t hide their noses.

Then sprightly Carry shouts in French--
"All boys and girls, come nutting!"
We are slipping down a mighty trench--
Why, it is the Railway cutting I

Before us yawns a dark-browed arch,
Paved with a muddy runnel;
A thousand giant navvies march
To delve the White-Ball tunnel.

Oh, if a man of them but did
Presume to glance at Carry,
Though he were Milo, or John Ridd,
I would toss him to Old Harry.

I pull my jacket off, like him
Who would shatter England's pillars--
From the tunnel comes an order grim,
"Get out of the way you chillers!"

* * * * *

And the same stern order doth apply
To the pranks of this remote age!
We are sure alike to be thrust by,
In our nonage, and our dotage.

Yet who shall grudge the tranquil age,
When nought can now betide ill,
To glance, from a distant hermitage,
At a summer morning idyll?

* * * * *

Oh agony, despair, and woe!
Oh two-edged sword to us come!
To Blundell's must the body go,
While the heart remains at Buscombe.

All breakfast time, how glum we looked!
Our tears were threatening dribblets;
Too truly had our goose been cooked,
To leave us e'en our giblets.

Sweet Charlotte, did you share the thrill,
The pang; no throat may utter,
And strive an aching void to fill
With heartless toast and butter?

And were you sad, bright Caroline,
Although you never said so?
You did cast down your lovely eyne,
And you crumbled up your bread so!

But the Vicar's views were more sublime,
As he asked in all simplicity,
"My youthful friends, what is the prime
Of all mundane felicity?"

My answer, though it sounded cool,
Was given with trepidation--
"To stay at home, and send to school
The rising generation."

A gentle smile flits o'er his lip,
He eyes me with benignity;
He yearns to offer goodly tip,
Yet fears to wound my dignity.

True benefactor, be not shy,
Thou seest a humble fellow,
Thy noble impulse gratify--.
My stars, if it isn't yellow!

* * * * *

But time is over, and above,
To end this charming visit;
And must we part my own true love?
Though I am not