The Sketches of Seymour, Robert Seymour [reading books for 7 year olds .txt] 📗

never see! I go at sky-larks in the hair Or on a tree."

"It's all the same, they fly away Has I let fly - The birds is frightened, I dare say, And vill not die."

"Vhy, here's a go! I hav'nt ramm'd In any shot; The birds must think I only shamm'd, And none have got."

"I'll undeceive 'em quickly now, I bet a crown; And whether fieldfare, tit, or crow, Vill bring 'em down."

And as he spake a pigeon flew Across his way - Bang went his piece - and Jenkins slew The flutt'ring prey.

He bagg'd his game, and onward went, When to his view Another rose, by fortune sent To make up two.

He fired, and beheld it fall With inward glee, And for a minute 'neath a wall Stood gazing he.

When from behind, fierce, heavy blows Fell on his hat, And knock'd his beaver o'er his nose, And laid him flat.

"What for," cried Jenkins, "am I mill'd, Sir, like this ere?" "You villain, you, why you have kill'd My pouter rare."

The sturdy knave who struck him down With frown replied: - "For which I'll make you pay a crown Nor be denied."

Poor Jenkins saw it was in vain To bandy words; So paid the cash and vow'd, again He'd not shoot birds -

At least of that same feather, lest For Pouter shot Some Dragon fierce should him molest - And fled the spot.


THE PIC-NIC. No. I.


A merry holiday party, forming a tolerable boat-load, and well provided with baskets of provisions, were rowing along the beautiful and picturesque banks that fringe the river's side near Twickenham, eagerly looking out for a spot where they might enjoy their "pic-nic" to perfection.

"O! uncle, there's a romantic glade; - do let us land there!" exclaimed a beautiful girl of eighteen summers, to a respectable old gentleman in a broad brimmed beaver and spectacles.

"Just the thing, I declare," replied he - "the very spot - pull away, my lads - but dear me" continued he, as they neared the intended landing-place, "What have we here? What says the board?"

"PARTIES ARE NOT, ALLOWED TO LAND AND DINE HERE"

Oh! oh! very well; then we'll only land here, and dine a little further on."

"What a repulsive board" - cried the young lady - "I declare now I'm quite vex'd" -

"Never mind, Julia, we won't be bored by any board" - said the jocose old gentleman.

"I'm sure, uncle" - said one of the youths - "we don't require any board, for we provide ourselves."

"You're quite right, Master Dickey," said his uncle; "for we only came out for a lark, you know, and no lark requires more than a little turf for its entertainment; pull close to the bank, and let us land."

"Oh! but suppose," said the timid Julia, "the surly owner should pounce upon us, just as we are taking our wine?"

"Why then, my love," replied he, "we have only to abandon our wine, and, like sober members of the Temperance Society - take water."

Pulling the wherry close along side the grassy bank, and fastening it carefully to the stump of an old tree, the whole party landed.

"How soft and beautiful is the green-sward here," said the romantic Julia, indenting the yielding grass with her kid-covered tiny feet; "Does not a gentleman of the name of Nimrod sing the pleasure of the Turf?" said Emma: "I wonder if he ever felt it as we do?"

"Certainly not," replied Master Dickey, winking at his uncle; "for the blades of the Turf he describes, are neither so fresh nor so green as these; and the 'stakes' he mentions are rather different from those contained in our pigeon-pie."

"But I doubt, Dickey," said his uncle, "if his pen ever described a better race than the present company. The Jenkins's, let me tell you, come of a good stock, and sport some of the best blood in the country."

"Beautiful branches of a noble tree," exclaimed Master Dicky, "but, uncle, a hard row has made me rather peckish; let us spread the provender. I think there's an honest hand of pork yonder that is right worthy of a friendly grasp; - only see if, by a single touch of that magical hand, I'm not speedily transformed into a boat."

"What sort of a boat?" cried Julia. "A cutter, to be sure," replied Master Dicky, and laughing he ran off with his male companions to bring the provisions ashore.

Meanwhile the uncle and his niece selected a level spot beneath the umbrageous trees, and prepared for the unpacking of the edibles.


THE PIC-NIC. No. II


Notwithstanding the proverbial variety of the climate, there is no nation under the sun so fond of Pic-Nic parties as the English; and yet how seldom are their pleasant dreams of rural repasts in the open air fated to be realized!

However snugly they may pack the materials for the feast, the pack generally gets shuffled in the carriage, and consequently their promised pleasure proves anything but "without mixture without measure."

The jam-tarts are brought to light, and are found to have got a little jam too much. The bottles are cracked before their time, and the liberal supplies of pale sherry and old port are turned into a - little current.

They turn out their jar of ghirkins, and find them mixed, and all their store in a sad pickle.

The leg of mutton is the only thing that has stood in the general melee.

The plates are all dished, and the dishes only fit for a lunatic asylum, being all literally cracked.

