young lady’s back.’” I have reached the length of my tether, and will go no longer a-tweing after words, lest I put my readers in a tiff, and leave them in a tantrum.  I will yark off.  Said an underkeeper who had just shot at a snipe:  “It yarked up and screeted, and I nipped round and blazed; but I catched my toe on a bit of a tussock, and so, consarn it, I missed.”  Let me hope that I have not so completely failed in my aim, while firing my small shot against certain abuses and disuses connected with The Vulgar Tongue.

THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD WITH HIS SON
[Sidenote:  Calverley]

  O what harper could worthily harp it,
    Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold
  (Look out wold) with its wonderful carpet
    Of emerald, purple, and gold? 
  Look well at it—­also look sharp, it
    Is getting so cold.

  The purple is heather (erica);
    The yellow, gorse—­call’d sometimes “whin.” 
  Cruel boys on its pickles might spike a
    Green beetle as if on a pin,
  You may roll in it, if you would like a
    Few holes in your skin.

  You wouldn’t?  Then think of how kind you
    Should be to the insects who crave
  Your compassion—­and then, look behind you
    At yon barley-ears!  Don’t they look brave
  As they undulate (undulate, mind you,
  From unda, a wave).

  The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it
    Sounds here—­(on account of our height)! 
  And this hillock itself—­who could paint it,
    With its changes of shadow and light? 
  Is it not—–­(never, Eddy, say “ain’t it")—­
    A marvellous sight?

  Then yon desolate eerie morasses,
    The haunts of the snipe and the hern—­
  (I shall question the two upper classes
    On aquatiles when we return)—­
  Why, I see on them absolute masses
    Of felix, or fern.

  How it interests e’en a beginner
    (Or tiro) like dear little Ned! 
  Is he listening?  As I am a sinner,
    He’s asleep—­he is wagging his head. 
  Wake up!  I’ll go home to my dinner,
    And you to your bed.

  The boundless ineffable prairie;
    The splendour of mountain and lake,
  With their hues that seem ever to vary;
    The mighty pine-forests which shake
  In the wind, and in which the unwary
    May tread on a snake;

  And this wold, with its heathery garment,
    Are themes undeniably great. 
  But—­although there is not any harm in’t—­
    It’s perhaps little good to dilate
  On their charms to a dull little varmint
    Of seven or eight.

TARTARIN DE TARASCON
[Sidenote:  Daudet]

At the time of which I am speaking, Tartarin of Tarascon was not the Tartarin that he is to-day, the great Tartarin of Tarascon, so popular throughout the South of France.  However—­even then—­he was already king of Tarascon.