid, approach,

      If thou wouldst know

      What the stars

      May deign to show."

      "Now, tinker," said Drysdale, nodding at Blake, who rattled on, —

      "Chance feeds us, chance leads us;

      Round the land in jollity;

      Rag-dealing, nag-stealing,

      Everywhere we roam;

      Brass mending, ass vending,

      Happier than the quality;

      Swipes soaking, pipes smoking,

      Ev'ry barn a home;

      Tink, tink, a tink a tink,

      Our life is full of fun, boys;

      Clink tink, a tink a tink,

      Our busy hammers ring;

      Clink, tink, a tink a tink,

      Our job will soon be done boys;

      Then tune we merrily

      The bladder and the string."

      DRYSDALE, as Silly Sally.

      "Oh, dear! what can the matter be?

      Dear, dear! what can the matter be?

      Oh, dear! what can the matter be?

      There's such a look in her eye.

      Oh, lawk! I declare I be all of a tremble;

      My mind it misgives me about Sukey Wimble,

      A splatter faced wench neither civil nor nimble

      She'll bring Billy to beggary."

      TOM, as Mother Patrico.

      "Show your hand;

      Come show your hand!

      Would you know

      What fate has planned?

      Heaven forefend,

      Ay, heav'n forefend!

      What may these

      Cross lines portend?"

      BLAKE, as the Tinker.

      "Owl, pheasant, all's pleasant,

      Nothing comes amiss to us;

      Hare, rabbit, snare, nab it;

      Cock, or hen, or kite;

      Tom cat, with strong fat,

      A dainty supper is to us;

      Hedge-hog and sedge-frog

      To stew is our delight;

      Bow, wow, with angry bark

      My lady's dog assails us;

      We sack him up, and clap

      A stopper on his din.

      Now pop him in the pot;

      His store of meat avails us;

      Wife cook him nice and hot,

      And granny tans his skin."

      DRYSDALE, as Silly Sally.

      "Oh,

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