y Head,
"Tarry awhile," says Slow;
"Put on the pot," says Greedy Gut,
"We'll sup before we go."

These lines the observant student of nursery literature will perceive
are satirical. Was there ever a poet who was not satirical? How could he
be a genius and not be able to point out the folly he sees around him
and comment upon it. In this case, the poor poet,--who lived in a
roseate cloud-land of his own, not desiring such mundane things as sleep
and food, was undoubtedly troubled and plagued to death by having
brothers and sisters who were of the earth, earthy; and who never
neglected on opportunity to laugh at his poems; to squirt water on him
when in the heavenly mood, his eyes in frenzy rolling; to put spiders
down his back; to stick pins in his elbows when writing; or upset his
inkstand.

Fine natures always have a deal to bear, in this world, from the coarse,
unfeeling natures that cannot appreciate their delicacy; and this one
had more than his share.

Many a time has he been goaded to frenzy by the cruel sneers and jokes
of those who should have been proud of his talents; and rushed with
wild-eyed eagerness down to the gentle frog pond, intending there to
bury his sorrows beneath its glassy surface. He saw in imagination the
grief-stricken faces of those cruel ones as they gazed upon his cold
corpus, with his damp locks clinging to his noble brow, the green slimy
weeds clasped in his pale hands, and the mud oozing from his pockets and
the legs of his pants; and he gloried in the remorse and anguish they
would feel when they knew that the Poet of the family was gone forever.

All this he pictured as he stood on the bank, and, while thinking, the
desire to plunge in grew smaller by degrees and beautifully less, till
at last it vanished entirely, and he concluded he had better go home,
finish his book first and drown himself afterwards, if necessary. It
would make much more stir in the world, and his name and works might
live forever.

A happy thought strikes him as he slowly meanders homeward. He would
have revenge. He would punish these wretches by handing down--to
posterity their peculiarities. He would put it in verse and have it
printed in his book, and then they'd see that even the gentle worm could
turn and sting.

Ah! blessed thought. He flies to his garret bedroom, seizes his
goose-quill and paper, and sits down. What shall he write about? He
nibbles the feather end of his pen, plunges t