t faults he never strove to hide;
Problems of life he could not understand,
But as a man would wish to die he died.

Now, though he will not ride with us again,
His merry spirit seems our comrade yet,
Freed from the power of weariness or pain,
Forbidding us to mourn--or to forget.

* * * * *

A LITERAL EPOCH.

That there rumpus i' the village laast Saturday night? Aye, it were
summat o' a rumpus, begad! Lor! there aren't bin nothin' like it
not since the time when they wuz a-gwain' to burn th' ould parson's
effigy thirty-fower year ago (but it niver come off, because 'e up an'
offered to contribute to the expenses 'isself, an' that kind o' took
the wind out on't).

Ye see, Sir, there's just seven licensed 'ouses i' the village.
Disgraceful? Aye, so 'tis, begad!--on'y seven licensed 'ouses--an'
I do mind when 'twas pretty nigh one man one pub, as the sayin' is.
Howsomever, to-day there's seven, and some goes to one and some goes
to totherun.

Well, laast Friday night me an' Tom Figgures an' Bertie Mayo an' Peter
Ledbetter an' a lot more on us what goes to Reuben Izod's at The Bell,
we come in to 'ave our drink. And, mind you, pretty nigh all on us 'ad
a-bin mouldin'-up taters all day, so's to get _them_ finished afore
the hay; so us could do wi' a drop. Aye, aye!

Well, fust thing us knowed--no more'n a hour or two after--Mrs. Izod
was a-sayin' to old Peter Ledbetter, as 'er set down a fresh pint for
'n, "That's the laast drop o' beer i' the 'ouse," 'er says.

"_Whaat_!" says Peter, though there warn't no call for 'im to voice
the gen'ral sentiments, 'coz you see, Sir, 'e'd a-got the laast pint
an' us 'adn't.

"There's a nice drop o' cider, though," says Mrs. Izod. "Leastways,
when I says a nice drop, there's a matter o' fifteen gallons, I
dessay," 'er says.

"I 'ave drunk cider at a pinch," says Bertie Mayo, cautious-like, "and
my ould father, I d' mind, 'e'd used to drink it regular."

"Ah, that 'a did!--an' mine too, and 'is father afore 'un," says Tom
Figgures; "but I reckon 'tisn't what 'twas in them days."

"Well, you may do as you'm a-minded 'bout 'avin' it," says Mrs. Izod;
"but no more ain't beer what 'twas neether, come to that."

"You'm right there, Missus," says all the rest on us.

An' then Bertie Mayo, 'oo's allus a turr'ble far-seeing sort of chap,
'e says, "Reckon the trolley 'ull be along fust thing i' the marnin'
from the brewery, Miss