manuscript, and raised his eyes to the countenance of
his silent and admiring listener--that listener who had been so rapt
in the glowing images and sonorous couplets, that he had not uttered
so much as a word.

Verty was asleep.

CHAPTER VIII.

HOW VERTY SHOT A WHITE PIGEON.

Mr. Roundjacket's illusions were all dissipated--the attentive
listener was a sleeping listener--his poem, dreadful to think of, had
absolutely lulled Verty to slumber.

We may understand the mortification of the great writer; the
_irritable genus_ had in him no unfit representative, thus far at
least. He caught Verty by the shoulder and shook him.

"Wake up, you young savage!" he cried, "sleeping when I am reading to
you; rouse! rouse! or by the immortal gods I'll commit an assault and
battery upon your barbarous person! Savage! barbarian! monster!"

Suddenly Mr. Roundjacket heard a hoarse growl, and something like
a row of glittering steel knives attracted his attention in the
direction of his legs. This phenomenon was caused by the opening of
Longears' huge mouth--that intelligent animal having espoused the
cause of his master, so rudely assaulted, and prepared for instant
battle.

Fortunately, Verty woke up before the combat commenced; and seeing the
hound standing in a threatening attitude, he ordered him to lie down.
Longears obeyed with great alacrity, and was soon dozing again.

Then commenced, on the part of Mr. Roundjacket, an eloquent and
animated remonstrance with Verty on the impropriety of that proceeding
which he had just been guilty of. It was unfeeling, and barbarous, and
unheard of, the poet observed, and but one thing induced him to pardon
it--the wild bringing up of the young man, which naturally rendered
him incapable of appreciating a great work of art.

Verty explained that he had been hunting throughout the preceding
night--setting traps, and tramping over hill and through dale--and
thus he had been overcome by drowsiness. He smiled with great good
nature upon Mr. Roundjacket, as he uttered this simple excuse, and
so winning was the careless sunshine of his countenance, that honest
Roundjacket, uttering an expiring grumble, declared that nothing was
more natural than his drowsiness. In future, he said, he would select
those seasons when his--Verty's--senses were bright and wide-awake;
and he begged the young man not to fear a repetition of what he might
have heard--there were fifteen more cantos, all of