ion, growth, and bloom, without once
dropping the figure or introducing an incongruous epithet. It is not
only a child, but a child of the Black Forest, uttering its hopes, its
anxieties, and its joys in the familiar dialect. The beetle, in
his eyes, becomes a gross, hard-headed boor, carrying his sacks of
blossom-meal, and drinking his mug of XX morning-dew; the stork parades
about to show his red stockings; the spider is at once machinist and
civil engineer; and even the sun, moon, and morning-star are not secure
from the poet's familiarities. In his pastoral of "The Field-Watchmen,"
he ventures to say,--

Mister Schoolmaster Moon, with y'r forehead wrinkled with teachin',
With y'r face full o' larnin', a plaster stuck on y'r cheek-bone,
Say, do y'r children mind ye, and larn their psalm and their texes?

We much fear that this over-quaintness of fancy, to which the Alemannic
dialect gives such a racy flavor, and which belongs, in a lesser
degree, to the minds of the people who speak that dialect, cannot be
successfully clothed in an English dress. Let us try, therefore, a
little poem, the sentiment whereof is of universal application:--

THE CONTENTED FARMER.

I guess I'll take my pouch, and fill
My pipe just once,--yes, that I will!
Turn out my plough and home'ards go:
_Buck_ thinks, enough's been done, I know.

Why, when the Emperor's council's done,
And he can hunt, and have his fun,
He stops, I guess, at any tree,
And fills his pipe as well as me.

But smokin' does him little good:
He can't have all things as he would.
His crown's a precious weight, at that:
It isn't like my old straw hat.

He gits a deal o' tin, no doubt,
But all the more he pays it out;
And everywheres they beg and cry
Heaps more than he can satisfy.

And when, to see that nothin' 's wrong,
He plagues hisself the whole day long,
And thinks, "I guess I've fixed it now,"
Nobody thanks him, anyhow.

And so, when in his bloody clo'es
The Gineral out o' battle goes,
He takes his pouch, too, I'll agree,
And fills his pipe as well as me.

But in the wild and dreadfle fight,
His pipe don't taste ezackly right:
He's galloped here and galloped there,
And things a'n't pleasant, anywhere.

And sich a cursin': "Thunder!" "Hell!"
And "Devil!" (worse nor I can tell:)
His grannydiers in blood lay down,
And yonder smokes a burnin' town.

And when, a-travellin' to