d to
forget it, I did not remember not to forget it to-day, madam, that was
all." And the author of this intelligent account smiled very, very, very
absurdly.

She poured him out a glass of wine. He rose and bowed; but peremptorily
refused it, with his tongue--his eye drank it.

"But you must," persisted this hospitable lady.

"But, madam, consider I am not entitled to--Nectar, as I am a man!"

The white hand was filling his plate with partridge pie: "But, madam,
you don't consider how you overwhelm me with your--Ambrosia, as I am a
poet!"

"I am sorry Mr. Vane should keep you waiting."

"By no means, madam; it is fortunate--I mean, it procures me the
pleasure of" (here articulation became obstructed) "your society, madam.
Besides, the servants of the Muse are used to waiting. What we are not
used to is" (here the white hand filled his glass) "being waited upon
by Hebe and the Twelve Graces, whose health I have the honor
"--(Deglutition).

"A poet!" cried Mabel; "oh! I am so glad! Little did I think ever to see
a living poet! Dear heart! I should not have known, if you had not told
me. Sir, I love poetry!"

"It is in your face, madam." Triplet instantly whipped out his
manuscript, put a plate on one corner of it, and a decanter on the
other, and begged her opinion of this trifle, composed, said he, "in
honor of a lady Mr. Vane entertains to-day."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Vane, and colored with pleasure. How ungrateful she had
been! Here was an attention!--For, of course, she never doubted that the
verses were in honor of her arrival.

"'Bright being--'" sang out Triplet.

"Nay, sir," said Mabel; "I think I know the lady, and it would be hardly
proper of me--"

"Oh, madam!" said Triplet, solemnly; "strictly correct, madam!" And
he spread his hand out over his bosom. "Strictly!--'Blunderbuss' (my
poetical name, madam) never stooped to the taste of the town.

'Bright being, thou--'"

"But you must have another glass of wine first, and a slice of the
haunch."

"With alacrity, madam." He laid in a fresh stock of provisions.

Strange it was to see them side by side! _he,_ a Don Quixote, with
cordage instead of lines in his mahogany face, and clothes hanging upon
him; _she,_ smooth, duck-like, delicious, and bright as an opening rose
fresh with dew!

She watched him kindly, archly and demurely; and still plied him,
countrywise, with every mortal thing on the table.

But the poet was not a boa-constrictor,