[Illustration:  A PRETTY IDEA OF MR. VAN LITTLEDRAM:  HE TAKES HIS YOUNGSTER OUT FOR A SAIL, THUS, AND SAVES THE EXPENSE OF A BOAT.]

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THE POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO VII.

    Tom, Tom the Pipers’ son,
    Stole a Pig, and away he run;
    The Pig was eat, and TOM was beat. 
    And TOM went roaring down the street.

The above verse immortalizes an event that caused great excitement in the period in which it occurred, although at the present date it would not be considered of much account, or cause the smallest ripple on the glassy calm of our most, sleepy village.

We have progressed beyond being stirred by any little peccadillo such as the theft of a pig or a sheep, or even a watch or a purse, unless it contains a large amount, and was taken under the most aggravating circumstances from ourselves.

A robbery of a bank of a million, when it happens to affect hundreds of people, or a midnight murder executed with the malignancy of a fiend, will sometimes stir up the public for a few days, but even that soon passes out of mind, and society settles back into its imperturbable apathy, retreating with each wave of excitement still further, and becoming by degrees proof against being stirred by anything that does not affect ourselves personally.

Not so, however, in those days of Arcadian simplicity; for the astounding temerity of the Piper’s son, in laying felonious hands on the property of the village butcher, or baker, caused an excitement second only to a hanging, or a first-class sensational horror, of later days.

Poor TOM was a deal to be pitied as well as blamed; for although he was the one who committed the crime, he was not the only one who reaped a benefit therefrom.  But the traditional historian tells us, he was the only one who was punished therefor; so, while we blame him, let us shed a tear of sympathy because he alone got the beating, the others the eating.  The scene is graphically described thusly—­

    “Tom, Tom the Piper’s son,
    Stole a pig, and away he run.”

Here we see Tom, the good-for-nothing, standing idly around, listening to the witching strains of his father’s bagpipe, played by the industrious musician before the doors of the well-to-do villagers, with the laudable view of obtaining the wherewith to purchase the meat that both might eat; and while the instrument that has well served its day and generation is groaning and wheezing under the pressure brought to bear upon it, TOM’S eyes, roving around from window to door, happen to light on a beautiful sucking-pig, that reposes in all the innocent beauty of baby pighood before the open door of a zealous stickler for human rights.

Alas!  TOM is not acquainted with the gentlemanly owner of the fascinating pig, and he doesn’t know how strong his principles are, nor how far he will go to maintain them.