Part 9 (1/2)

I'm death on piratical cats, And, mangled and gory, The bodies of hundreds of rats Testify to my glory.

My duty I try to fulfil Whenever I know it; If I do not accomplish your will You've only to show it; Yet, though I'm thus honest and square In all my dealings, It is plain that you are not aware A dog has his feelings.

If master is kept in at school Why must I feel the stick?

If sweetheart is distant and cool, Why should I get a kick?

If Turk steals the mutton for dinner, And goes off to gulp it, Why screen HIM, the solemn old sinner, And call ME the culprit?

And if I am fond of the sand-banks, And fresh garden-soil, Why should you molest with your brickbats My hard, honest toil?

And why should you call it a 'dusty muss,'

And make me abandon My labor? Remember, 'DE GUSTIBUS NON EST DISPUTANDUM!'

The world should remember a canine Has a heart in his breast; If you knew all you never could say mine Was worse than the rest.

Then help me to gain the position To which I aspire, And grant this poor dog-gerel pet.i.tion Of Pete Trone, Esquire!'”

”Excellent! excellent!” cried the audience, as Rose finished reading the verses.

”I propose we have the hero in person,” said Mr. Gay.

So Tom went out, and after some delay returned with Mr. P. Trone, who had been hastily attired in his red suit for the occasion, four red pantaloons, a red coat, and little cap with a red feather. He was received with applause, and, after being regaled with macaroons, went through all his tricks, concluding with a slow horn pipe to the tune of ”Lochinvar.”

About midnight the guests took their departure, and the cousins a.s.sembled in the parlor for a few moments before going to bed.

”I think the sanctum was real fun,” said Gem; ”but you did not read all the papers, Hugh?”

”No; it would have taken too much time,” answered Hugh; ”what a good thing you made of those hands, Bessie. We must keep the drawings.

Why!--where is Sibyl's?”

”Mr. Leslie took it away;--he laid a paper over it and put it in his pocket, just as though it belonged to him,” said Tom; ”but of all the contributions, _I_ liked Mr. Gay's 'Chicago' the best.”

”And I liked Mr. Leslie's story,” said Aunt Faith; ”it is singular he never before mentioned his army life.”

”Oh! he isn't one of the talking kind like Gideon Fish,” said Hugh.

”Gid is always telling everybody about his 'emotional nature,' and his inner 'consciousness.' He seems to think his mental condition, a subject of public interest, and constantly sends out bulletins for the benefit of anxious friends. His ma.n.u.script was poetical, but I took good care to hide it in the bottom of the basket. By the way, Sibyl, how did you like Graham Marr's Lyric? Pretty deep, wasn't it?”

Sibyl was arranging the books and music in their proper places. ”You know I am not myself poetical,” she answered calmly; ”but I like Mr.

Marr, and therefore I like his verses, Hugh.”

”Oh, Sibyl! surely not so well as Mr. Leslie's story?” said Bessie earnestly.

”Poetry and prose cannot be compared, neither can Mr. Marr and Mr.

Leslie be compared,” said Sibyl; ”they are very different.”

”I should think they were!” said Hugh.