"Another pigeon! egad, I'm in luck's way this morning."
Round and red, through the morning fog
The sun's bright face
Shone, like some jolly toping dog
Of Bacchus' race.
When Jenkins, with his gun and cur
On sport intent,
Through fields, and meadows, many fur--
--longs gaily went.
He popp'd at birds both great and small,
But nothing hit;
Or if he hit, they wouldn't fall--
No, not a bit!
"It's wery strange, I do declare;
I 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.