But sad at soul John Huggins turned: No comfort could he find; While thus the "Hunting Chorus" sped, To stay five bars behind.

For tho' by dint of spur he got A leap in spite of fate-- Howbeit there was no toll at all, They could not clear the gate.

And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt, And sorely cursed the day, And mused a new Gray's elegy On his departed gray!

Now many a sign at Woodford town Its Inn-vitation tells: But Huggins, full of ills, of course, Betook him to the Wells,

Where Rounding tried to cheer him up With many a merry laugh, But Huggins thought of neighbor Fig, And called for half-and-half.

Yet, 'spite of drink, he could not blink Remembrance of his loss; To drown a care like his, required Enough to drown a horse.

When thus forlorn, a merry horn Struck up without the door,-- The mounted mob were all returned; The Epping Hunt was o'er!

And many a horse was taken out Of saddle, and of shaft; And men, by dint of drink, became The only "_beasts of draught_."

For now begun a harder run On wine, and gin, and beer; And overtaken man discussed The overtaken deer.

How far he ran, and eke how fast, And how at bay he stood, Deer-like, resolved to sell his life As dearly as he could;

And how the hunters stood aloof, Regardful of their lives, And shunned a beast, whose very horns They knew could _handle_ knives!

How Huggins stood when he was rubbed By help and ostler kind, And when they cleaned the clay before, How worse "remained behind."

And one, how he had found a horse Adrift--a goodly gray!

And kindly rode the nag, for fear The nag should go astray.

Now Huggins, when he heard the tale, Jumped up with sudden glee; "A goodly gray! why, then, I say That gray belongs to me!

"Let me endorse again my horse, Delivered safe and sound; And, gladly, I will give the man A bottle and a pound!"

The wine was drunk,--the money paid, Tho' not without remorse, To pay another man so much, For riding on his horse.

And let the chase again take place, For many a long, long year, John Huggins will not ride again To hunt the Epping Deer!

MORAL.

Thus pleasure oft eludes our grasp, Just when we think to grip her; And hunting after happiness, We only hunt a slipper.

THE DROWNING DUCKS.

Amongst the sights that Mrs. Bond Enjoyed yet grieved at more than others, Were little ducklings in a pond, Swimming about beside their mothers-- Small things like living water-lilies, But yellow as the daffo-_dillies_.

"It's very hard," she used to moan, "That other people have their ducklings To grace their waters--mine alone Have never any pretty chucklings."

For why!--each little yellow navy Went down--all downy--to old Davy!

She had a lake--a pond, I mean-- Its wave was rather thick than pearly-- She had two ducks, their napes were green-- She had a drake, his tail was curly,-- Yet 'spite of drake, and ducks, and pond, No little ducks had Mrs. Bond!

The birds were both the best of mothers-- The nests had eggs--the eggs had luck-- The infant D's came forth like others-- But there, alas! the matter stuck!

They might as well have all died addle As die when they began to paddle!

For when, as native instinct taught her, The mother set her brood afloat, They sank ere long right under water, Like any overloaded boat; They were web-footed too to see, As ducks and spiders ought to be!

No peccant humor in a gander Brought havoc on her little folks,-- No poaching cook--a frying pander To appetite,--destroyed their yolks,-- Beneath her very eyes, Od rot 'em!

They went, like plummets, to the bottom.

The thing was strange--a contradiction It seemed of nature and her works!

For little ducks, beyond conviction, Should float without the help of corks: Great Johnson, it bewildered him!

To hear of ducks that could not swim.

Poor Mrs. Bond! what could she do But change the breed--and she tried divers Which dived as all seemed born to do; No little ones were e'er survivors-- Like those that copy gems, I'm thinking, They all were given to die-sinking!

In vain their downy coats were shorn; They floundered still!--Batch after batch went!

The little fools seemed only born And hatched for nothing but a hatchment!

Whene'er they launched--oh, sight of wonder!

Like fires the water "got them under."

No woman ever gave their lucks A better chance than Mrs. Bond did; At last quite out of heart and ducks, She gave her pond up, and desponded; For Death among the water-lilies, Cried "_Duc_ ad me" to all her dillies!

But though resolved to breed no more, She brooded often on this riddle-- Alas! 'twas darker than before!

At last about the summer's middle, What Johnson, Mrs. Bond, or none did, To clear the matter up the Sun did!

The thirsty Sirius dog-like drank So deep, his furious tongue to cool, The shallow waters sank and sank, And lo, from out the wasted pool, Too hot to hold them any longer, There crawled some eels as big as conger!

I wish all folks would look a bit, In such a case below the surface; And when the eels were caught and split By Mrs. Bond, just think of _her_ face, In each inside at once to spy A duckling turned to giblet-pie!

The sight at once explained the case, Making the Dame look rather silly: The tenants of that _Eely Place_ Had found the way to _Pick a dilly_, And so, by under-water suction, Had wrought the little ducks' abduction.

A STORM AT HASTINGS,

AND THE LITTLE UNKNOWN.

'Twas August--Hastings every day was filling-- Hastings, that "greenest spot on memory's waste"!

With crowds of idlers willing and unwilling To be bedipped--be noticed--or be braced, And all things rose a penny in a shilling.

Meanwhile, from window, and from door, in haste "Accommodation bills" kept coming down, Gladding "the world of-letters" in that town.

Each day poured in new coachfuls of new cits, Flying from London smoke and dust annoying, Unmarried Misses hoping to make hits, And new-wed couples fresh from Tunbridge toying, Lacemen and placemen, ministers and wits, And Quakers of both sexes, much enjoying A morning's reading by the ocean's rim, That sect delighting in the sea's broad brim.

And lo! amongst all these appeared a creature, So small, he almost might a twin have been With Miss Crachami--dwarfish quite in stature, Yet well proportioned--neither fat nor lean, His face of marvellously pleasant feature, So short and sweet a man was never seen-- All thought him charming at the first beginning-- Alas, ere long they found him far too winning!