It is not often that a poet descends to the discussion of mundane affairs.  His sphere of usefulness, oftentimes usefulness to himself, only, lies among the roseate clouds of the morn, or the spiritual essences of the cerulean regions, but, like other human beings, he cannot live on the zephyr breeze, or on the moonbeams flitting o’er the rippling stream.  Such ethereal food is highly unproductive of adipose tissue, and the poet needs adipose like any other man.  And our poet is no exception to the rule, for he well knew that good digestible poetry can’t be written on an empty stomach.

It is seldom that a writer is met with, who does not seize every opportunity to attract attention to his own deeds.  He is never so happy as when, in contemplation, he hears the remarks of his readers tending to his praise for the noble and heroic deeds he makes himself perform.

But with our poet—­and we have been exceptional in our choice—­he has always been backward in coming forward, and it was not until he was touched upon a tender point that he concluded to make himself heard, when he might depict, in glowing terms, some of the few ills which flesh is heir to.

The opportune moment arrived.

He had been out since early dawn, gathering the dew from the sweet-scented flower, or painting in liquid vowels the pleasant calmness of the cow-pasture, or mayhap echoing with hie pencil’s point the well-noted strains of the Shanghai rooster, when the far-off distant bell announced to him that he must finish his poetic pabulum, and hurry home to something more in accordance with the science of modern cookery.

He arrived and found his household in tumult.  “Who’s been here since I’ve been gone?” sang he, in pathetic tones.  And he heard in mournful accents the answer, “TAFFY.”

Could anything more melancholy have befallen our poet?  He could remember in childhood’s merry days the old candy-woman, with her plentiful store of brown sweetness long drawn out; and how himself and companions spent many a pleasant hour teasing their little teeth with the delicate morsels.  Now his childhood’s dreams vanished.  He remembered that

    “TAFFY was a Welshman.”

And then, after a careful scrutiny of the larder, assisted by the gratuitous services of his ever faithful feline friend, THOMAS, he found the extent of his loss.

      “TAFFY was a thief,”

he now gave vent to passion, while anguish rent his soul.  TAFFY had been here, and made good his coming, although the good was entirely on TAFFY’S side, for he walked off again with a piece of beef, and was, even at this very moment, smacking his chops over its tender fibres.

All his respect for TAFFY now vanished like the misty cloud before the rays of the morning sun.  He buckled on the armor of his strength, departed for TAFFY’S house, determined to wreak his vengeance thereon, and scatter TAFFY, limb for limb, throughout his own corn-field.  “Woe, woe to TAFFY,” he muttered between his clenched teeth.  “I will make mincemeat of him; I will enclose him in sausage skins, and will send him to that good man, KI YI SAMPSON.”