Genre - Fiction. You are on the page - 324

know, I know! That will do-o-o, that will do-o-o! cooed theWood-Pigeon obstinately in her soft, foolish little voice, withoutpaying the least attention to Mother Magpie's directions.We all know that--anything more? chirped the chorus of birds, tryingto conceal how anxious they were to know what came next, for the nestswere only half finished. But Mother Magpie was thoroughly disgusted, and refused to go on withthe lesson which had been so rudely interrupted by her pupils. You are all so wise,

back to London. I cannot say that we were sorry.For, let us be candid. I could be classed as a selfish, and unpatriotic old curmudgeon, but when we have cut the sentimental cackle, one has to confess that you cannot mix classes that are as different as chalk and cheese. These women from the East End were much less clean than animals, and far less likeable. They were lazy lumps of flesh, coarse, vulgar, noisy, ignorant. You could hear their hideous voices and their obscene laughter all over the

I am quite delighted.So Jolly Robin laughed happily. And old Mr. Crow remarked that it was a fair laugh, though not so loud as he would have liked. I'll do better next time, Jolly assured him. Good! said Mr. Crow. And now, since I've finished my breakfast, we'll go over to the woods and see what's going on there this morning. The first person they saw in the woods was Peter Mink. He was fishing for trout in Broad Brook. And old Mr. Crow, as soon as he spied him, sang out: How many of Farmer

p>Lost your captain and both mates! How in the name of Fortune did that happen?Well, sir, you see it was this way, was the reply. When we'd been out about a week--we're from Liverpool, bound to Sydney, New South Wales, with a general cargo and two hundred emigrants--ninety-seven days out--when we'd been out about a week, or thereabouts--I ain't certain to a day or two, but it's all wrote down in the log--Cap'n Somers were found dead in his bunk by the steward what took him in a cup o' coffee

ty wheresoever in life itchooses to turn the light of its gaze. So, also, in Andrea delSarto, the easy cleverness of the unaspiring craftsman is notembodied apart from the abject relationship which made his very soula bond- slave to the gross mandates of the Cousin's whistle. Yetin all three poems the biographic and historic conditions contributing toward the individualizing of each artist are sounobtrusively epitomized and vitally blended, that, while scarcelyany item of specific study of the

light, from the Record and State PaperOffice, and historical societies, will throw much light on thesubject]; and an abundant harvest offers in examining them, bywhich to make an amusing book, illustrative of our provincialwords and ancient manners. I think we cannot avoid arriving at theconclusion, that the Anglo-Saxon dialect, of which I conceive theWestern dialect to be a striking portion, has been graduallygiving way to our polished idiom; and is considered a barbarism,and yet many of the