Even the knives and forks are found to ride rusty on the occasion. The bread is become sop; and they have not even the satisfaction of getting salt to their porridge, for that is dissolved into briny tears.

Like the provisions, they find themselves uncomfortably hamper'd; for they generally chuse such a very retired spot, that there is nothing to be had for love or money in the neighbourhood, for all the shops are as distant as - ninety-ninth cousins!

However delightful the scenery may be, it is counterbalanced by the prospect of starvation.

Although on the borders of a stream abounding in fish, they have neither hook nor line; and even the young gentlemen who sing fail in a catch for want of the necessary bait. Their spirits are naturally damped by their disappointment, and their holiday garments by a summer shower; and though the ducks of the gentlemen take the water as favourably as possible, every white muslin presently assumes the appearance of a drab, and, becoming a little limp and dirty, looks as miserable as a lame beggar!

In fine, it is only a donkey or a goose that can reasonably expect to obtain a comfortable feed in a field. It may be very poetical to talk of "Nature's table-cloth of emerald verdure;" but depend on it, a damask one, spread over that full-grown vegetable - a mahogany table - is far preferable.


THE BUMPKIN.


Giles was the eldest son and heir of Jeremiah Styles - a cultivator of the soil - who, losing his first wife, took unto himself, at the mature age of fifty, a second, called by the neighbours, by reason of the narrowness of her economy, and the slenderness of her body, Jeremiah's Spare-rib.

Giles was a "'cute" lad, and his appetite soon became, under his step-mother's management, as sharp as his wit; and although he continually complained of getting nothing but fat, when pork chanced to form a portion of her dietary, it was evident to all his acquaintance that he really got lean! His legs, indeed, became so slight, that many of his jocose companions amused themselves with striking at them with straws as he passed through the farmyard of a morning.

"Whoy, Giles!" remarked one of them, "thee calves ha' gone to grass, lad."

"Thee may say that, Jeames," replied Giles; "or d'ye see they did'nt find I green enough."

"I do think now, Giles," said James, "that Mother Styles do feed thee on nothing, and keeps her cat on the leavings."

"Noa, she don't," said Giles, "for we boath do get what we can catch, and nothing more. Whoy, now, what do you think, Jeames; last Saturday, if the old 'ooman did'nt sarve me out a dish o' biled horse-beans - "

"Horse-beans?" cried James; "lack-a-daisy me, and what did you do?"

"Whoy, just what a horse would ha' done, to be sure - "

"Eat 'em?"

"Noa - I kicked, and said 'Nay,' and so the old 'ooman put herself into a woundy passion wi' I. 'Not make a dinner of horsebeans, you dainty dog,' says she; 'I wish you may never have a worse.' - 'Noa, mother,' says I, 'I hope I never shall.' And she did put herself into such a tantrum, to be sure - so I bolted; whereby, d'ye see, I saved my bacon, and the old 'ooman her beans. But it won't do. Jeames, I've a notion I shall go a recruit, and them I'm thinking I shall get into a reg'lar mess, and get shut of a reg'lar row."

"Dang it, it's too bad!" said the sympathising James; "and when do thee go?"

"Next March, to be sure," replied Giles, with a spirit which was natural to him - indeed, as to any artificial spirit, it was really foreign to his lips.

"But thee are such a scare-crow, Giles," said James; "thee are thin as a weasel."

"My drumsticks," answered he, smiling, "may recommend me to the band - mayhap - for I do think they'll beat anything."

"I don't like sogering neither," said James, thoughtfully. "Suppose the French make a hole in thee with a bagnet - "

"Whoy, then, I shall be 'sewed up,' thee know."

"That's mighty foine," replied James, shaking his head; "but I'd rather not, thank'ye."

"Oh! Jeames, a mother-in-law's a greater bore than a bagnet, depend on't; and it's my mind, it's better to die in a trench than afore an empty trencher - I'll list."

And with this unalterable determination, the half-starved, though still merry Giles, quitted his companion; and the following month, in pursuance of the resolve he had made, he enlisted in his Majesty's service. Fortunately for the youth, he received more billets than bullets, and consequently grew out of knowledge, although he obtained a world of information in his travels; and, at the expiration of the war, returned to his native village covered with laurels, and in the Joyment of the half-pay of a corporal, to which rank he had been promoted in consequence of his meritorious conduct in the Peninsula. His father was still living, but his step-nother was lying quietly in the church-yard.

"I hope, father," said the affectionate Giles, "that thee saw her buried in a deep grave, and laid a stone a-top of her?"

"I did, my son."

"Then I am happy," replied Giles.


[WATTY WILLIAMS AND BULL]

"He sat, like patience on a monument, smiling at grief."


Watty Williams was a studious youth, with a long nose and a short pair of trowsers; his delight was in the green fields, for he was one of those philosophers who can find sermons in stones, and good in everything. One day, while wandering in a