Part 32 (2/2)

And they lived, the tale says, To the end of their days, As happy, as happy, as happy could be: Sure, no other couple so happy could be.

For she loved him in Hebrew, and likewise in Greek, And the Latin tongue also she freely did speak.

And the sackbut she'd play Every hour in the day, Till the Red Man in Mars would with ecstasy squeak,-- Till her cochineal husband with rapture would squeak.

But the people in Saturn were sad, I ween, And evermore greener they grew, and more green; And the princes and kings Said such heartbreaking things, In these mirth-loving pages they must not be seen: I really must stop, And the subject must drop, For it won't do at all for such things to be seen.

WIGGLE AND WAGGLE AND BUBBLE AND SQUEAK.

Wiggle and Waggle and Bubble and Squeak, They went their fortunes for to seek; They went to sea in a chicken-coop, And they lived on mulligatawney soup.

Wiggle and Waggle and Bubble and Squeak, They cooked their soup every day in the week; They cooked their soup in a chimney-pot, For there the water was always hot.

Wiggle and Waggle and Bubble and Squeak, Each gave the other one's nose a tweak; They tweaked so hard that it took their breath, And so they met an untimely death.

GRET GRAN'F'THER.

What! take Gret Gran'f'ther's musket, Thet he kerried at Bunker Hill, An' go a-gunnin' fer sparrers With Solomon Judd an' Bill?

You let thet musket alone, Dan'l!

An' git down from thet air stool.

You've just time enough to hold this yarn Afore ye go off to school.

Thar! don't ye wriggle an' twist, sonny!

The yarn's fer yer own new socks; It's safer to hold than muskets, With their triggers an' riggers an' locks.

A musket to shoot at sparrers!

Wal, boys is up to sech tricks!

An' thet old un, too, thet ain't ben tetched Sence seventeen seventy-six!

But I set more store by its rusty stock, Than the finest money could buy; An' if you'll stan' stiddy, Dan'l, I'll tell ye the reason why.

You never seed Gret Gran'f'ther, But you've seed his pictur, boy, With the smilin' mouth, an' the big brown eyes Jes' brimmin' with life and joy.

Wal! he war'n't like thet when I seed him, But his sperrit was lively still, Fer all his white hair an' empty sleeve, As it was at Bunker Hill.

An' many's the time he's told me, Settin' here in this very cheer, Of the fust time he shouldered thet musket, In the Continental year.

How out in the field a-mowin', He seed the bay'nets glance, An' ran fer his gun with a lighter heart Than ever he went to a dance.

Jest as he was,--in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves (Fer the day was warm and bright), An' no hat,--but shoulderin' his musket, Gret Gran'f'ther went to the fight.

An' thar upon Bunker hillside, Whar the smoke hung thick an' gray, He went a-gunnin' fer redcoats, As you'd go fer sparrers to-day.

Hey! but the b.a.l.l.s were whistlin'!

An' the flashes kem thick an' fast; But whose-ever musket hed fust word, Gret Gran'f'ther's hed the last.

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