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As proud as any lord was I,

And thought myself full ten feet high.
Too tall to play with toys;
Awhile I stood to ape the man,
Then snatched my hat and off I ran,
To show it to the boys.

And many a hand that hat passed through,
I watched them all, says I, " 'tis new,
Take care! don't soil the crown;
For if you do, my Pa I'll tell,

And he'll come out and trounce you well,
Or even knock you down."

Said I, "mine's newest, and of course,
For wear it can be none the worse,
And must be best of all;

Just see the crown, how high it is,
None has a higher crown than this,
Take care! don't let it fall."

"I care not," said another voice,
"For you or Pa, with all your noise,
Nor do I wish to boast;

If mine's not best, I'll never move,
And by the hatter I can prove,

That it has cost the most."

Then rant and tear, to fight we went,

To settle fairly the event,

And set the matter right;

And many a ragged vest and shirt,
And many a face besmeared with dirt,
Resulted from the fight.

Now, circumstances since have shown,
That men-but children older grown,—

For trifles quarrel best;

They beat and bruise each other sore,
Wreak petty vengeance o'er and o’er,
To lord it o'er the rest.

LESSON XVI.

THE COUNTRYMAN, HIS SON, AND THE ASS.

This new version of an old fable gives new interest to it. We found it in an English school book. Fables, allegories, and parables, so run into each other, that it is difficult to draw the line between them. Under a figurative diction, they generally convey salutary advice, and perhaps no form of composition has been so popular in every age. The oldest fable on record, is that of the trees and the bramble, (Judges ix. 8,) which has never been excelled.

A country fellow and his son, they tell
In modern fables, had an ass to sell:
For this intent they turned it out to play,
And fed so well, that by the destined day,
They brought the creature into sleek repair,
And drove it gently to a neighboring fair.

As they were jogging on, a rustic class

Were heard to say, "Look! look there at that ass!
And those two blockheads, trudging on each side,
That have not either of them sense to ride;
Asses all three!" and thus the country folks,
On man and boy began to cut their jokes.

The old fellow minded nothing that they said,
But
every word stuck in the young one's head;
And thus began their comment thereupon:

“Ne'er heed 'em, lad.” "Nay, father, do get on;"
"Not I, indeed!" "Why, then, let me, I pray;"

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Well, do and see what prating tongues will say."

The boy was mounted; and they had not got
Much farther on, before another knot,
Just as the ass was pacing by, pad, pad,
Cried, "O! that lazy booby of a lad!
How unconcernedly the gaping brute
Lets his poor aged father walk a-foot!"

Down came the son, on hearing this account,
And begged and prayed, and made his father mount;
Till a third party on a farther stretch,

"See! see!" exclaimed, "that old, hard-hearted wretch! How like a justice there he sits, or squire,

While the poor lad keeps wading through the mire."

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'Stop!" cried the lad, still deeper vexed in mind,
"Stop! father, stop! let me get up behind."

This done, they thought they certainly should please,
Escape reproaches, and be both at ease;
For having tried each practicable way,
What could be left for jokers now to say?

Still disappointed by succeeding tone,
"Hark ye, you fellows! Is that ass your own?
Get off: for shame! or one of you at least;
You both deserve to carry the poor beast,
Ready to sink exhausted on the road,
With such a huge, unconscionable load.”

On this they both dismounted; and some say,
Contrived to carry, like a truss of hay,

The ass between 'em; prints, they add, are seen,
With man and lad, slinging the ass between!
Others omit that fancy in the print,

As overstraining an ingenious hint.

The copy that we follow, says, the man

Rubbed down the ass, and took to his first plan;

Walked to the fair, and sold him, got his price,
And gave his son this pertinent advice :-
"To think of pleasing all, is foolish, quite;
Let talkers talk ;—do what you think is right.”

LESSON XVII.

THE CLEAN FACE.

This sprightly description of a common operation, should be spoken by a small boy, in a cross, complaining tone, until he reaches the last two lines, when he must straighten up, and utter his resolution with the energy of a hero determined to suffer imposition no longer! The author is our countrywoman, MISS LESLIE.

O, why must my face be washed so clean,

And scrubbed and drenched for Sunday,

When you know very well, as you've always seen, "Twill be dirty again on Monday.

My hair is stiff with the lathery soap,
That behind my ear is dripping;

And my smarting eyes

I'm afraid to ope,

And my lip the suds is sipping.

They're down my throat and up my nose,
And to choke me you seem to be trying,
That I'll shut my mouth you need 'nt suppose,
For how can I keep from crying?

And

you rub as hard as ever you can,

And your hands are hard to my sorrow,No woman shall wash me when I'm a man, And I wish I was one to-morrow.

LESSON XVIII.

THE DREAM OF LIFE.

It is related of Maurice, Count de Saxe, one of the greatest generals and most successful conquerors that ever lived, that on his death bed, he turned to his physician and said, "My life has been a splendid dream." On this fact, a writer in the Episcopal Watchman has founded the following verses. Happy will it be for such men of blood, if the dream of life has no more serious consequences than an ordinary dream.

The warrior from his couch of death
Looked back on his proud career;
Again loud honor's noisy breath
Brought shouts to his listening ear;
Again he trod the gorgeous hall,

Where the regal pageants stream,
But with a sigh he turned from all,
And said 'tis a splendid dream.'

Youth pressing onward to the prize,
On fancied fields of fame,
And manhood's mated energies,

O'er his dying spirits came;

Young feeling's gush-and triumph's flush,
Ambition, love and power,

All in their first keen freshness rush

On the glance of that last hour.

Success had waited on his way,
Splendor, and victory, and fame,
And he had won the warrior's bay,
And the hero's deathless name;
And power's high gift, and war's red wreath,
And glory's glittering beam,

Were to the glazed eye of death

But a vague and splendid dream.

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