no
uneasiness," cried I, "about selling the rims, for they are not worth
sixpence; for I perceive they are only copper varnished over." "What!"
cried my wife, "not silver! the rims not silver?" "No," cried I, "no
more silver than your saucepan." "And so," returned she, "we have parted
with the colt, and have only got a gross of green spectacles, with
copper rims and shagreen cases? A murrain take such trumpery! The
blockhead has been imposed upon, and should have known his company
better." "There, my dear," cried I, "you are wrong; he should not have
known them at all." "Marry, hang the idiot!" returned she, "to bring me
such stuff: if I had them I would throw them in the fire." "There again
you are wrong, my dear," cried I, "for though they be copper, we will
keep them by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are better than
nothing."

By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He now saw that he
had been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing his figure,
had marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the circumstances
of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in
search of another. A reverend-looking man brought him to a tent, under
pretence of having one to sell. "Here," continued Moses, "we met another
man, very well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these,
saying that he wanted money, and would dispose of them for a third of
the value. The first gentleman, who pretended to be my friend, whispered
me to buy them, and cautioned me not to let so good an offer pass. I
sent for Mr. Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as they did
me; and so at last we were persuaded to buy the two gross between us."

GOLDSMITH.

[Note: _Moses at the fair_. This is an incident taken from Goldsmith's
novel, 'The Vicar of Wakefield.' The narrator throughout is the Vicar
himself, who tells us the simple joys and sorrows of his family, and the
foibles of each member of it.]

* * * * *

A WISH.

Happy the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winte