eed in a field. It may be very poetical to talk of
"Nature's table-cloth of emerald verdure;" but depend on it, a damask
one, spread over that full-grown vegetable--a mahogany table--is far
preferable.

THE BUMPKIN.

Giles was the eldest son and heir of Jeremiah Styles--a cultivator of the
soil--who, losing his first wife, took unto himself, at the mature age of
fifty, a second, called by the neighbours, by reason of the narrowness of
her economy, and the slenderness of her body, Jeremiah's Spare-rib.

Giles was a "'cute" lad, and his appetite soon became, under his
step-mother's management, as sharp as his wit; and although he
continually complained of getting nothing but fat, when pork chanced to
form a portion of her dietary, it was evident to all his acquaintance
that he really got lean! His legs, indeed, became so slight, that many
of his jocose companions amused themselves with striking at them with
straws as he passed through the farmyard of a morning.

"Whoy, Giles!" remarked one of them, "thee calves ha' gone to grass,
lad."

"Thee may say that, Jeames," replied Giles; "or d'ye see they did'nt
find I green enough."

"I do think now, Giles," said James, "that Mother Styles do feed thee on
nothing, and keeps her cat on the leavings."

"Noa, she don't," said Giles, "for we boath do get what we can catch, and
nothing more. Whoy, now, what do you think, Jeames; last Saturday, if
the old 'ooman did'nt sarve me out a dish o' biled horse-beans--"

"Horse-beans?" cried James; "lack-a-daisy me, and what did you do?"

"Whoy, just what a horse would ha' done, to be sure--"

"Eat 'em?"

"Noa--I kicked, and said 'Nay,' and so the old 'ooman put herself into a
woundy passion wi' I. 'Not make a dinner of horsebeans, you dainty
dog,' says she; 'I wish you may never have a worse.'--'Noa, mother,' says
I, 'I hope I never shall.' And she did put herself into such a tantrum,
to be sure--so I bolted; whereby, d'ye see, I saved my bacon, and the old
'ooman her beans. But it won't do. Jeames, I've a notion I shall go a
recruit, and them I'm thinking I shall get into a reg'lar mess, and get
shut of a reg'lar row."

"Dang it, it's too bad!" said the sympathising James; "and when do thee
go?"

"Next March, to be sure," replied Giles, with a spirit which was natural
to him--indeed, as to any artificial spirit, it was really foreign to his
lips.

"But thee are such a scare-crow, Giles," said James; "thee ar